That Bitch Called Karma

She's late.
According to my time estimate - she's very late. And we all know how I feel about tardiness.

*glare*

There are few things in the world more aggravating than taking the high road thinking, "it'll pay off this time," only to discover that "time" may force you back down to the road more frequently travelled by those whose company is no longer worthy of your time.

We've all done it; checked our moral compass and grabbed control of our inner-child, but still gotten pissed when the offensive he/she/it didn't get his/her/its comeuppance as quickly as we felt reasonable. I recently found myself laying in the bed thinking about this. Would it be worth it to bring the ridiculous jealousy and pettiness of others back into my life, solely to satisfy my need to be publicly acknowledged for being right - thus wrecking my serene new life surrounded by truth, love, laughter, and wine without the whine?

*cue soft lighting and piano instrumental*

Yeah. No sooner did I decide, then undecide, then redecide my next imaginary course of action, I found myself in an "other-person-instigated" conversation whereby I learned a very important lesson about Karma.

She's here.

She just happens to move a bit like a snake on the stalk. Slowly, methodically, quietly, imperceptibly. How excited am I to settle in with my Orville Reddenbacher's Ultimate Butter popcorn and watch the house of cards collapse!?! That was rhetorical, people...

Think what you may about how brattish and immature it is. Just keep your mitts out of my bowl.

Wednesday... Yep. That's the Title.

A couple of things occurred to me on my drive into work this morning.

First, I did not comb my crazy hair. This is only of interest (though to whom, I've no idea) because I feel like it's becoming a weird work day habit. Clearly, the only thing to do was to root around in my glove box while waiting for an errant school bus to pick-up one screaming child, then shove the rat's nest into what I believe to be a very fashionable "messy pony." I suppose a woman of a certain age should probably start giving more thought to how she looks when spending nine hours surrounded by technology geeks just proud to make it in wearing matching shoes... *snicker* It's problematic.

Profile: not my best angle.

I give passive-aggressive people the silent treatment... because it never stops being funny! 
*chortle*
*snort*
*spins in twirly chair*

Coffee should not have the same color density - or lack thereof - as tea. Good gawd, people! It's undrinkable and frankly, I don't know why you even bother. Save the prep time and go comb your hair.

"I cannot hear what you're saying, when who you are is screaming so loudly in my ear." I read that this morning and started to place it in a pointedly prominent online space. Then I didn't because the person who needs to hear it cannot possibly register anything except his own voice. And no, that snarky remark was not aimed at Mr. Man, for a change!

Lastly, I do entirely too many things I don't want to do because other people ask me to. I've never mastered the art of No Without Guilt. I suspect this is because my sibling's mother had no trouble whatsoever saying no. Might should consider maybe talking to my shrink about that... *shrug* Perhaps once he stops getting so rattled every time I say "fuck."

The One About School Starting

School started today. I know this because some jackass father in his Toyota Tundra literally tried to run me into oncoming traffic so he could “beat me” to the entrance of one of the many private schools I pass every day.

Asshole.
So I laid on the horn for about 300 yards, flipped him off as I passed, and hollered “see you tomorrow !”

I hate the “in school” year. For the next month every parent who is too afraid to allow their child to stand at the end of their own driveway – because there’s no such thing as a school bus stop anymore (shocking that kids are so fat) – will have forgotten what time they left the house five days a week for ten months during the last term, and make those of us with the sense not to have kids utterly miserable.

My summer drive is delightful, and clearly I’m bitter and resentful of its loss.

So, Dear Parents~

I’m so very sorry that your snotty-nosed, self-entitled, coddled brats are creating such havoc in your morning schedule that you’re forced to take your frustration out on everyone else on the road and will one day find yourself in a situation far worse than discovering that you’ve set your child up for failure by bestowing on him/her/it the idea that everyone deserves a ribbon, or trophy, or certificate and when they fail – and they will fail brilliantly – that YOU did this so you might as well settle in to the idea that you’re nothing more than a chauffeur and a wallet.

*takes breath*


Sincerely,

Peace.

I Yam...

I’ve spent quite a lot of time lately thinking about “stuff.” My father would have said “contemplating my navel” because there’s almost as much use in it. But still, I’m thinking… and thinking… and thinking…

Here’s something that keeps resurfacing:

*in best Popeye voice*
“I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam.”

There have been a lot people traipsing through my life over the past several months. Some new, some returning, a couple I borrowed just to see if it could be done… and I’m wondering, where is the common thread? These things don’t just “happen.” Why are they here? What do they want? And am I attracting them or is The Universe sending them to me? And if The Universe is sending them, why? Should I be getting something from them, or are they here to take something away for themselves? I hope it’s the former and not the latter because it’s been a deluge of people, People!

Of all the "traipsters" who meandered through, one in particular made quite the quiet impression. Not for any untoward wink-and-a-smile smarminess, or random stalking. No, it’s because he’s oddly “present” all the time – a feat this ADHD kid has never mastered and finds freakishly unsettling.

This cat is like a character from a movie, so clearly I’m fascinated! And skeptical...

*squints*

He is disarmingly open. Ask him any question – and the more personal it is the more interesting his response, I’ve found. He thinks, then looks at you in a way that makes you know you’re being seen, before delivering a simple, honest, “oh-my-gawd-I-would-never-say-that-out-loud” response. It’s cool. And weird.

Recently, a group of us were out for a drinks session. After what I would consider an appropriate number of cocktails, I made some comment about heading off to “my real life.” With a face quizzically scrunched up and arms spread wide he said, “this, all of this, is your real life.” Okay, I know it sounds stupid but that seriously tossed me so far off balance, I sloshed my martini.

Have I so compartmentalized things to maintain order that I cannot reconcile all of the parts?
Can I see only the shoes boxes, not the closet?

So there I was, driving home… and thinking, thinking, thinking. Is this whirling dervish life what I want? Or is it just what I’ve created and understand? Could I learn to be present? Between you and me, I lie about being present during yoga practice. And frankly, I also lie about it during meditation. It’s really not my fault. Focus is just not my strong suit (what does that even mean? Anyone?).

Do I want to be one of those people who lives in every moment? Because that seems like a lot of work.
Maybe.
In the right company.
With vodka.
And figs…

You Can't Always Get What You Want

I was standing barefoot in the grass last night watching this crazy storm blow in – the likes of which I haven’t seen since I left Texas – and I got to thinking about wanting what we don’t have. Yeah, there was a long procession of thoughts that lead me there, starting with the storm, but this is where I landed.

Why are we disappointed when we finally get something we think we really want?

Mr. Man #1 spent all the years I knew him and more looking for a particular out of print book. I can’t believe that I don’t recall the title now since we never passed a used bookstore without popping in to check. It was about Thomas Jefferson…

Maybe we were in Boston, maybe New Orleans, maybe it was NYC or Victoria, B.C. I honestly don’t remember. What I do remember is the awe of finding a copy on a dusty bookshelf in some unexpected city. The only thing more unexpected was the half-sad expression on his face as he said, “Guess I need a new book to look for.” It broke my heart. Oh sure, it was his “thing,” but it felt a little bit like I’d been robbed of my joy by the bookstore owner.

This whole book remembrance, and the storm, and maybe the wine – all got me thinking about why we sometimes think we want something until we get it…As I see it, it ends up one of two ways:

We either get it, then no longer want anything to do with it; or we get it and we’re disappointed because, oh who knows why - we just are.

Expectations are at the bottom of all this, I just know it. We anticipate, fantasize, and project. We toy with the idea of what we want; dancing around it and building excitement – because that’s the fun part.

And then… the almost inevitable.

The moment of truth when you wonder why you ever thought you wanted it in the first place. I have this particular relationship with my house. The only real difference is that the house didn’t have a choice. Ever feel like the house?

I really don’t know where I was going with all of this. I have no words of wisdom, no snarky remarks about the weak-willed; not even a strong desire to mock those who can’t rein in their emotions. I have no intention of tossing out platitudes such as, “you need to learn to want and be happy with what you have,” and I will wholly ridicule anyone who tries. I find that sort of thinking short-sighted. Like mommy-haircuts.

At the end of the day, I suppose we all want something we can’t/shouldn’t/won’t ever have, so my new answer is not to become too invested. I do that – become overly invested in people, places, and things – your basic noun group. I think going forward my only investment will be in your basic liquid group. Yeah... you know what I'm sayin'.

*nods knowingly*

Summertime, and the Livin' is... Over-exposed!

Yeah, I know some of y’all have been waiting for me to get inspired enough to tell you, once again, how to steer away from the unsavory side of crazy town, or appropriately mock the embarrassingly clad.  Well, as luck would have it, I was flipping through my latest issue of Lucky magazine, and BAM! There it was. Sweet, sweet inspiration.

I don’t talk a lot about fashion outside of the topic of shoes. Mostly it's because if you're more interested in what's "in" than you are actually developing your own style, I feel that should be left to the magazine editors trying to sell advertising space. Nonetheless, I feel it my duty to "fashion direct"  a larger-than-acceptable portion of the general population based on some recent sightings that nearly separated me from my vodka.

For the Boys:

Let’s just work on what's happening from the waist down, shall we? 

Flip-flops, Adidas slip-ons, or any other “footwear” that exposes your feet should be avoided at all costs. There is no situation whereby any woman wants to see your ugly toes and calloused heels.  Consider the boat shoe instead! It’s a timeless classic, you know. If, for whatever grossly misguided reason, you cannot possibly be separated from your $0.99 flaps of rubber, consider a pedicure first. There are a surprising number of men in the salons this time of year; it’s no longer strictly female domain. Just a word of warning: stay the hell outta my salon. I have enough trouble getting serviced since they continue to refuse implementing my suggestion of only allowing clientele old enough to buy their own martini.

Next. The Speedo.

One would think it’s commonly understood that the men’s bikini is designed solely for the Channing Tatum’s and professional underwear models of the world. Aside from the size factor, there’s the hair factor. *shudder* No one needs to have insult added to the gut-over-the-elastic injury by being exposed to your hairy ass, inner thighs, or *shudder* pubic area. If you’re not 3% body fat but still need some support for say, beach volleyball, consider the “hamster shorts.” Same grooming rules apply, but the look is a little gentler on the roving female eye. Do remember, if you’re sporting more than a ten-speed tire around your middle, it would be best to let your sister choose your swimwear.

Good grief. The Capri pant.

Guys, I do not care that men all over Europe wear them as a matter of course. Capris are not a good look on women, and it is not a style improved by your hairy legs over flip-flops. Unilaterally, they make your legs look short and your ass look… less than masculine. Not even Channing Tatum can wear these. I promise. If you persist, I’m going to feel compelled to provide you with lipgloss.

And now, just one for the ladies!

There are so many “fashion rules” available at the supermarket checkout that I’m not about to bore you with a rehash. However! As I said, I was flipping through my new Lucky magazine… and there it was. The string bikini. 

Oh no. 

No. No. No.

It’s not back.

It can’t be back…

I shall surely die if it’s back!

Whoever the female equivalent of Channing Tatum is – Kate Upton, I hear – you need to be her to wear one of these. I was there the last time this bikini was “in” and frankly, we didn’t eat after Thanksgiving Day in order to sport it. If you're not willing to dedicate yourself to that sacrifice, bear in mind no one wants or needs to see those tiny little strings disappear into your hip fat. Additionally, one should consider the very real fact that this style does not “support” anything larger than an “A-cup.” So if you’re not 14 years old or you haven’t reduced your BMI to less than four percent, ignore what’s “in” in bikinis this year.

Life is all about style, people! Get some. If you don't have any sense of self whatsoever, know that the rest of us are made hideously aware of this by the flip-flops you purchased specifically to wear with that cocktail dress. 

Prepare to be mocked.

Who Are You? And Who Am I?

*blink*
*blink*

Well, this is awkward.

Is it possible, or reasonably plausible, that the things some classify as “fake” are really just “extensions” of who we really are?

Before we get off on the wrong foot here, I’m not about to advocate boob jobs for 14 year olds, or mani/pedis for the tween set. Christ, as far as I’m concerned, salons should have the same age requirement as a bar, and plastic surgery should wait until you or someone you’re sleeping with can pay for it.

What I’m really thinking about here are the non-invasive bits. Eyelashes, hair extensions, padded brassieres, “chicken cutlets,” Spanx, acrylic nails (*shudder*), colored contact lenses, that sort of thing.

I love and live in my false eyelashes – when I’m not at my geek-heavy day job that is (for all the obvious “I-read-fantasy-books-and-have-online-love-affairs-with-avatars” reasons). I think it’s a horrible shame that gone are the days when every woman could quickly and accurately apply both liquid eyeliner and a pair of those long, flirtatious lovelies. I feel so alone. *sniffle*

It’s a lost art, really, this business of “making” your face into a unique reflection of who you are. When did we decide that the likes of Anna Wintour got to determine whether or not I show off my baby green eyes to their best Salon Perfect #33 advantage? Perhaps Alessandra Ambrosio and Adriana Lima are listening, but Anna? I can’t hear you!

Seems lately many men have begun referring to these things we do when we play dress-up every day as “false advertising.” Oh sure, when a water bra hits the floor in the dark, it can be startling both in sound and revelation, but as men, are you really going to complain now that you’ve finally lured someone into your bed? Shuuuuuut up already and have an original thought. You’re about to get lucky.

I don’t think these non-invasive “upgrades” are false advertising at all. In fact, I think they’re actually “truth in advertising.” It takes creativity and a solid inner photo to take what we wake up with in the morning, and turn it into something that makes sense to us in the mirror. In my head, I’m a completely different person than the one who presents when I’m brushing my teeth, or racing naked to the laundry room. Admittedly, it’s a younger, less interesting version of me, but nonetheless… it’s who I AM, if we’re defining part of ourselves by how we look… which of course we are… because it’s what we do. Otherwise there would be no bestselling diet books, and no one would’ve called the infomercial operator for a special price on P90X. But I digress…

My point here is that we’re all more than the sum of our naked selves. That’s just the mannequin. We’re the personality in charge of dressing it for the window. There are no rules that say how you do that determines whether or not you’re presenting your most authentic self. There are rules about keeping your butt crack covered and other “social-awareness guidelines” the rest of us would wholly appreciate your adherence to, but after that, why shouldn’t you wear your inside on the outside?

In the spirit of full disclosure, I don’t own a brassiere that’s not underwired and engineered to push up; I rarely leave home without my “cutlets,” I have my natural hair color enhanced, wear ridiculously high heels every day in an effort to make my legs appear longer, and though I don’t own Spanx or colored contacts, I’ve given thought to both. Honestly, what’s the harm in all of it? If the fallout is that men want to do what men want to do at the end of all that production – so be it. Just be sure to keep your clothes in a neat, easily located pile near the door because unless you roam with a catch-all bag, you’re gonna wanna be outta there before he wakes.

*bats eyelashes*