Apr2

Real Housewives of Where???

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Dear Bravo,

I would like to be compensated for the dozens (if not hundreds) of hours I have spent watching the Real Housewives of Wherever.  I have no defense for watching;  obviously I am a voyeur, a girly girl and I’m secretly in love with Andy Cohen.  Now that WWHL is on, who needs the reunion shows to get a glimpse of the person I WISH was my gbf.  Sadly, today I am sick in bed, and watching the first episode of the RHOBH reunion.  

I really don’t even know where to start, so I’ll start here.  Embarrassingly, I know every detail these women are bitching about.  I even have opinions and have taken sides in their disagreements, and I even feel strongly about some of those opinions.  For example, Brandi should not be on the show.  She should be on the Real Housewives of Compton.  If you have no life and cannot stop being distracted by all things media, you will think that is hilarious.  Otherwise, just keep reading.

My feeling at this point is–we have all seen enough of the fake, staged, drunk, goaded, destructive rhinestone parade that is the entire Real Housewives brand.  These women have lost all sense of decorum, while wearing $50K in clothes and jewels, with a team of stylists, hairdressers and makeup artists at their beck and call.  If you look at older photos of these girls, they vaguely resemble their former selves–inside and out.

What I would really like to see are women and families having REAL issues, conflict and actually working that conflict out in an honest, mature and healthy way.  I watched a bit of an obscure movie on HBO this weekend, “Cinema Verite”, with Tim Robbins, Diane Lane and the guy from the Sopranos.  It was a film about the first “reality TV” franchise, the Loud family.  The show destroyed their lives for a time, but the family survived (not intact) and went on to different trajectories than they most likely would have gone on before.  But the Loud family attempted to show a real family, albeit a bourgeois family from Santa Barbara.  These shows are not about reality.  No one has class; I am constantly amazed by the lengths these people will go to to be “right”.  In “real life”, I cannot imagine that these people would speak to each other the way they speak to each other on camera–except Brandi, of course, who has publicly shown her baboon bootie via Twitter and Facebook in her rants against her ex-husband Eddie whats-his-face and his now wife, Leann Rimes.

Here’s what I would REALLY like to see–families with teenagers and younger kids, maneuvering their ways through the sea of Booster Clubs, sports, friends, work–simply, life.  Trust me, there is enough drama in REAL life, I can promise you.  My family would not need to be goaded, scripted or encouraged.  BUT we would, and do, treat each other with kindness, respect and love.  Which is more than I can say for the “Real” Housewives.

So there. Now ask yourself, am I still going to watch these shows? We’ll see.

Apr1

Austin Heritage Homes Tour 2013: Coolest Old Stuff in Town

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Reblogged from Red Chair Market:

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The common thread for our recent stories seems to be “old stuff”.  But between the Round Top Antique Festival and the Preservation Austin*Heritage Homes Tour (and of course the fact that you’re reading this on Red Chair Market) the theme is actually really cool old stuff.

So this upcoming weekend is a cool-old-stuff lollapalooza. Start at Round Top (see our tips…

Read more… 1,031 more words

Doesn't that look like a cozy evening by the fire.
Oct18

Who am I. . .Really?

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I ask myself this question a lot.  Who am I?  Who am I meant to be?  Usually where my internal conversation goes is, well, nowhere.  I am pretty ADD, so the thought is pushed out of the way by other, more important thoughts, like what do I need from the grocery store, is there anything at the dry cleaners, and what bills HAVE to be paid TODAY.  

The other day, my husband asked me if I was tired of operating in “panic”mode, and not having a plan and process in place.  The first thought that came into my head was something I won’t say here, because this is a family place, but you can imagine.  The second thought was, “well of COURSE I would prefer to have a ‘plan’, you idiot, but I’m a freaking mother and no matter what the hell I WANT, it’s not going to happen”.  Then, I realized that maybe that is who I am, a person who likes the adrenaline of always moving, always having the proverbial balls in the air.  I’m not referring to what I wanted to do to my husband right then–I do like to be busy all the time.  Until I don’t.  Then I just want to crash in my favorite spot, the right side of the bed.  

Moving sixty miles an hour or stopped.  I’ve said that of my children many times;  but I think the same holds true for me.  I enjoy doing a lot of projects at the same time, because I can.  I can read a book, listen to the television, answer a question and cook at the same time.  Maybe while hopping on one foot–I’ll have to try that.  Is that because I’m ADD?  Possibly.  I like to think it’s because I am the consummate multi-tasker.  And while I AM more than a mother, it’s the very fact that I AM a mother to four kids that I am, who I am.

Does this answer the question of “Who am I. . .Really?”  No, it doesn’t.  But it does allow me to forgive myself for my perceived slights and appreciate the fact that I am.  And that I am okay.

Jul11

GetGlue just made me realize . . .

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I watch a LOT of television.  I rarely actually “watch” anything–I keep up to date with all of the must-watch shows (and those little television elves are talented and BUSY) by having the television on running the DVR of the shows that are must-watch to be a relevant person in 2012.

Here’s the worst (maybe not the worst) part–I feel a sense of accomplishment when I can “delete” a show from the DVR.  I get some sort of satisfaction  out of wading my way through the maze of visual chick-let, pseudo-news and mindless drivel that is my DVR lineup.  When the percentage of space used drops below, say, 60%, I am

In my defense, I do try to balance the drivel with a lot of History/Biography/Discovery shows.  I can kill a man, bury him in an ancient ruin, dig up and analyze the remains and then write his biography.  This worries my husband just a little.  I love the Smithsonian Channel and the Science channel.  I have seen the Stephen Hawking “There is no God” episode several times.  Well, I’ve heard it.  My favorite of ALL shows is “Ancient Aliens”.  Don’t even get me started on the Ancient Aliens debate.  I have actually WATCHED every episode. I am such a geek.

Am I wasting my time?  I don’t think so.  I feel it’s similar to our ancestors hanging in the town square and catching all the 411, heading over to catch a bawdy Shakespearean tragedy or comedy and then hitting the local pub after and getting all the news of the day.  It’s the same thing, but on a global level.  It’s also a bit of  anthropological experiment:  what the psyche of the American (man, woman, teen) in 2012.  What are the trends, what is acceptable, what do we as a culture aspire to achieve?

Now, if you believe that, then you are as delusional as I can sometimes be.  I just like the stories.  I have the room in my minutiae-filled brain to accommodate all of the pop-television information I can jam in there.  What can I say — I love television.

Jun27

Why is #Twitter so compelling? And why I think #Twitter is better than #Facebook.

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My husband says I am ADDICTED to Twitter.  I am going to have to agree–that’s the first step to recovery, right?  Admitting there’s a problem.  Here’s the thing–if I am wrong, I don’t want to be right.

Twitter is the perfect marriage of everything I love:

  • Talking–aforementioned husband can attest to this.
  • Witty banter–who among us did NOT love the back and forth poking and jesting of the beloved Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd on “Moonlighting”? Come on.
  • Celebrities, et al. tweeting for themselves — you never know WHAT is going to happen–trainwreck? drunk tweet? insight of amazing wisdom and sparkling brilliance? You just never know, and I want to be there to witness it live and in person.
  • Speed–the witty banter, comments, retweets, arguments, snarky comments, tips, tricks, news, views–all scrolling past my bleary eyes. I love it all
  • Accessibility–have a burning desire to be heard by Oprah? With Twitter, you have the opportunity.  For me, that’s the most compelling aspect of Twitter.  Real people who make real change in the real world really do tweet, read tweets and respond.  Five years ago, you would have had to write a letter to an editor or production company or agent for a chance to be heard.  That’s all changed.

While I love Twitter, I know a lot of people who don’t.  To some degree, the comparison between Facebook and Twitter may be like Coke vs. Pepsi, Mayonnaise vs. Miracle Whip, Crest vs. Colgate–you just like what you like.  I’d like to think it’s just fear of the unknown–I know before I dove into the Twitter pool, I didn’t “get it” either.  Really, though, comparing the two isn’t quite fair.  While they are both mediums of communication, one is really better for communication among friends and family and the other is better for mass communication, news and events.  I’ll let you decide which is which.

What I know for sure: there aren’t six degrees of separation any more.

Apr5

Strep Throat, Day 3

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Mothers are not allowed to be sick.  This is a universal law not created by me, but widely known and accepted as fact.  However, there comes a time for every mother when at some point she can deny the sickness no longer.  A mother will keep on keepin’ on until she just literally keels over–which happened to me this week.  

On Monday I was in the carpool line waiting for my youngest to take him to gymnastics.  And that’s when the unspeakable happened–I had an “upset stomach”, and in the worst possible way imaginable.  I had to just squeeze those cheeks together until I could make it into the ice cream shop and “freshen up”.  You may ask yourself now, why didn’t she just go home?  You aren’t asking yourself that if you are a mom–you know the answer–the “show” that is our children’s lives must go on.  

But the next morning, I just couldn’t go on any longer.  I couldn’t get out of bed.  I was feeling so badly that I actually, wait for it, took myself to the doctor.  And the whole way there, and the whole time I was sitting in the waiting room I felt silly.  I kept telling myself, “You’re not really sick, you are imagining this whole thing.  What’s wrong with you?  Suck it up and get back in the hamster wheel, you crazy bitch.”  The bitch just didn’t listen.  I went into the doctor’s office, and even though I didn’t have a sore throat, they took a culture anyway.  It came back positive for strep.  And do you know why I didn’t have a sore throat?  Because I have had strep so long I am beyond that onto sheer exhaustion.  

So here is the lesson to be learned:  if I had taken care of myself in the beginning, or “put the life mask on myself first”, I would not be here, in bed, on Day 3 of the Z pack feeling sorry for myself.  But here is the deal, I understand the concept of putting my life mask on first, but I just can’t make myself actually do it.  Am I alone in this?  

Mar21

THE DREADED BIRTHDAY-EVE

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Every 365 or so days here it comes again, like a taunting bully letting me know that yes, Virginia, there is another line on your face and dimple on your ass.  My birthday.  Sweet Jesus.

Now, I need you to understand something.  I always LOVED my birthday.  It was magical.  My parents always made celebrations fun and exciting.  I remember the year I got the Timex Cinderalla watch (9).  I remember the year I had a Mexican fiesta party and my parents didn’t know you had to actually put candy in the piñata–I grew up in Tulsa where piñatas are not an every day occurrence.  So we got to pound the hell out of a paper donkey AND jump for candy as it was thrown in the air (albeit 30 minutes later after someone got back with a huge bag of candy from the TG&Y).  I loved my birthday.

Then, I dated a guy we will call Evil Bob.  Once Evil Bob came into the picture, the birthdays became curs-ed events. On my 30th birthday, I received a fedex envelope with what had once been a dozen roses.  Do you have any idea what a trip from New Jersey to Oklahoma in an ENVELOPE does to a dozen roses?  It turns them black.  That is not what a girl wants to open on her 30th birthday.  That right there will turn a frown upside down, and that was the beginning of the end of my association with Evil Bob.

Then there was the year my husband disappeared all day leaving me to take care of the kids and the house, while he painted pictures of promises of sugar plums and fairies, only to arrive home with an unwrapped box of money (don’t get excited, most of it was in ones) as the birthday prize.  Stripper money.  Believe me, there was no stripping that night.

On my 40th birthday, my normally wonderful husband was working out of town while I was home with a five week old, a five year old and a fifteen year old.  He had been out of town for two months and I couldn’t drive yet after a C-section.  However, I had planned ahead a bit and had the ingredients to create my favorite strawberry cake for my 40th birthday treat.  Happy birthday to me, soggy, sweet-milk smelling me.  Everything was going beautifully–I nursed the baby and got him down for a nap long enough to actually make and bake the cake.  It came out beautifully, and because the baby was still sleeping–oh miracle of miracles–I flew too close to the sun and decided to take a hot shower.  With a towel-turban on my head and my comfy slippers on, I came out to the kitchen to check on the cake and start whipping up the yummy icing when, what do I see?  Yes, it is our dog eating my birthday cake.  She had eaten one end of the beautiful strawberry cake.  Did I cry?  Yes, I will admit it, I started crying like a girl.  But I am nothing if not resourceful and I was not going to let a little thing like a big dog stop me from celebrating my entry into TRUE adulthood with grace and dignity.  So I did what any self-respecting woman would do and I cut off that end of the cake, made the icing, slapped it on the cake, stuck in four candles–one for each decade–and ate that cake with my children that evening.  Okay, so that wasn’t such a bad birthday and it does make a great story.

Cut to now–I have one more child, but now they are all in school and one is even getting ready to graduate from college this May.  No one wears diapers.  Everyone can basically keep themselves alive on a daily basis–they can go to the bathroom, cross the street, brush their teeth all by themselves.  These are all good things.  Which means that it is time for me to focus on me (a little bit, don’t get crazy) again.  Time to get back into shape.  Time to find what I really want to do when I grow up.  And turning 48 tomorrow just underlines that I now have only TWO YEARS to do SOMETHING.  Because 50 is when I will really, officially, be a GROWN UP.  Not practicing, not learning and re-learning lessons.

While the fact that I’m having a birthday is, tritely, a good thing–better to be above ground than below, hardy har har–the feeling is sort of like what I imagine a woman’s biological clock might sound like. . .a slow but steady drum, drum, drumming in your heart and your head that says something _________ this way comes.  The blank is there because it’s just that–a blank as to what’s on the horizon.  That can be exciting and exhilarating and scary all at the same time.  I’d like to say I have a plan, but I don’t.  I’d like to say there is a method to my madness, but there’s not.  Maybe that’s what being an official card-carrying grown up looks like.  Someone who can roll with the punches and ride with the tide, plan or no plan.

I guess I have two years to figure it out.Image