Style, or Lack Thereof

So I've been reading style books lately. (My friend Desiree is passing out at the thought at this very moment.) What I've realized is that my style and my closet aren't on close speaking terms.

My friend Colleen once told me that the best thing about turning 40 was the ability to say "to hell with it" and mean it. To hell with tasks you don't want. To hell with living up to someone else's expectations. To hell with "should" and Hello to "want."

Colleen has a point, and that point's being affirmed in the strangest places. One of the books I bought on my B-day was a copy of Brenda Kinsel's 40 Over 40. Much of this book is self-affirming rather than prescriptive. Figure out who you are and what you love, embrace it, and make your style your own. Okay, I can dig that. The problems crop up when your style veers more toward silly T-shirts and Marvin the Martian watches than it does chic. Desiree would shudder at the stuff I find cute (she's way more stylish than I am). I like the tacky shirts the Sunshine State Parkway workers wear in the tollbooths. I love Converse Chuck Taylors. I like Celtic knot earrings and my charm bracelet. I love bright colors. And pajamas--if I could wear pajamas to work, I would. But I also have a soft spot for twin sets, my grandmother's Huguenot cross, and pearls. Finding a personal style encompassing all that will be a trick. But it'll be a step toward becoming someone who doesn't hate getting dressed in the morning quite so much.

As I get older, I don't imagine I'll become a Red Hat lady. I won't need to be, if I can embrace my hot pink Chucks self for who she is and be happy.

HB2Me

DH hates the song "Happy Birthday." He says that everyone sings it too slowly, so it comes out sounding like a dirge more than the celebratory air it should be. Methinks I agree. I'm a Stevie Wonder "Happy Birthday" kinda gal (moreso than The Beatles' "Birthday"), which is in no way dirgelike or, come to think of it, clichéd.

And on this, my 43rd "natal day," as my grandfather was wont to say, I admit that I don't want to be a cliché as I grow older. I will not be a teacher who succumbs to the tide of denim and apple motif clothing. I will not be a cranky church lady who forgets that children, messy and annoying and distracting they may be, are the lifeblood of a church. I will not submit to the minivan, though I am now officially a soccer and a baseball mom.

What does that mean? Not sure, exactly, but it'll probably involve some soul-searching about lots o'stuff and making some hard decisions. And cleaning out the closet of the faux-me to make room for the real-me. Scary stuff.

But 43 says I'm a grownup (allegedly), so I can handle it. I have big girl pants and everything.

Off to dinner with the fam. Italian. Good stuff.

Moms Rule!

Okay, this bit is priceless:

Assuming this is the common experience, then we're all going to turn into our mothers. Which may not be such a bad thing.

Books and Cooks: The Other Boleyn Girl

WE'RE READING:

I'M SERVING: NUTTY CHEESY "SALLET"

Back to School means we're back to Book Club. For this kickoff, Books and Cooks will take place at Chez mimi, so that means lots of running around and stashing and freaking and spraying and dusting and wiping and vacuuming, which isn't such a bad thing, but harrowing if you try to do it all in oh, say, three hours right before people come over.

But I digress.

Back to the book...Tudor history seems to be on the upswing, what with The Tudors on Showtime (not that watching Jonathan Rhys-Myers is ever punishment) and the release of Elizabeth: The Golden Age on the horizon. It's funny how no one knows much about it except that Henry VIII had a bunch o'wives, and he lopped the heads off two of them. This book takes place during Wife 1 (Catherine of Aragon) and Wife 2 (Anne Boleyn), interspersed with Mistress 1 (Mary Boleyn--that's keeping things in the family) and Mistress 2 (Jane Seymour--not to be confused with the actress of the same name. Mistress 2 eventually becomes Wife 3, but only if you're keeping score at home. *Whew!* I don't know how Henry manages, what with that gimpy leg and all. Guess Mel Brooks was right in History of the World, Part 1: "It's good to be the king."

The interesting thing about Gregory's book is not so much the King as it is the court intrigue surrounding the throne. Power-hungry families (Howards, Seymours). Advisors. Backbiting, betrayal, and bitches, especially that Anne Boleyn. Wow, is she ever an advertisement for only children. Mary, the book's central and most sympathetic character, basically becomes a pawn for her family's ambition. Sleep with the King, they tell her, he thinks you're hot. But I'm married. Not a problem. He married into an ambitious family, he'll figure it out. Besides, he'll get you back when the King picks a new target. Some new target. By the time Mary realizes she's fallen in love with King Henry (this is pre-gimp, pre-rotundity), she's being pushed aside for her sister Anne. And her patient husband dies, so she's stuck on the Howard Family power-struggle chessboard for as long as they seem to think they need her.

It's a big book, a juicy book. It'll make a big, juicy costume drama, too, being released this holiday season. Eric Bana (watching him is never punishment) as King Henry, so that'll be good. Assorted great actors as Catherine of Aragon, Cardinal Wolsey, etc., etc. But the real fun will be watching Natalie Portman as Anne mop the acting floor with poor, overmatched Scarlett Johansson as Mary. That'll be a sisterly rivalry to savor.

Ah, Yes, the Writing Process

Ever wonder what goes through a writer's mind as she's staring off into space at odd times, like in the grocery line or while stuck in traffic? Wonder no more. Imagine that your muse(s) work something like this:

Lord, help us all.

Text Message Morons

You gotta hand it to Celia Rivenbark. Anyone who'd title a book Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank has my undying admiration and gratitude, but I digress. Today Ms. Rivenbark takes on the army of text-messaging zombies at a live theater performance and scores a direct hit. Check out her diatribe here.

Too bad the zombies will be too engrossed to notice. As Ms. Rivenbark notes at one point, "My beef is with the grown-ups. If you're bored with what's onstage, why don't you haul your rude self out into the lobby and text-message yourself into an exhausted puddle? Text-message until the paramedics have to come and sew your stupid thumbs back on. But don't pretend you're getting ready to push the nuclear missile codes and the whole world is waiting. You just told your husband to pick up dog food at Costco. You are a moron."

Now I have no beef with text messaging. They're handy to use if you have to reach someone who's in a meeting and has the ringer off. But, like Rivenbark, I don't see the point of the constant messaging (notice how "text" has become a verb?) when you're in a live venue with real, live people. Like your kids.

As I teacher, I get annoyed with parents who fob off the "teach your children well" advice to an army of caregivers, programs, and sports coaches. I'm not talking about busy moms--have you ever met a mom who isn't busy?--I mean the ones who get that panicky look when they're forced to spend unconstructed time with their own spawn. Those moms--usually the ones driving expensive SUVs and Pilates-toned within an inch of their designer bag lives--may dress their kids in the latest expensive garb, but they're "raising" a generation that has no idea how to interact with real people. Go to your nearest trendy bistro and take a look-see around the room. When you spot the table with dad on the BlackBerry, mom (who almost always has a $200 highlight job) on her cell, and kids either texting their army of "friends" or vanished into iWorld, you know the people I mean.

Full disclosure: I own a cell phone, a Palm, and an iPod. I have been known to talk on the phone when my kids are in the car. I don't send text messages. Sorta know how, haven't taken the time to master the skill. But I also talk to my children. I was thanked by a fellow teacher in the Publix yesterday because I was making my son do the math to determine whether the Ocean Spray Cran-Raspberry on sale at 3/$7 was a better buy than the store brand, and I wouldn't let him use a calculator. Poor kid, expected to divide in his head and talk to his mother live. I torture his sister in a similar fashion. He's ten, she's eight, neither one has a cell phone. Or an iPod. Oh, the horror.

Come on, grownups. Back away from the electronics for a while. You might find that your children--and the adult friends you ignore in similar fashion--are far better entertainment.

No, *I* Can Has Cheezburger

LOLcats. Sorry, I just don't get it.

Maybe it's because I'm a dog person.

Practice, Schmactrice

This year, I've told myself I'm going to do the better self-care thing, so that means the Thursday afternoon yoga class is on the schedule. Not only can I twist and unkink, but I'll be able to have dinner at Moe's after with a bit less guilt.

Class today was v. small, probably because it's the first week of school, and most of the teachers are mental tapioca. No problem. I'm in seated meditation, listening to the nature sound remix of Pachelbel's Canon in D, thinking to myself "calm, calm."

That lasted about four minutes. Then I arrived at the depressing realization of three insurmountable facts:

1. I am way too short-waisted for some of these poses. There is just not enough room between my neck and waistline for certain kinds of bending and stretching. Ms. Teacher is wrapping herself into an origami crane, and I can't get my forehead within twelve inches of the mat. Not that I lack flexibility, mind you--I'm way flexible--I just don't have enough to bend over. Or get my elbow hooked over my opposite knee for the seated twist.
   
2. Of course, the extra pounds don't help with the bending of any joint, especially around the waist. Bone structure is far too small. Time to get serious about the caloric intake.
3. There is no such thing as a neutral spinal position for shavasana when you have a butt shaped like J-Lo's. Either I have a vicious curve right at the small of my back, or my knees are off the mat and my legs aren't relaxed. Wiggle, wiggle, adjust, adjust, huffy breath of frustration. Not the done thing when you're in final relaxation.

Despite all that, it was good to be here. My shoulders finally descended from eyebrow height. Can't complain about that. But it's clear that Rodney Yee and I have to become pre-breakfast partners again, if I really want to get my forehead acquainted with my mat.

Operation Kerosene Update #4

I have now successfully weeded off the dry sink in my kitchen and done something productive with all those school papers and reports cards and such. The paper flood has been dammed and tidied and filed, and now I can actually get to the cookbooks.

I nearly blew up our shredder tearing through pages and pages of old check stubs, credit cards statements from years ago (shamefully, some with a 19-- year prefix), receipts, automatic payment reminders, mutual fund buy notices, and else. Lots else. Two kitchen-sized bags full of shred. I could start my own packing company with all the junk.

The hand-me-down fairies arrived with bags of clothes for both DS and DD (or Frick and Frack, and they are more familiarly known). Frick has to week through his room again--what 10-year-old boy doesn't?--but Frack has actually caught on with the weedout kick. She gave a nice handful of books to the kids across the street that a few weeks ago she couldn't bear to part with. There's hope for the younger generation, assuming I don't screw them up further.

Now to the books. Stacks and stacks and stacks of them. When DH and I married and he moved into the house I owned at the time, he brought himself, his clothes, a table from his father, golf clubs, and about 15 cartons of books. The problem hasn't lessened since we've merged households and book-buying habits. But now we're in purge mode, so stacks of them are now patiently waiting to be taken to the Friends of the Library sale instead of lying in wait to attack us on nocturnal visits to the loo. This is progress, let me tell you. There may actually be room on our existing shelves for the depleted collection. Yikes.

Deb Dixon, Goddess!

Survived a virtual butt-kicking from the inimitable Deb Dixon, she of GMC fame. Great program today from CFRW. Got the streamlined GMC this morning, which amazingly I have never attended before, and a special workshop on the Big Black Moment this afternoon.

Considering that the writign has been, well, waysided for a bit, this was a good hook to yank me back into the fold. And I figured out why the book was bogging down so badly. No interaction! So now Hero Man will be up underneath her and the farm business while she blithely tries to fix other parts of her life. So much more drama will ensue at the black moment. Merci beaucoup, Deb!