Snapshot

Do you still have all your photo albums? I do. I'm a virtual photography freak, although most of my photos were taken with plastic sale-priced cameras that leave many a photographer friend without words.

Photographs catalog my existence. They chronicle a life spent for a good time in braces, in younger years on my legs and later more visibly my teeth. A chin that held its own against a growing body, remaining to date the most characteristic of my features. A smoking habit picked up in late high school that creeps up more than I'd like in recent party photos. I save them all. I save most of them.

Like children in a fourth-grade play, a handful of these pictures are stand outs. And trite as they are, we all remember the ones with an awful haircut that we may or may not have confessed to giving ourselves, the shots that are just that funny. You've moved on, and thank God and Oprah and your stylist that your tresses are no longer tamed in quite the same way. These and their embarrassing counterparts never fail to entertain well, particularly at parties with bulbous Pinot glasses and a friend or two who knew you when. And 4x6s of failed relationships? The Wrestler who stared at himself in the shiny appliances. The Epidemiology Ph.D who gambled online. The Butcher who . . . cut up animals. Reflection hardly gets better than that. Especially when you're standing next to said reflection on Kodak paper.

I have those same memories chronicled on this site. And for some reason, there are many I want to rip from the album. Lately I reread entries in my archives and want to delete with Blogger's blessing those posts that make me cringe at their inane content or grammatical errors or, more likely, their insight into some part of my life that begs me to hide in one of those poorly-constructed child forts, made of Strawberry Shortcake sheets that wouldn't in a million years deter the opponent. These are the entries that verbally capture me crying in a corner or using a word that does not exist in this or any language. It's me at my weakest, and my least charming and entertaining. Somehow again I'm in 7th grade with an awful bob and a retainer that was molded the day prior, only this time I'm on stage with a dimmed auditorium spotlight attempting to close in.

I picture more and more of you, at your work desks, at your computers when the kids are in bed, reading about my relationship demise or my mother's stalwart silence, innocently looking through pages of a large scrapbook when I left it out on the coffee table before going to bed. And I have a sneaking suspicion that I'll look back at some of these snapshots and I won't be laughing. Or will I?

Regardless. Somehow I can't bring myself to remove them from the album.

the Awards

Due to circumstances beyond my control - mostly this - I will not be doing what I had intended to do tonight, and will instead be live blogging the 79th Annual Academy Awards. Kick ass.

I bought this statuette for my Oscar party that was ne'er to be. Bug loves it. Because it has boobs.

Notice that it is still in its casing. As I will be returning it tomorrow.

PRE-GAME

Ok, Maggie Gylenhaaaaaaaaahl. Apparently you aren't the troll I thought you were. But don't think I don't want him back under the bed by midnight. Per our joint custody agreement.

Jennifer Hudson: Solid Gold called . . . Nah, too easy. I'll think of something else in the next five hours.

Kelly Preston: We ALL love Target. But it's not really cool to buy your Oscar dress there.

I've never liked Penelope Cruz. I'm not sure what it is. But now that I see she has a huge pimple next to her eye, I adore her. Eye adore her.

Why doesn't anyone show up to these things tanked anymore? So disappointing.

OMG. Ryan Seacrest actually just said there was "lotsa Wang" on the red carpet. Tell me you got that on TiVo.

OMG! Ryan Seacrest just said "I can barely make it over the bush" while leaning in to kiss Forrest Whitaker's wife. PLEASE tell me you got that one on TiVo.

Best dressed thus far: Kate Winslet and Beyonce. Cate. Helen Mirren. Classy ladies. Classy. REESE! Your pieces are indeed good.

*crickets*

Ok, because children cannot make decisions for themselves, parents and stylists and priests need to make decisions for them. Who dressed the little girl from Miss Sunshine like the basket on the front of a kid's pink Huffy? Seriously.

Lisa Ling may have gotten her dress at Au Coton. (Does ANYONE understand that old skool reference?)

Seriously. Marky? Mr. Mark? Mama feels the vibration.

Ok, let's get on with this.

IT'S ON! IT'S REALLY ON!

Leo. You make the loins hurt.

Ellen. Liberace called . . . even he wouldn't wear the velvet suit.

Nicole Kidman is wearing Hallmark. And even that looks great on her. But when did they start doing Best Art Direction first? WHERE ARE MY BEST SUPPORTING AWARDS? Probably in a locker with Hudson's lame jacket.

I don't know how to feel about the Jack Black et al. thing. But I do know that Will Ferrell completes the Jackson 6.

I have no idea what that adorable Norweigan winner just said. But I'm pretty sure it had something to do with Ikea.

SERIOUSLY, THIS IS SO FREAKING BORING. WHERE ARE THE GOOD AWARDS?

First shocker! Eddie Murphy eats it. Wow. This is Karma for the Scary Spice/baby's mama thing. Honestly.

Sweet Jebus. Music belongs on the Grammy's people. DO YOU NOT GET YOUR OWN DAMN AWARDS?!?

Excuse me while I lick the tv glass enjoy Leo in spectacular Tivo'd slow motion. And Cameron, while I'm at it.

Meryl Streep's ridiculous talent makes up for that awful Princess Diaries dress.

Oh my God. Has Maria Shriver/Skeletor won the Lifetime Achievement Award?

I'm pretty sure Robert Downey, Jr. just left Britney in rehab. Promises, promises.

Jennifer Hudson winning = yawn. This was more of a sure thing than Heidi Fleiss. Quelle surprise. And pullease, if you know you're going to win, PREPARE US A PRETTY SPEECH FOR WATCHING FOR THE PAST FIVE HOURS, WOULDYA?

SERIOUSLY. SO BORING I LONG FOR THE DEATH MONTAGE.

"For the English-speaking awards, press 1."

Welcome to the American Stage, Frau Dunst.

Thank you, Dreamgirls cast, for finally putting some zest into this show. Now THAT is what performing is all about. Makes the last six hours worth it.

Please someone save me. Like Rose tried to save Jack. From our collective demise.

4/5 viewers agree. We have no effing idea what that 11:41 pm montage was. No idea.

During the 11:48 death montage, when Scotty from Star Trek came on screen, my neighbor asked, "Well now who's going to beam me up?" Kick ass.

I'm saddened to say there was no Anna Nicole in the death montage. (WE NEED A MONTAGE!)

PHILLIP SEYMOUR HOFFMAN LOOKS LIKE NICK NOLTE'S MUG SHOT.

Helen Mirren, I wish I could be as beautiful as you at your age. And I bet you have amazing sex.

Reese + Leo + Gosling within two minute span = soft core, party people.

OMG! Yay! Scorcese is the Susan Lucci of the Oscars!

OMG Number 2! Diane Keaton is indeed a woman!

Seriously. The MOST BORING OSCARS EVER. Even I couldn't find enough crap to fill one night of live blogging. And what was with the cirque de soleil stuff? Very borg-ish, and we all know how I feel about the borgs. Anyhoo, at least I TiVod much Leo, the still shots of which shall get me through many a night until the next awards show . . .

and I bid thee adieu.

dc, this morning

Revelations

Mom wears pantyhose to the Safeway. This may not mean a lot to you, as many mothers may don expensive socks that invariably rip while they maneuver 30-pound jagged-edged metal vehicles around a grocery store, but it's telling. I have never seen my mother in jeans, not once - not ever - in my 33 years. I am quite sure that I have never heard her say the word "balls," not even to refer to a sporting element or snow sphere; I can say with some certainty that she told friends at her luxury compound that her daughter took up "soft lobbing" for the company team last spring.

Over slices of pizza at Costco, then, it might surprise even you that Mom suggested my sister and I get the new HPV vaccine.

You see, I've been struggling lately with boundaries, and the idea that I should buy some, if not at Costco, at a therapy session nearby. Moms don't need to know a lot that we tell them about our lives, with the happy exception of my sister smoking a lot in high school and taking the grey Caddy out for many an unchaperoned late-night excursion - that they HAD to know - but I have the genetic mutation that causes me to spew spontaneously details that should remain solely mine.

Like how much credit card debt I'm carrying.

Like that time a boyfriend told me he didn't feel comfortable around them.

Like the fact that sometimes I don't like to wear underwear.

I reveal things I shouldn't about how much I paid for highlights and a handbag in one God foresaken paycheck and that I won't be able to call because I won't be home until 3 am. But I have not once - and I mean ever - talked to my mother about sex. Thus my response.

"We can't, Mom." I said. "We're too old."

It's a truthitude. Rumor has it that both beauty and the vaccine cap at age 26.

"But you haven't had sex yet," she responded.

And I thought of how I'd be bursting her bubble, and how I'd made it three decades with one final boundary intact. And as I shoved more delicious crust in my mouth, I also considered that for 33 years, Mom has thought in some ways that I'm someone I'm not. And so I said it.

"Mom," I started. "Come on now. Wouldn't you feel sorry for me if I hadn't had sex in 33 years? Please."

And I paused. And I didn't have to wait long.

"No."

And that was it. And that's as close as we're going to get to it. In her eyes, her daughter will die a virgin, and I'm left looking for boundaries out for pick up by the curb.

Time, time, time. See what's become of me.

In the early days of each season of American Idol, watching the show is akin to incurring closed head trauma, freeing up much time to post. The thoughts behind this one aren't really fully formed yet, but I'm going to go for it anyway given the ample 10 minutes before bed and a lack of quality television. Bear with me.

Just exactly how long are you going to keep this up?

Maybe I should explain myself.

Other than for work, I write only here. And this isn't going to last forever. Remember the man from the days of old-timey radio, who would clunk shoes on the floor to make it seem as if another had come in the room, the man of a million voices and a xylophone and whatever the heck that was that sounded like thunder? What do you think he did when television debuted? I wonder if he hung up his hat, or was relegated with his red stapler to a desk in the damp network basement.

The Internet will see its day, just as the 8-track and the loin cloth did before it. And the blogger will become what the cassette tape was to the 90s: old school and outdated. And although I won't say it won't happen, I am hard pressed to imagine an interactive media so widely consumed that will provide a forum for writers like us. But then again, unlike Mr. Gore, I didn't think up the Internets in the first place.

Along these lines, sometimes I wonder if "professional" bloggers have a backup plan. And not because these folks aren't talented, but because I'm not sure that blogging will ever reach the level of legitimacy that other media, particularly print, have. How many times have you been asked to describe just exactly what dat der blog was? Ever had someone giggle slightly when you detailed just what this is that we pour our heart and souls into day in and day out? That this isn't the making Shrinky Dinks of the writing world, that this is more than just a hobby to you? That, albeit a stretch, maybe this part-time pursuit of yours will persist into the next medium, as the mascara-heavy Guiding Light did 70 years ago? (I heart you, Reva!)

And furthermore, a fit in one medium doesn't necessarily transfer to another (I know someone is thinking of Cher, and I get it, she was a great variety show hostess and a "meh" early 90's singer, but there are as many Joey Lawrences to combat your claim). Do you expect that someday you will just fade away into Blogger or Wordpress obscurity, just as the David Cassidys and Kajagoogoos of the world did before you?

Maybe it's better to bow out gracefully, to leave before the medium becomes obselete, to back up your posts and photos and keep them tucked away next to your senior yearbook to show the grandcats.

*********************
In other news, did I forget anything?

Discretion

I don't think I'll ever forget the first time I walked into a host's bathroom and saw personal hygiene wipes in plain view. They weren't tucked away, as they would have been in my house, on a linen closet shelf covered by a hand towel, and then further encased in a brown paper bag labeled "Ken's extra light bulbs," so that if by some awful turn of fate the bag was discovered, no one would suspect it housed personal wipes or, God forbid, think said wipes were mine. But in that house, the box was placed on the back of the toilet between bathroom common fare like tissues and the requisite pastel hand lotion. Just a part of the decorating scheme.

This may be my neurosis, but I grew up understanding that all things of this nature were private. And by of this nature, I'm clearly referring to all things meant to or ever having touched my body. I vividly recall attending childhood sleepovers at which I'd barricade myself in the bathroom to change, only coming out when I was sure my already-worn underwear was deep in my overnight bag, safe from sure exposure when I unzipped to locate my toothbrush. The advent of puberty only compounded the complexity of my cover-up efforts: now there were bras and feminine hygiene products to be dealt with. I have hidden tampons in more places than I care to acknowledge, all to prevent the world from knowing that I was a bona fide, menstruating woman taking appropriate steps toward tackling my biological affliction (as outlined in the tiny pamphlet named Your Period: Friend or Foe? or some such nonsensical thing that all women in my age demographic seemed to receive.)

But like my wipe-displaying hosts, at some point this shyness is replaced by general apathy, and you make fewer and fewer efforts to be discreet. Sometimes three or four bras hang in my bathroom, because my lingerie chest just seems so far away in the morning, and the hardwoods in the bedroom are much colder than the tile in the bathroom, so of course logically it is more practical just to keep them closer to where I dress. I regularly tell my boss that I have cramps. My male boss. (My reserved mother spontaneously weeps in her house six miles away, unaware of the reason . . .)

And I'm clearly not the only one: a friend told me recently that while talking to a co-worker she noticed a wrapped maxi pad peeping out of the neckline of the woman's shirt. Apparently my friend interrupted her co-worker's anticipated quick run to the restroom. The moment crescendoed to ridiculous heights when, upon noticing that the pad was slowly creeping up her neck, the woman nonchalantly pushed it back under the bra strap from whence it came.

You've gotta love seeing visions of your future, I think upon hearing this story. By the age of 80 I'll probably leave the bathroom door open when my roommate has visitors and change clothes in the hallway of my nursing home. I'll go to group exercise and coffee events braless, and won't even attempt to conceal them when my breasts slip out of my waistband.

I think it might be time to move my personal wipes from the back of the toilet into their brown paper bag.

a single girl's valentine's post

I'm betting that many of you came here today for a bitter single woman's diatribe. Written by a girl wearing black down to her underwear, lying on the couch with her 81 cats watching chick flicks with a dozen consoling Cinnabons.

And while the majority of the above statements is true about me at most times, you aren't going to get bitterness here today. Because truth be told: I love love.

A week-old talk segment on my lame lite radio station changed my mind about Valentine's Day. The guest expert person encouraged those without partners to celebrate the possibilities, rather than mourn them.

Light bulbs, people. Light bulbs.

So I shall honor this icy Wednesday as a single woman welcoming the possibilities for love down the road. I simply cannot wait for the ridiculous giddiness that accompanies meeting a man you just know you'll kiss in a matter of days. To finding out you both love that one Indian place just down at the corner, that by work experience or favorite winery or alma mater you actually could have met in your prior lives, to finding out your bodies fit just so while sleeping. I look forward to someone discovering that I unfailingly sob while watching Rudy and am the poster girl for PMS and (redeemingly) love me some college football. And ultimately, I can't wait to call and IM and show up on doorsteps one day proclaiming that I've found someone I want to spend this beautiful life with. I'm smiling just writing about all of it.

And I shall also celebrate this icy Wednesday as a single woman who doesn't have to argue with a significant other about how paying bills one day late is still late. Or how he doesn't help with cleaning when his friends or family come to take over our space. Today, this woman doesn't have to smile when he uses the work "backdrop" while meaning "backup" or when he refuses a shower when his hair spikes begging for shampoo or he wants to chip the ice and snow off the car with a pizza stone. And on this wonderful holiday, she doesn't have to look at his feet.

Not a bad deal.

on motherhood

I am a mother. I may not be a mother in the way that some of you are, but I am a mother nonetheless. I did not give birth to the furry creatures that sleep in my bed, one on my king-sized pillow and the other to my right with a calico tail smacking my face, but they are my children.

And as a mother, I know I’m supposed to find all that they do adorable. And I used to. Like Bug’s ability to talk, to make the noise of pigeons, only more substantial and with considerably more fervor. I call it his trilling, and he once reserved its use for important moments, like getting my attention so I’d help him up on the windowsill, or to save me from stepping into the feline-forbidden stream of water behind the glass doors in the bathroom, or to tell me precisely where it was that Timmy fell into the well.

But now my dear child uses his words much more often than mommy would like. At 5 am, when he trills incessantly until I wake up, wanting that teaspoonful of kibble that will apparently fill his miniature stomach until he eats again in 20 minutes. Or when repeated attempts at opening a cabinet door sadly fail, and he needs help opening said door to reveal a very important whole lot of nothing on which he will promptly turn his back and resume the licking of obscene body parts.

As a mother, I must ask: how often is it that you want to lock your beloved little ones in a closet? Or put them in a pillowcase? Or repeatedly blow on their ears when they are trying to sleep just because you know that they hate it?

Or maybe this just means I really am a mother.

Tough cookies. Part I.

I spend an inordinate amount of time totally absorbed by food and what will I eat next and did I eat too much and how many points are in this dressing? I know they say that analysis leads to paralysis - in my case, analysis about food leads to overconsumption and then a little more for good measure.

And what I can't figure out, despite years of said analysis, is why the equation is so difficult to maintain.

Ahem:

EAT FEWER AND BETTER FOODS + GET OFF YOUR ASS EVEN A TINY, LITTLE BIT = FITTING INTO YOUR SKINNY PANTS AND FEELING DAMN, SHAKE YOUR ASS GOOD ABOUT YOURSELF

At this point, I hear you thinking two things, despite your attempts to keep the volume down:

1) this is an age-old question, sweet Kris, just like Why was Don Rickles ever famous? and Why didn't Eglesias remove the mole sooner? If we knew the answer to the questions of weight loss difficulty, we'd be rich, or dead, like the Diet Doctor.

2) it isn't that easy. It's really quite hard as, dear Kris, you've forgotten the confounding variables of metabolism and PMS and being on the pill and being allergic to meth and having no date, wedding or beach vacation with BOYS to provide the stimulus to get in shake your ass shape.

And I get all that. But when it comes down to it, at least for me, the equation works . . . pretty well, and pretty easily.

Stop eating. Get on the treadmill.

Oh, and stop drinking.

Gulp.

A quick thought

I can't tell you how unfortunate I find the death of Anna Nicole Smith to be. I have made many a mistake in my lifetime, but find it comforting that they won't define my legacy.

I'll tell you the story of my frigid apartment another time. For now, we'll have to go with this.

A male friend and I have decided to standardize the initial days of dating, to make the rules set, based on mathematical and statistical and other assorted -ical calculations, so that one need not wait in anguish for a call or an email or a first kiss. I would have diagrammed it all pretty like, but I don't have Visio on my home machine and there was wine and American Idol to be consumed.

It might look a little something like this (don't get all gender particular on me; for simplicity's sake, the man is the pursuer, as it is in most of the animal kingdom as well as my apartment):

1) Man receives contact information from woman at party/salsa class/wake.

2) Man contacts woman within 24 hours*. Call shall contain both clear plan for upcoming interaction that does not include Krispy Creme and does include accurate name of woman, not other female party attendee. Boyish anxiety a plus. Should man not contact woman within 24 hours, woman has all memory of man erased, heading off at the pass feelings of insecurity and desperate motherly meddling to the tune of "now i'll hever have grandchildren!" Delinquent man shall also have last memory of being dumped by H.S. girlfriend/Playboy model/1st chair clarinet neighbor girl on repeat in mind for next 36 hours, as is the copy of "Beaches" that won't seem to eject from his DVD player.

3) Woman returns contact within 24 hours with clear response including intent and not including coy avoidance or an awful snorty laugh.** Should said contact not be made within established time frame, man shall forget woman and receive free PPV for one month's duration; woman shall grow one extra chin hair.

4) Man and woman shall meet for date within one week. Date shall not take place at location at which one can feel peanut shells underfoot or purchase livestock. During date, neither man nor woman will a) answer cell phone, b) flirt with server, c) play game of "see food," or d) break out photos of pets/South Park bobblehead/Precious Moments collection.

5) Immediately following date one, there shall be no kissing or fornication***. Should both daters be interested in the other, they shall suppress all libidinal instincts; this shall only add to the gorgeous sexual tension that will eventually combust the way of the knocking over of glass coffee tables a la Moonlighting. Should only one party be interested in the other, sexual embargo will save man/woman from surefire gagging and/or shuddering and woman/man from forcibly sharing embarrassing rejection details with pals at Waffle House.

6) Either man or woman contacts the other after date one within 18 hours. Contact includes clear plan for next date. Surpassing 18 hours invokes noticable case of head lice AND helium voice in either.

7) Second date. Return to rules set forth in number 2.

8) Lather, rinse, repeat, substituting "shall be" in first line of number 5 by date 12 (Malia votes for a more realistic date in the single digits). If not, either man or women likely watches Mr. Belvedere on regular basis and even without that, things are still getting to be slightly more uncomfortable than Minnie Driver gorging herself on that sloppy hamburger in Good Will Hunting. Good luck.






*No. No one cares if you are in the hospital or you lost your cell phone or your dog needed an emergency appendectomy. Sorry, Charlie. Don't even try.

**No. No one cares if you have cramps or you forgot your celly at work or if your best friend found out she was pregnant. Sorry, Carlita. Don't even try.

***or trips to Safeway on closest following Sunday to take advantage of twofer deals or usage of affectionate names including "kitten" or "boo" or introduction to ANY blood relative or discussion of potential marriage between a) selves or b) Nick and the MTV girl or c) Bea Arthur and another human being.

Thanks for listening. No pressure to comment.

I've noticed a trend lately in blogging, most notably over at Indie Bloggers: posts without comments - including several of mine - abound. Now, to me, an entry without comments smacks of the 7th-grade party to which no one shows. Even the nerdy neighbor kid who has pursued you since elementary school doesn't come. And as the birthday girl you've put on your finest outfit and invited both the cool and not-so-cool kids and broke out your Casio keyboard. So after you change into your pajamas and curl up on the couch you're left with nothing to do but drink sherbert punch with your mom and watch Falcon Crest. It doesn't say anything about you or your coolness, bday girl, but you might feel like it does.

The thought of this makes me ache. Just as a full roster of partyers showing to your event makes you feel great, blog comments feel good. They are fun. They are validating.

I know that many already argue that we aren't writing for other people, so comments are really just gravy, but I don't buy it; bloggers, by our very nature, are putting thoughts out there for public consumption. If we weren't writing for others, we could just as easily type up our drama and rants and neverending cat stories in Wordpad and let them sit in an unlabeled folder on our desktops. Or we could turn off comments, which very few bloggers actually do, and the thought of which makes me break into a cold sweat.

So I submit that most bloggers write, at least partially, for the interaction with our readers. We like to get feedback and hear what others think about our experiences, our writing, our thoughts and my our neuroses. And since it's fair to say that most of our readers are also bloggers, why is it that so many of us - myself included - don't comment when we visit a site?

I have a variety of award-winning excuses I've crafted over time, just as I do for not holding a co-worker's baby when it's held out like a prize in front of me. Eh, I just don't have time right now what with Pat Sajak and Vanna coming on - I'll come back and write something later. If I admire the blogger's humor, it's likely that I feel I have nothing sufficiently witty to say. If the subject matter is serious, writer's block sometimes sets in, rendering me with nothing remotely meaningful to add to the conversation. Occasionally I won't really understand a post, like an entry on supply and demand (which shall never make an ounce of sense to me) or education policy in Transnistria (which frankly I didn't know existed before I Googled it). More often than that I won't relate to the content, such as those on testicular self exams or the beauty of child and/or lizard rearing.

But I often leave feeling like I owe the blogger something anyway. That because he or she made the effort to lay these thoughts bare to the world, my showing up and not writing something is somehow rude. I'd never show at a party, eat a plate of Swedish meatballs and down a cocktail or three, and leave without at least greeting the hostess, would I?

Then again, most hosts I know don't invite the entire Internet over for their Tupperware parties.