Life 360

So here's the problem.

I see a hobby I want to take up, and I want to be an immediate expert. I don't know how to hold knitting needles, but somehow I convince myself that I can immediately jump to making ponchos with flowers and all sorts of crap. And when I realize there is a lot of time and patience and beginner-level stuff standing between me and excellence, I lose interest.

My latest kick is cake designs/decorating. If you haven't seen my wedding cake you won't know it, but I LOVE cake, and I love fancy pretty cake even more. Knowing that I won't be Sylvia Weinstock from day one is sad, but something I think I can accept. I'm starting with the Wilton classes at Michael's, and we'll go from there.

A good tasting cake is key. My Wilton's instructor is more interested in the decorating than the taste aspect, so she uses cake mixes for everything. I probably will too because I'm lazy, but I'm getting the Cake Bible from the library just in case I'm inspired to do something better. We used to make cakes from scratch growing up and they were so much better than the box stuff. (Is this the best thing to be writing about when I'm still struggling to lose baby weight? Oh well, screw it.)

See the pictures on the left? Those are CAKES. How friggin cute are they? They may not taste good but that is a work of art. Of course, even though I've never worked with fondant I've already decided that since the title includes the word "Easy" it's something I will be able to do. Hope springs eternal.

I wish I could content myself with those little character pans covered in piped on stars- you know what I'm talking about? Everyone's mom made those growing up, mine included- but I've become a snob and want something more 3-D and sophisticated. Well, the term 'sophisticated' is relative when you are talking about a frog cake but you know what I mean.

My daughter is turning two at the end of the month, hence my sudden desire to become Colette Peters. I'm hoping this will help keep me motivated to actually continue practicing and working at it- well that, and the stupid sum of money I had to drop on decorating supplies for the 'cheap' Michael's class. Being two and devoid of the high level of taste I hope to one day instill, my daughter has chosen "Teletubbies" as her theme. I don't think I will be able to construct a 3-D stand up Po cake in 30 days time, but hopefully I can come up with something a little cooler than the chemical-ly sludge they slap on the cakes at the store and charge an arm and a leg for. Further updates as events warrant.

Click here to check out a site for custom name plate and get a free engraved keychain.

I wish I had known about this site when I was trying to get Brian's autographed Chargers jersey framed. Perhaps I should order my own Selfless Wife award for the whole birthday debacle.

So my birthday is tomorrow. You don't need to wish me well (though if you are really inclined, truffles and wine are always welcome.) I've managed to make it to the next decade with a minimum of fear and apprehension, and gracefully accept the transition into ma'am territory- although when the cutie patootie 18 year old at Trader Joe's carded me for my $5 Chard I think I scared him with my squeal of joy. I don't want piles of presents, most of which are useless if the gifts my aunt insists on sending every year are any indication. All I want, and it's a simple request, really, is for my husband to do something for me. Anything.

Growing up, birthdays were always a big deal. My mother never pulled a Sixteen Candles on me and f'n forgot my birthday, never. We had presents (impractical stuff- toys and jewels!) and cake and our favorite dinner, and it had to be on the actual day, not whatever weekend day was close and convenient. No opening presents early, either- you had to wait until the Big Day. Actually, birthdays still ARE a big deal in my family, and all these rules still apply. We've only been through one birthday with my parents as grandparents, but its already shaping up to be more of the same, to the nth degree.

My in-laws on the other hand, don't think much of birthdays. They'll have dinner together, get a token present- always something practical, like a Dyson or some plates or a Home Depot gift certificate. If the day was a Wednesday, they'd celebrate the following Sunday or whenever football wasn't on. Cake? B's mom would make him his favorite carrot cake with chocolate frosting and raisins, disgusting enough to guarantee the rest of us would sit around and watch B eat it, wishing he would ask for a chocolate cake instead.

B and I dated for 4 years before getting married, so I guess I should be happy I made it this long. He had been doing a good job of going along with my family's tradition of exuberant celebration, smiling through the piles of impractical gifts showered upon him, and putting in some effort for my birthday. But as we passed the 5 year anniversary mark, he just ran out of steam. I asked him about a month ago to procure concert tickets for tomorrow, and it was never spoken of again. I asked him about it yesterday, and he said, "Oh yeah, couldn't get them. Why don't you make a dinner reservation somewhere, and pick out a movie or something?"

BLECH! I don't want to see a movie! And I resent having to make my own dinner reservation! And he didn't ask me about PRESENTS, which can only mean he is assuming the new WASHING MACHINE we had to buy is my present! That can be HIS present for next year, I bet he'd like that.

My mother nodded sympathetically. "I've been buying my own presents for years," she said. "I just get what I want and tell your dad that's my present. He likes it." I guess it's that time in our marriage. B is perfectly happy to do this- in fact he's been doing it to me for years. He won't allow me the pleasure of getting him what he wants because I might screw it up, so he goes and buys whatever digital piece of stuff he wants, doesn't wait until his birthday, and doesn't let me wrap it.

So I will make a dinner reservation, somewhere fun. Maybe catch a comedy show after. And then I'm going to find a Pilates studio and give myself a big old gift wrapped private session! (And my mom is driving down with the ice cream cake.)

I would just like to state a few things for the record:

"(Insert person, place or thing) can suck my asshole inside out" is a quote from Project Runway, Season One. Said by my man Jay McCarroll. It was vulgar, shocking, and a tad bit of hyperbole, which made it a perfect quote. It's the one sentence version of the Aristocrats.

That being said, even if I do say it I really wouldn't want anyone to actually do that, as it sounds rather painful. I have seen several dogs with rectal prolapse in my line of work and it is not a pleasant looking affliction.

And though it shouldn't need to be said, when I do make a statement like that, it is generally to my friends who understand that I am not actually serious.

And on a totally unrelated note, I ADORE Vox. Vox is like, the most amazing, incredible addition to the internet since the advent of Firefox. I prostrate myself before the mighty Vox God and offer thanks for its benevolent grace and I would never ask it to...well, you know.

(how was that Becky?)

Why did no one tell me what an engaging author Jennifer Weiner is? I've heard you all talk about her books but somehow, on some subconscious level, I doubted anyone with the surname "Weiner" could write interesting, intelligent stories. Shame on me.

It was actually my sister (single and childfree) who got me to read this novel. I got the title right away, as anyone with a slightly OCD toddler will- it's a line from the old classic, Goodnight Moon. This book chronicles the adventures of a not so perfect mom in the perfect Connecticut suburb. She's a Manhattan transplant in a mediocre marriage and bored out of her mind, and when a murder happens in the midst of her utopia, she pounces on solving it with a vengeance- not because she is so distraught over the murder, but because it's something to do.

So it's part murder mystery, part social commentary (standard fish out of water fare, and who can't relate to being the disheveled size 12 in the midst of Pilates perfect soccer moms?) I wouldn't call it Nobel Prize material, but it touched me in a way I wasn't expecting.

Being a stay at home mom can be dull. I wouldn't say I dislike it, nor do I want to go to work full time- I am very grateful to have the ability to be home, and this is what we wanted for our family. But in those quiet moments when the kids are sleeping, those rare but precious moments my mind is free to wander, I look back at who I was 10 years ago and who I am now, and I feel a sense of loss. So much of my life, OK, all of my life right now, is defined by my children. As much as I long for adult conversation, am I capable of it at this point? Do I have anything interesting to say any more, or is all I can come up with a discussion of my favorite Backyardigans episode? In the book, the heroine is struck by the line Goodnight Nobody- because that is what she has become, so defined by her kids that she has nothing of her own with which to define herself. I know being a mother requires a degree, a large degree, of self-sacrifice, but when does "large" become "total"? Does that mean we have to relinquish everything that makes us, us? Because when you do that, what happens when they inevitably grow up and let you go? I see a rash of parents attending college with their kids, setting up shop in the dorms, and I think....no.

The feeling that you are nobody is the worst sensation in the world. When you are with your kids, you are the world. You are more than somebody, you are everybody. But if you step outside that circle, with the somebodys out in the world as you once were, you find yourself marginalized. "Oh, you're a stay at home mom?" "Uh huh." "Oh....that's nice," and then the awkward pause. You see the pained look in their eyes as they wait for you to launch into the long winded exhortations of how wonderful your family is, the endless attempt to convince them as well as yourself that this is worthy of Somebody-ness. You attempt to say something engaging, witty and adult- something a mom wouldn't talk about- and you draw a blank. And then they leave to go back to their business lunches, neat and tidy, chatting away on their cell phones to other adults about events in the world, while you brush goldfish crumbs out of your sweats and realize yet again, you forgot to put on lipstick.

They say drowning is not an unpleasant sensation. It's not painful, you just sort of gently lose consciousness and drift off into oblivion. Drowning in motherhood is kind of like that. You step off the platform of your prior life into a sea of binkies and diapers, pleasantly surrounded by giggles and toothless smiles, and you float off with the dull roar engulfing you until one day something triggers a memory- a song from college, a picture of an old boyfriend. You reach out to touch the dock to reassure yourself it is still there, and it's gone, fallen off the horizon.

It's too late for me to be 25 again. I don't want that. I don't want to be so wrapped up in my career that I only hear about the kids' weekdays lives via the nanny and spend a few quality hours with them on the weekend- I want to be the defining force in their lives as they are in mine. I just want to be able to detach here and there often enough so that me, the self that resides inside the mom uniform, doesn't get permanently melded to that uniform until I'm unable to extricate myself. I want to keep that part of me apart and vital, not dusty and torpid, with a frozen smile on my face as I talk about how my kids are my world and make creative celery/ raisin snacks, so adamant in my protestations of happiness that I can't remember whether or not I really believe it.

I would like for someone to explain to me the love of crap with logos splashed all over it. I'm not talking about the small tasteful tag on a purse or the detailing on an item of clothing, but the pants that have "CC" interlocked in a happy dance from waist to toe, merrily marching across your ass proclaiming your love of high end couture. Or if you want to be extra hideous, you can have the logo pants, and the shirt, the belt, the bag, and the sunglasses. I love that people pay extravagant sums to be a billboard for a brand that would laugh themselves into oblivion if they actually saw someone indulging in such blatant overkill, the fashion equivalent of binging.

I have nothing against expensive items. I own many of them myself (in my case, limited to purses and shoes, the refuge to which the fat fashionista must flee when a size 6 or below just isn't happening.) I love the quality and cut, the timelessness in many cases, and I don't mind paying for it. But it's not about the status, it's about the quality. At least for me, though I can't say the same for anyone who would actually show up to the gym in the pictured athletic  shoes covered in Gucci brocade. Aside from being ugly, it's just..well...stupid. Out of context. You want the best running shoes the world has to offer, you look to Nike or Saucony, not Jean Paul Gaultier.

This is the reason I don't own a Louis Vuitton bag. I actually like them and think they are well made, and a lot of them are cute; I really did like the updated white pattern when it was first unveiled, but it's gotten really out of control. Once I see someone in Target with Britney hair and sweatpants and a Louis Vuitton bag, it's all over. I mean, really. So much for exclusivity. Or those people who have a ratty corduroy bag and pull out a LV keychain because it's all they can afford, but they really, really want ONE LV item. I don't get it. It doesn't match. It looks grasping. It's almost as bad as the poseurs who buy knock-offs, which I really truly don't get. The whole point is that you can supposedly afford the nicest, most well constructed item out there and it's falling apart at the vinyl seams. Buy the best you can afford and be proud of it. I would SO rather have a well made Kenneth Cole from Macy's, or even Marshalls, than some piece of crap fake from Shanghai. But that's just me.

In the high end world of luxury goods where status is based on the idea of exclusivity, it's actually the kiss of death to become too popular (see Hilfiger, Tommy). The whole allure of having something exclusive loses its allure when it becomes suddenly common, which has happened not only to Vuitton but to Burberry, as anyone who has walked around in a big city can attest. So what's a girl to do? How do you avoid the trap of looking like a overly trend conscious lemming? BUY WHAT YOU LIKE, not what you think you should like. If you have reasonably good taste you will end up staying current without looking like, well, a loser. With $400 Coach toilet paper. And if what you like is something hideous, hey, at least you're being true to yourself, which is preferable to being true to what you're being told to be true to. And if being true to yourself and your vision truly does involve dressing in head to toe logowear like a bloated fashion impaired catalogue come to life, well God bless you, because it gives me something to be entertained by on a rainy day.

J'adore Project Runway. I started watching it back in Season One, before Tim Gunn was a household name and Daniel Franco was just the lame-o with the trashbag dress who got cut in the first episode. It brought back memories of the books and books of fashion sketches- or should I say "fashion sketches" I made as an 8-10 year old longing to be a designer, scribbling away on lined paper with my colored pencils. And thanks to Robert Best it made it OK for me to admit I still like dressing Barbies- but only in couture, mind you. And yes I bought the Uncle Nick Project Runway Barbie and no, my husband doesn't know yet.

Anyway, I've been a fan since its inception. And while I will agree that Season Three has arguably the most talented group of designers yet, and one contestant who bears a frightening resemblance to Jude Law, there will never be a group of characters quite like Season Two. This is mostly due to the incomparable Santino, my gay crush. He is arrogant frosting on a hurt little insecure chewy center. Above is the infamous "Where's Andrae?" impersonation that cemented Santino as my favorite.character.evah. on PR.

But while plugging along on YouTube I also found another clip of Santino cum Tim Gunn, and this one I don't remember seeing on the show. Maybe I've forgotten it, or it might be a clip of extras. Either way it's hysterical- 'Tim' critquing the outfits from the skating costume episode.

Enjoy, my fellow fashionistas. (I will one day return to fashionista territory, after the kids are grown and the pregnancy pounds eliminated, and these horror-filled days of stained t-shirts and sweats will be just a bad dream. Just a bad, bad dream.)

Anyone watch "The Girls Next Door" on E! ? It's the..."reality"....show about Hugh Hefner's three girlfriends- Holly, who actually thinks he will marry her and she'll have his babies, Bridget, who has a master's but her greatest dream in life is to be in Playboy, and Kendra, who...well, I'm not quite sure what she does but so far all I can come up with is "professional exhibitionist".

My sister and I were watching the season premiere last Sunday, and got caught up in the age old debate of, what the hell are these girls doing with Hef? It's beyond transparent that, having asked at least two of them to be his girlfriend and live with him before even going on a date, that shenanigans are involved. In all senses of the word. It doesn't even seem particularly glamorous, seeing that they have curfews, limited budgets, and probably have to do things I shudder to imagine with a man old enough to be their grandfather.

The weirdest thing to me is that the parents of the girls are so supportive. Seeing the parents on the show explains a lot. Bridget, planning a striptease for Hef at his birthday party, rehearsed for her parents down to the pasties and G-string. They must be so proud. I wonder if she is cognizant of what this will do to her purported dream of being in broadcast journalism. Unless you count "Playboy after Dark" broadcast journalism.

Holly waited out all the other girlfriends until she got seniority. Now she sleeps with Hef in his bedroom and gets to be "number one" girlfriend. Lucky her. She actually seems to really love him and truly believe he will marry her, which makes me wonder just how strong her bleach is to have seeped through her skull and destroyed all her brain cells.

But Kendra- there aren't words for Kendra. Kendra likes to run around naked and do that booty rump shake thing. She's a hip hop video ho wannabe. And she is quite possibly the stupidest being on the face of the planet. I can't even begin to list examples of her banality because they are too numerous to count. My sister, upon witnessing the first of the many examples, dubbed her "dumber than a box of hair," which to be fair is not very nice to all the boxes of hair out there that look like Ken Jennings next to Kendra. Over the course of the hour, as she got dumber and dumber, the statement got abbreviated to just "box of hair" since we were saying it so often.

Thank you phenway for the invite. I have heard a lot of buzz about vox- and if it means no teenagers, no "OMFG LOLZ WTF is up you noob"

or emo fairy layouts

or people who only know Calvin and Hobbes from its reruns,

then I'm all over it.

Hopefully I will get back in the habit of posting more thoughtful things again, but there seems to be a direct correlation between the amount of sleep I am losing with a newborn and my lack of coherence, so it may be a while. In the meantime I will spinning around in that sphere of new mom-dom, posting a sentence or two here or there, one handed, in between picture posts of the kids and complaints about my husband not helping enough. I promise to be more interesting soon.