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Say goodbye, Miss Junior USA (and hello to Karl)

July 23, 2006 by 46 Comments

I had to fight the urge to buy the Required Suburban Mom Uniform today. I wanted capri’s. I wanted yet another dull colored t-shirt. Practical, durable, tough, boooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnng, My inner junior miss wasn’t having it.

Why is all the cool stuff regulated to the junior section? I like tattoo-ish designs. I like bling. I even like me some low-rise. (Not ass-crack low-rise, just make-my-butt-look-smaller low-rise) Shopping today for the upcoming BlogHer conference, I realized that I could either dress like a teenager or dress like a school marm. Sure, I am trying to be classic in my 30’s. But why do I have to sacrifice any sort of style???? As a 31-year-old mother of two, am I allowed to be hip? Sexy? Not Stifler’s Mom -whorey…but subtle sexy.

I know this will come as a shock to my husband, who trips over my overstuffed closet and drawers daily…but I have nothing to wear. I’m not saying that in the, I have a closet full of crap I CAN wear, but choose not to wear way…I’m saying, I really have nothing to wear. Sweatpants and a tank top will not cut it in San Jose this weekend. And it occurred to me recently that I could either wear pre-children work clothes from 2002 that are too big, or I could wear post 1st child skinny clothes that are too casual for a conference.

I had to shop. For ADULT clothes. Not go to playgroup clothes. Not get dirty in the sand at the park clothes. But honest to God, adult clothing.

It wasn’t easy. But after two hours of hell on earth, including more shades of khaki than any one woman should ever try on, I emerged victorious. Crisp, fresh, tailored, skirt and blouse combo (did I just say “blouse?�). Hint of flash. Tons of style. I am the freaking Queen afterall. Can’t show up somewhere calling yourself the Queen looking like one of the help.

This is also a very longwinded way of me introducing a guest post. Karl wrote me weeks ago with a little post on we women and our clothing. I’ve been putting off posting it forever because #1 It’s fun to mess with Karl. I mean, he is a GUY going to blogHER (we all want to know your REAL motives) and #2 My site has been going through some wonkiness since the move. And #3 the Kaiser isn’t keen on any man chatting up his woman. It’s ok Karl, just buy the Kaiser a drink. Or five.

Ecru and Aubergine
by Karl Erikson

I was chatting with one of my bestest buds, Hilary, the other night. And as usual, the topic trains were zooming by quickly. We spoke about the porn film I’m producing (“Desperate Bukkake Ass Queens of Orange County”), about how use of the word ‘w00t’ should be reason enough for capital punishment, about euphemisms for genitalia (I’m still really pushing for “yabbamango” for the ladies), and about clothing.

Ladies, what is with the clothing? Don’t get me wrong, I love each and every one of you and I could look at you all day long in your various states of dress and undress. Seriously. But why the need for so many articles of clothing? I’ve had my share of girlfriends. And girl friends. Hell, I’ve even been married. I’ll just never get the fascination with apparel.

To me, it’s about the practicality. I have a closet (one) and a dresser (one). All the clothes I own could fit into a large suitcase. Even if I threw the five pairs of shoes in. I don’t need anything more than that. Underwear, tee shirts, shorts – that’s pretty much my every-day wear 90% of the year. I live in Florida. I also have socks, polo shirts, jeans, a few pairs of Dockers, a couple of suits, and ties. Oh, and shoes. That’s it. I’d show you a picture but you might freak out if you’re not used to seeing crime scene photos.

The beauty of having such a small selection of clothing is that I can be ready to go anywhere in just under three minutes flat. Movies? Typical shorts and tee shirt and sandals. First date? Polo shirt, Dockers, and loafers. First date at a really, really nice restaurant? Add a tie. Reading scripture at church on Sunday? Suit and dress shoes. Simple. I don’t have to freak out and deliberate. I’m decided, dressed, and driving in minutes.

But with women it’s different. It’s as if women ENJOY freaking out and stressing about what they’re going to wear. I can’t figure it any other way. Many of my female friends have more than just a walk-in closet. They’ve got adjunct closets in other rooms, too. And the closets are color freaking coded. “These are my ecru blouses, my yellows, my salmons, my reds, my aubergines…”

STOP. You had my eyes glazing over at ecru.

I have two pairs of jeans, no shit. Two. How many do you own? Hilary tells me she has five. I think that’s a really low number for a woman. I have friends who have dozens of pairs. Not dozens of pairs of pants, no. Dozens of pairs of just jeans. That’s friggin’ obscene, though I do kind of get turned on by the prospect of having so many pairs of jeans that I could do laundry maybe twice a year and get by just fine. What? I have three dozen pairs of underwear, I could totally make it happen.

This is a direct quote from our chat the other night, in which we debated the “need” for color-coding closets: “Well, when you have 40 pairs of pants and like 60 tops.” HUH?! Forty pairs of pants?

See, this is a major difference between men and women. Let’s say I have forty pairs of pants, just for the sake of ridiculous argument. If I’m walking through Sears or Clothes Whores USA and I see that they have pants on sale, I say to myself, “Well, I already have forty freaking pairs of pants” and I just keep on walking.

Not ladies. The idea of enough clothing doesn’t register with you. Women have some sort of brain defect that makes them say, “Ooh, 15% off. Those pants would go so well with that top I saw at Top Heavy, if I just pick up those flats I saw at Foot Fetish.” This is why getting ready for most of you requires at least several hours, plus a few weeks of pre-planning. You’ve got to go through the two bedroom closets, plus the closet in the study, the guest bedroom, and the entranceway.

Me, I enjoy not needing to consult Google Maps to find my fucking shirts.

So maybe you can explain it to me so that my feeble male mind can understand it. What is it with all the clothes, ladies? Wouldn’t it just be easier if you pared the wardrobe down to nothing but French maid outfits and Catholic schoolgirl uniforms? You know, the essentials.

Filed Under: BlogHer, BlogHer.org, blogher06, Kaiser, Men and their duckcamps

I HAVE SUPERPOWERS

July 21, 2006 by 9 Comments

Not really, but I’m a little tipsy, so I feel like I do.

In an honest effort to up my alkeehall tolerance level before BlogHer rocks the house, I had two, count them, TWO martini’s tonight. I’m such a freaking cheap date. Seriously. What does two drinks cost now-a-days?

Anyhoo, wanted to tell you kids about my kid, the boy one, and his superpowers. He found them yesterday morning in the driveway. His superpowers. Found them just sitting there on the driveway. So he did what any kid would do. He scooped them up, stuck them into his bellybutton, and went on with his day. Said, “There are my superpowers� scoop, sucked in his gut, and kept walking.

Here is the really fun part of that story…it was the Kaiser who saw it all and got to relay the whole thing to me. I love when crap like that happens and Daddy-who-works-ungodly-hours gets to be the one to see the supercool shit. That makes me happy.

Did I mention I swear EVEN more when I’m drunk. If that’s possible.

And about this whole meeting bloggers in real life thing…am really not nervous. Excited, but not nervous. Wondering how I will sneak out to nurse and not drink too too too much to get blogged about later (that freaking queen of spain, had TWO, count them TWO martinis and then went back to her room and NURSED her baby…we should call child protective services) because I KNOW I will end up flashing all of your cameras and I NEVER photograph well (hang on …the boobs photograph ok, the face, not so much) and I’m paranoid that I will not have any editorial control over your blogs. I like control. Yes, that’s one of my many therapy issues. Shut up, I’m getting better.

Anyway, that was my little way of saying one week left until we all meet. And seriously, will you guys know me, or will I need to wear a name tag or crown or something?

p.s. I know you guys are already over my tits because I totally gave you a HUGE picture of them a few posts back and it was like…eh, QofS’s tits again, no biggie.

Filed Under: BlogHer, BlogHer.org, blogher06, Count Waffles, Royal Hooters, Royally Inebriated, Stepford Crazies

BlogMe: Pieces of Fizzle

July 17, 2006 by 26 Comments

BlogMe She’s better than Angelina Jolie.

Eyes

Why?? Because she’s adopting from Ethiopia AND blogging it. She’s Fizzle. And you are about to learn more about her than you’ve ever wanted to know.

I had my first Fizzle encounter when she kindly left me a few comments here and there. Then I noticed she also liked Mocha. So I KNEW we’d hit it off.

Now that I’m reading her very funny and very well written (and she even uses naughty words) blog How The Urbanites Adopt, I think I just might be in love. And want to adopt right along with her. Because if the Kaiser needs anything in his life right now, it’s me getting to know a woman adopting a child from another country. My husband is doomed, and this would be a whole lot easier if he would just admit it.

But back to Fizzle. She’s cooler than you are. She watches more K-Fed than anyone should. And she’s obviously one hell of a person. She thinks she can take me in a race…but I have a secret-(my big toe is totally just a ugly as hers, which means I can run too) But I’ve also seen her arms, and, um…dude, she could probably kick my ass. Or bench me. One of the two.
As part of the uberfabulous BlogMe, here is Fizzle’s all important interview:

What can I learn about you in under 5 minutes? When did you start blogging and why?

I am a tri-geek (part of the network), who’s a sweatpant fashionista and in love with two ingenious and yet mentally challenged dogs. I drink more than a triathlete’s supposed to, cuss too much and am in the process of adopting our first babe from Ethiopia, albeit procrastinating on the paperwork.

I began blogging when training for an Olympic-distance triathlon and raising money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. My husband dared me to keep a blog so family and friends could keep up with my progress. Who am I to turn down a dare? I kept the comments off before I gained the courage to hear what my readers had to say.

Arms of Steel

During this time, we’d decided to adopt, and as I read other writers, I felt like I might have a unique voice to add to the mix. Thus, I became the incognito Fizzle and began to chronicle life as me.

Why did you choose to share that piece of yourself in a photograph?

I chose three separate pieces of me. Eyes, arms and toes. None of which I’m overly in love with, but they tend to be revealing.

I chose the eyes because I’m a surreal observer. Surreal. That’s the word I used, I stick by it.

Give me two minutes observing a group and I can figure out whose sleeping with who, whether you like your wife, which couple hosts the swinging cocaine parties and what woman will steal my man when I’m wide-eyed at the chips and salsa table.

Those biceps were selected for the sheer amount of change that’s gone on to achieve them. Those babies are not only the result of a year’s physical work toward a half-Ironman, but they symbolize the change I went through to think of myself as an athlete, the mental changes I had to undertake to be a part of groups seeking similar goals and doing something not only for myself, but becoming a leader for others. It’s been an amazing journey, difficult and hard, but with much gain and for a strength that has nothing to do with benchpressing.

Now the toes. Cobra toes, as they’ve been labeled. Back in the day, when I lived in Mexico, my best friend was the king of yo’ momma jokes. A group of college students sat around our kitchen table in Guadalajara, drinking Patron and Fresca, and he would make my big toe a special guest.

“Your toe’s so big, you get a pedicure at Earl Schieb�.

The TOE

My retorts of, “yo’ momma’s so cheap, she got married for the rice� weren’t nearly as popular.

The alienness of my toes was attention grabbing. The toes are my ugliness, and I love it. They add at least a size and a half to my shoe size, are capable of thumb wrestling and stretch out too far in sandals, but I wriggle that big, fat-ass toe in pride.

How do you feel about meeting bloggers in real life? Are you nervous?

I’m honored to be in the circle of these blogging greats. They’re creative, intelligent, honest, driven and entertaining. Especially The Queen of Spain. I come from a far more humble and muted online existence and am curious about meeting these ladies who I read with regularity. Do they really talk about sex and vaginas all the time? Do they come carrying diapers full of their children’s poop? Will they relate to a non-mommy athletic alcoholic?

I’m not sure I’m in their league, but the great equalizer is a bottle of wine, a race on my Cannondale — perhaps not an equalizer (you blog better, but catch me now, biyatches) –and a warm, fun-loving personality.

I think I can hold my own.

So soon we’re going to meet each other at BlogHer.

Important question. How do you party?

I’m down to get my groove on. I’ve got my dance shoes lined up. With room for my big toe, of course.

Are you and your blogging persona the same person?

To a certain degree, yes. I can write more honestly about my perceptions of life at How the Urbanites Adopt than I can express in real life. My family has no idea I keep a blog. This leaves me free to talk about them openly.

And yet, there’s the freedom from proof (or, clear throat, rearranging the details) on a blog that allows my inner exaggerator to let down her hair and dance barefoot all over the truth. Plus, I’m actually very private. I can’t imagine sharing with the blogosphere that I live in St. Petersburg, Russia.
Oh, did I let that cat out of the bag?

So now that you’ve learned all about Fizzle, go see what Troll Baby has to say about ME!!!

And to keep the BlogME madness going, I’m tagging Shash, Finslippy, Dooce, Sweetney, and Fussy. Because I’m a biyatch like that-just like Fizzle likes me.

Filed Under: BlogHer, BlogHer.org, blogher06, BlogMe
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