OMG

OK, it finally happened to me. What seems like 86 seasons in, I have finally succumbed to American Idol. At first I claimed I was not that into it - just enjoyed the goofy auditions. Then I was willing to admit I was getting hooked, but in an ironic sort of way; I would never even consider voting. Well, here I take my first step and admit I have a problem - I am a full-fledged fan. Three reasons - Chris Daughtry, Simon Cowell, TiVo.

Chris rocks. No, really, he rocks! No one rocks anymore, they sing these creepy ballads and make their voices soar simply because they can. And, in the case of women singers (or "the chicks" as I call them), they feel the needs to flap their arms like Mariah Carey (is that where her butterfly obsession started?). No, Chris really rocks. I would go out and buy his album now. Really, right now, with the magic of iTunes. Even with that freakishly surgically altered Barry Manilow assisting his preparation, he turned out the most awesome "I Walk the Line" that just, well, rocked. It sounded like rock, a genre that is usually utterly mislabeled, and, again, rocks.

Next, Simon Cowell. First, I have to mention Randy and Paula. Were they given lobotomies as children - or did they merely have their eardrums cauterized? They are amazed by anyone who can stand up on stage with their shirts properly buttoned. And Paula, she just doesn't quit her coy leering (yes, you can leer coyly - go practice in the mirror). But Simon, he is spot on. Brilliant, really. Of course he could say things more kindly, but why should he. Any comments he makes are counterbalanced by those two fools to his right. And, surely these horrific performers have been criticized in the past, but they have clearly chosen to disregard those critics as "jealous of my god-given talent," so they need to hear the straight shit. Plus, this is tv - how much fun would it be to hear them all agree?

And last, TiVo. Surely somewhere someone has written a bracha for TiVo. TiVo allows me to speed right through those painful performers, straight through to Simon's scathing comments, with which I always agree. Then I can sit back and feel superior. Isn't that what so much of this show is about?

Bottom line is, I am forced to admit that through American Idol I have found a new performer I love, Chris Daughtry. I will buy his albums. I will even call the American Idol toll free number and vote for Chris. I will walk the line.

I loved this paragraph, although I am horrified to note that the concept originated with Nora Ephron, a woman who singlehandedly ruined the genre of romantic comedy:

The home-economics trap involves superior female knowledge and superior female
sanitation. The solutions are ignorance and dust. Never figure out where the
butter is. “Where’s the butter?” Nora Ephron’s legendary riff on marriage
begins. In it, a man asks the question when looking directly at the butter
container in the refrigerator. “Where’s the butter?” actually means butter my
toast, buy the butter, remember when we’re out of butter. Next thing you know
you’re quitting your job at the law firm because you’re so busy managing the
butter. If women never start playing the household-manager role, the house will
be dirty, but the realities of the physical world will trump the pull of gender
ideology. Either the other adult in the family will take a hand or the children
will grow up with robust immune systems.

This perfectly describes why I feel I cannot work full time, and sometimes feel I can not work at all. I could spend all of my time filling out reading logs for school, cleaning out the dustbuster, preparing snacks, meeting with child therapists of every shape and variety. How sad - magna cum laude, phi beta kappa and I need to stay home to buy the butter, something I personally get no satisfaction out of whatsoever. Are there those that do? I hope my PhD and MD stay-a-home friends do.

It's My Midlife Crisis And I'll Cry If I Want To

For want of a more creative term, and lacking the energy to think of one, I have decided to label my ongoing existential crisis a 'midlife crisis.' Given my age, I'm a little early to have one, so I label myself precocious. While I speak glibly of "the crisis," it really is just that. Feelings encountered on a daily basis, often in a span of less than 5 minutes, include, and are not limited to, confusion, anger, disillusionment, and helplessness.

Perhaps it is an identity crisis. Still cliche. My disillusionment (or my naivete) with where I find myself in my life is seemingly bottomless.

Specifics please. Specifically, I have been a mother for seven years and I still am stunned to find myself wiping shit off the potty seat (or the floor, or the chair). I didn't expect it. Yes, of course, what did I expect when I decided to have children? It is all the mundane things I do every day, that eat up inordinate quantities of my time that I just cannot get over. I can't believe I am out buying food again (and of course, at 10 PM, after work and kids are both put to bed). It never stops. Here I am yelling at my older one to do her homework. Just like I did every single other night this week. Oh, and that's me over there emptying the dishwasher just to refill it and empty it again.

Then there's work. Because filling my nights and weekends with buying and preparing food, doing homework, washing laundry, writing notes to teachers, buying children's shoes, making doctors' appointments, filling out the book log, and emptying the refrigerator is not enough. I have a job. A corporate job. Let me describe it for you. Whoops, can't. It just defies description. I asked my counterpart there just today to describe what we do. She said "manage projects" and I'll take her at her word. Put aside the fact that it pays bills and is a very necessary part of this family's income. It does NOTHING for me.

On a bad day my job makes me feel stupid, humiliated. And I don't mean the people at my job do that, because they are great (and there's a certain irony there). It's the job itself. When I make a mistake at work it is all more upsetting to me because I DON'T CARE. I have made myself look bad, even if only to myself, over something about which I DON'T CARE. That may not make sense to you. Somehow if I was passionate about my work and I made a mistake it would be excusable. But to have a job that you believe fills no role in improving mankind (or even one man's situation) and one that does not fulfill you in any way, and then to fuck up, it's just devastating.

So, today's feelings of anger and disillusionment were triggered by a young partner at my firm. He just moved into an window office near me and he is surely several years younger than me. When I saw him today and he waved a nice friendly hello, it suddenly became obvious to me that my entire floor is populated by a ring of young men (partners) on the outer edges, in the window office, and women, mostly older than the men, filling lower paying, less-respected roles in the cubicles in the middle. And what should make me feel better, but actually makes me feel worse is that I don't even want to be partner.

Somehow this is not where I thought I would be. While I had no specific life in mind, I did know it would be a special one. I just knew it. I really might have thought I would be famous for something, just what that something would be never really got fleshed out. So you can all laugh at my naivete and how it took me 37 years to realize that my life would not be special or stand out or be any more than a sum of the grocery lists I have written my life, but that is really the case.

And when I am feeling at my absolute worst, it is this that I focus on. And when I am feeling at my absolute worst, it is when I feel there is the most hope. Because I feel so, so out of place in my life, I know that I must do something about it, that propelled by my anger I will figure it out, shape my life into a more fulfilling one. And when I am not feeling at my worst I feel the most hopeless, because that anger is dulled and I may stay where I am forever.

Let's examine for a moment what I mean by fulfilling. A job, a role that is satisfying. My husband asked me if I might feel better doing something for others. NO! NO! I want to do something for me. I want to do something defiantly selfish. WHat that is and how I will get paid for it remains a mystery. Regardless, I don't want to help people. I want to do something I like and I don't even know what that is. Don't read anything about me into this - the only volunteer work I have done is for the girls' school, and even that has not been altruistic. If we're being honest.

An Introduction of Sorts

New York City, I would like to introduce you to "excuse me." "Excuse me," please meet New York City.

Now, New York City, let me explain how "excuse me " works. You seem to think "excuse me" is to be used after, or even during an offense. As in, give someone a nice shove, say "excuse me," and return to screeching into your cellphone.

Even worse, you sometimes forget all about "excuse me." Take the man that literally moved me out of his way today. I must have been where this man wanted to walk, so he just gripped me by the shoulders and set me aside. He must be related to the man in the supermarket who moved my 7 year-old, by the head no less, out of his way this past Monday.

In these cases, I typically yell, "The phrase you are looking for is EXCUSE ME!!" I am sure that this nugget of information is welcomed by one and all. Slowly, person by person, I am making New City a nicer kinder to live. Have a nice fucking day.

What IS This?

No one has yet been able to clearly explain to me what "Scentstories" are. I mean, I know that they are horrific, that much is clear. What could a "scent story" even pretend to be? Maybe a 'gym' scentstory. Cleanish smell, followed by increasingly strong waves of sweat, followed by the aromas of soap, deodorant and hair product.

Regardless, they now proudly proclaim that Scentstories come in "candle-like" scents. So, candles are created replicating - poorly - scents found naturally. And now, we can torture our olfactory organs with Scentstories that poorly replicate candles that in turn poorly replicate what might actually have begun as amusing, intriguing, pleasing scents.

Please buy me one!!! Buy me the Scentstories "gift box." That is really what I want. Not jewelry. Not electronics. Please, get me artificial scents in a very expensive dispenser.

Why?

1. Eckerd gift card
2. Zale's commercial with a man buying an engagement ring and the song "Pressure" playing in the background
3. Chevy Chase

BK

Back before I had kids, BK, there were any number of activities I 'indulged' in. If people knew what having children really meant (and I don't mean the sappy, 'precious moments' aspects of parenthood), I really wonder if they would still have them.

Things I did pre-kids I would not dream of doing now:

1. Take a bath
2. Run an errand on the way home from work
3. Go out to eat on the spur of the moment
4. Eat in a restaurant that did not necessarily serve plain pasta or french fries
5. Take an uninterrupted shower
6. Spend any time at all in the bathroom without interruption
7. Stay at work until I finished my work
8. See a movie in a theater- not Chicken Little, either, as I did this past weekend
9. Buy a Coach bag
10. Buy clothes at places other than the Gap or Old Navy
11. Get my hair cut at a nice place
12. Get my hair colored before it's stripey
13. See a concert with no notice
14. Do ANYTHING with no notice
15. Fall asleep on the beach
16. Fall asleep in the park
17. Fall asleep on the bus
18. Wake up later than 6:30. Every day. Including weekends!