So, I was just checking my site stats on Wordtabulous and saw that my second Unmentionables Post was referred by en.wordpress.com/tag/underwear. I clicked on the link and was routed to a page of posts that were tagged “underwear” and I happened to be on the first page because my post was one of the twenty-five most recently posted. I found a mom blog post (10 Things I Said This Week) and looked at that, which was cute. I found out that in the UK today (or maybe yesterday) was National Underwear Day. And then I clicked on the Featured Blog (Derek Atlas) thinking it must be special if it was featured, and well–it was–but not the kind of special I go looking for, especially with my family roaming about behind me. It wasn’t graphic but somewhat excessively informative.
I realized last night as I was riding motorcycles with my husband and a biker friend that as much as I want to revive the biker I was in my youth, I’ve become more chicken as the years go on. Out on the highway, I was in the middle of the pack and as the needle on the speedometer rose, so did my stress level. I wobbled a bit a time or two and though it was windy, I can’t blame it all on that. And when we were in town and they were racing from stoplight to stoplight, I couldn’t seem to crank the throttle far enough to roar down the street behind them. They have Shovelheads, I have a Sportster so I guess I could blame my lack of horsepower for not keeping up. That’s what I’ll go with because it sounds better than saying I was just too chicken.
I don’t know what the problem is. The first time I had my motorcycle license, I was in my mid-20’s. I rode a chopper with a six-foot front end and that baby could GO. It would scream down the road like a banshee, me clinging to it with my hands gripping the drag bars and my ass glued to the seat, head thrown back, hair whipping in the wind. Me like go fast. That was my mantra. And I lived it.
Am I just too cautious now? I don’t know why I should be. I own the bike I have these days (the bank doesn’t), I actually have insurance in case, oh God, there’s an accident, and if I get a speeding ticket, I have the funds to pay it. So come on internal biker bitch, get out here already, could you? Soul sister, you need to get your scooter so I have someone to putt with…
Dear friend, you are not chicken, you are coming to clarity about the fragility of the human body and the resplendence of life’s potential (overlooking the daily crap, I mean.) You have also had at least one friend die on a motorcycle in the past year, correct? Your internal biker bitch is older and wiser and would shake her head wryly at her younger reckless counterpart. You survived your banshee days; embrace them forever, but ride smart and sane, and get your thrills by kicking anyone’s ass that gives you a hard time about it.
I feel energy building toward my scooter purchase. Thank you for the recent email suggestion! I like the Yamaha C3’s gas mileage and storage, but am not crazy about the styling, and need to be able to hit 50mph if I don’t want to get killed going to Target. I suppose I could ride on the shoulder, but that might be illegal. I am continuing my research… and will be glad to play the role of poodle next to your (Greyhound? Doberman?) when we someday ride together!
Atonement, Billy Elliott, Bomber, Commitments, Death at a Funeral, Full Monty, Hot Fuzz, Kelly Thompson, Love Actually, Lynnette Dobberpuhl, Monty Python Holy Grail, Monty Python Meaning of Life, Pirate Radio, River Kwai, Run Fat Boy Run, Shane Taylor, Son of Rambow, The Flying Scotsman
- Death at a Funeral
- Hot Fuzz
- Love, Actually
- Run, Fat Boy, Run
- Pirate Radio
- Monty Python and the Holy Grail
- Monty Python Meaning of Life
- Son of Rambow
- The Flying Scotsman
- Billy Elliott
- Still Crazy
- Shaun of the Dead
- Pirate Radio (gotta go with you on that one – LOVE that movie – killer soundtrack – and it’s about radio, so what can I say there?)
- Monty Python and the Holy Grail
- The Full Monty
- To Sir, With Love
- The Commitments
- Bridge on the River Kwai
And there you have it – not a single Harry Potter movie in the bunch!
Aaagh! How did I miss The Full Monty and The Commitments? And of course Shaun of the Dead. I remembered that one, but let you have it since you were the one to tell me about it. ‘Cause I’m generous like that. Still haven’t seen Bomber and you’ve told me about that three times. Love!
I was surprised no Shaun of the Dead on your list because you have a lot of Simon Pegg on there. Bomber is a great movie – excellent story, shot on a shoestring budget, and stars Shane Taylor who’s an amazing actor AND a pretty nice guy all-around. I’ll loan it to you sometime. KT
A few of my neighbor lady friends and I have been kicking around the idea of taking a “girl’s” weekend somewhere, anywhere away from home. When I say “girl’s” I am not referring to actual girls, we are all well past all the points where we might question if we had hit full womanhood status. We’ve been discussing the possibility on and off for nearly a year. The men say it is never going to happen, that we will never agree on a weekend or a destination. It is a bizarre six-sided conversation (give or take, depends on who is in at any given time) with issues of expense, duration, distance, and itinerary to consider. New York is too expensive, New Orleans too wild, the desert is blah, the beach might be ok, but no one can agree on which beach. Chicago seems likely, but then someone has to go make dinner and the discussion is tabled. A paranoid person could believe that there are saboteurs in the mix, deliberately shooting down ideas just to keep the whole prospect safely out in limbo. A trip that is never scheduled never triggers guilt, or leaves the children in inept paternal hands, or evens out the one-up in mom’s favor for dad’s weekend or weekends off. I consider myself extremely flexible, and harbor no guilt, concerns about my children’s well-being with their dad, or worry about the one-up. The only thing that is a no-go for me is when the men get frustrated and decide to be “helpful” and want to plan the whole thing for us. “Think about it,” they say. “We can take the worry out of the cost and take the blame if you don’t have fun. You won’t have to do all the research or talk about it. You just pack and go!” Damnit, no. I am a grown woman, and I will plan my own vacation. I might have to go by myself, but the idea of the husbands in the ‘hood sitting around congratulating themselves on planning their idea of a perfect ladies weekend for their indecisive women makes me gag a little bit. There is a danger that all the other wives might decide that this is a good idea, but I consider it a small one. We aren’t going anywhere.
“Chick trips” are common among my circle of friends. Usually annual events, they range from a girls-only camp-out at an area state park to a spring tour of beaches around the world. In my experience, the secret to planning these things is to keep it simple. Consider the basics:
How long can you stand each other? If it only takes a day or two before you get on each other’s nerves, you’re talking overnight trip not a week in the Bahamas.
What’s the point? Looking for relaxation? Try a spa. Adventure? Canoe trip. Retail therapy? Metropolis with good shopping opportunities.
Show me the money. Pick a trip everyone can comfortably afford. If it’s a hardship, you won’t enjoy yourself.
Let it go! Everyone has responsibilities at home, at work, in their community. But you also deserve a break once in awhile. Be willing to take one.
Work it out, ladies! It can be done. And for God’s sake, don’t let your husbands plan your trip for you. Unless they’re suggesting you go someplace absolutely fantastic and they’re offering to foot the bill. And if that’s the case, you should invite me to come along.
I admit it. I’ve always had a secret desire to be a supermodel. Well, come on – who doesn’t? They get to travel all over the world and make scads of money to stand around and look bored while wearing fantastic clothes. And then when they’re not working, they pal around with rock stars and actors and go on talk shows to let us ordinary women know that the reason they look that way is due to good genes and they really can eat whatever they want and hate to exercise. If that’s not a charmed life, I don’t know what is.
Yesterday the women of “So then SHE said…” had our first photo shoot. And it was hard. We found some great locations and while our “vision” for the end result was spot on, the execution was a little tougher than expected. To smile or not to smile? (You look a little evil. OK, now too sad. Are you pissed? You look pissed.) What do I do with my hands? (Well, not THAT because now it looks like it’s growing out of your chin.) Standing? Sitting? (God, am I really that much shorter than you?) The lighting’s all wrong. (I agree. You can actually SEE us.) But on the upside, we got through it and even ended up with some pictures that while they may not grace the cover of “Cosmopolitan”, can be posted on our blog without causing us too much embarassment. After all, we think it’s important that you know who really writes this stuff…
One of my favorite characters from “The Incredibles” (yes, I know it’s a kids’ movie and I don’t CARE – it’s funny), Edna, has a great line about supermodels: “Nothing super about them… spoiled, stupid little stick figures with poofy lips who think only about themselves.” With respect to Edna, I now have to disagree. We’re not spoiled (we hauled our own equipment), don’t have poofy lips (Angelina Jolie has poofy lips and we don’t look like her) and don’t think just about ourselves (we even changed some locations to avoid bothering others with our supreme coolness). So what say you, modeling compadre? Next shoot in the Bahamas?
Even if people wanted to look at us, we’d never make it in the modeling world because of how truly painful the act of being photographed was. I don’t understand how so many people can be relaxed and happy in front of a camera. I don’t know why I personally CAN’T be. (Try to look natural. No, not like that. Try looking up. No, that doesn’t help. Really, can’t you just look natural?) Models enjoy the camera’s attention and seeing images of themselves. We are self-conscious but would much rather get attention for our message or literary delivery, or other creative expression. That being said, I can’t keep using a photo of my cat as my image. A cat avatar says something about me–maybe something true, but not the message I want to send to the world.
I love Edna Mole. I quote her frequently.
We are super (in our own special way,) we are models (in the sense that there are pictures of us available for use in media.) Let’s leave it at that. Except that I want to share one shot of us that we captured as we explored the webcam possibility that I think really captured the essence of our striving...
I am losing my mind. I can’t find my driver’s license, the raincoat I’ve been looking for for weeks turned up out of the blue on top of a basket of shoes I moved just a few days ago, a pair of black capris are also missing…what the heck is going on? I’m the one who usually knows where stuff is, not the one blindsided by things winking in and out of this universe randomly. Maybe my son’s homework really was just disappearing between home and classroom, like he said. Do you see how this is causing me to doubt myself? My face hurts from the perplexed wrinkle between my eyebrows I have been sporting all day, and my mental processes feel like they are slogging through warm used chewing gum. I can’t keep compulsively checking the same places for the missing items, and there are no new places to look. I think I will go teach my older son to parallel park (because THAT will be relaxing,) and maybe while I’m gone the same wormhole my raincoat traveled through will bring back my license and my pants. Magic thinking. Have you got any better ideas?
Let’s assume for the sake of argument that you wore the black capris to the liquor store to pick up a bottle of wine. Being the youthful-looking sprite that you are, you confidently stuck your driver’s license in your pants pocket in anticipation of being carded. While you were there, you ran into your friend Jane who complimented you on how flattering those black capris were and after the appropriate amount of sucking up, she casually asked if she could borrow them for a function she had to go to the following afternoon. Of course, you replied, but I don’t know that I’ll have time to wash them first because when I drink wine, I don’t feel like doing laundry. Not a problem, she said. If you can drop them by my house, I’ll wash them myself. By this time, you’re at the checkout and the clerk is waiting impatiently to peruse your driver’s license which you hand over while remarking to Jane that the black capris will be in her mailbox when she gets home. You rush home, change clothes, fold the capris (which still have your driver’s license in the pocket) and walk them four houses up the street to Jane’s house where you stuff them in the aforementioned mailbox. She washes them and wears them to her event, garnering compliments from everyone she runs into. So, where’s your stuff? Your driver’s license is in the bottom of Jane’s dryer where it landed after falling out of the pocket. And your capris are hanging in Jane’s closet because after getting all that positive attention for wearing them, there’s no way in hell she’s giving them back to you. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? And there are always new places to look.
Handy Tip for Teaching Parallel Parking: Take your car and your husband’s car and park them at the curb in front of your house with just enough space in between for your son’s car with about six inches leeway, front or back. Then make him practice parallel parking in between them, letting him know that if he hits either car, he will not only be grounded for life but will have to pay for all damages out of his own pocket. That’s how I learned how to parallel park, and trust me, it works. I can fit my vehicle into parking spaces that require a shoe horn to get it out. It may take me 20 minutes and a lot of backing and forthing to do it, but I can do it. Let us know how it works out, O.K.?
I am watching “So You Think You Can Dance.” I love that show. All day people have been asking me, “Are you limping?” because I’m hobbling around recovering from an energetic session of Kettlebell. Even on a normal day I am a stiff, inflexible, uncoordinated (but strong!) lump of flesh. I love seeing the strong, limber, lyrical movement these people manage while defeating gravity and staying charming to boot. I am not a big fan of reality TV, but I am a fan of this show, the dancers, Kat the host, and the judges (even if we do fast forward sometimes through the commentary because we are all about the performances, not the judging.) When I take Zumba classes (and I do almost every week–I am ridiculous, but it is FUN) I keep my eyes on the instructor because she is amazing and cute and every move has attitude and life and as long as I am watching her, I am moving just like her (in my mind, anyway.) I learned a long time ago to avoid looking in the mirror and all will be well. There are times when being a fan surpasses being a participant, and there are times when there is some crossover. Then of course, there are times when you have to get out there and bring it, all yourself, even if it is on paper or a digital page and not onstage. What are you watching?
I’m watching reality fare of a different sort – “Ghosthunters International” which is one of a very few shows I always try to catch when I can. I’ve watched the “Ghosthunters” series (both domestic and international) since they began and while I sometimes question their evidence and the banter can be annoying, I’m always hopeful they find something really, well, COOL. I’m waiting for the day when they ask the fateful question “Can you please give us some sign that you’re here?” and the spirit either cuffs them a good one across the head or growls in a James-Earl-Jones-with-a-head-cold voice “Can you hear me NOW?!?” Now THAT would be some evidence, eh? This ghosthunter thing goes back to an internship I did for a Rapid City radio station the summer I turned 20 (yeah, five years ago – HA!). That summer I had the great opportunity to interview and spectre search with a real ghosthunter who coincidentally was from New Hampshire (the “Ghosthunter” TV guys are from Rhode Island). It was a lot of fun and a little creepy and while it didn’t make me a total believer it made me more respectful of the unknown.
I’ve seen the dance show you mentioned. I’ve never watched a whole episode; it just makes me miss dancing. Not to brag, but I know I can dance – after 10 years of dance lessons as a kid, I better have some moves, albeit a bit outdated now, I’m sure. But after three broken ankles (no, that’s not impossible even though the math doesn’t seem to work out), I’m mainly a wallflower these days. But that just gives me more time to watch for ghosts…who probably can’t dance.
Ghosty-girl, you need to read the Greywalker series by Kat Richardson. I like (almost love) her books. They are a guilty pleasure I can publicly own. Enough said on that except to mention that I have had some ghostly encounters of my own. I think. If it was obvious it would be on youtube or Ghost Hunters, but while I expected to have some claustrophobic, emotional, vertiginous reaction to a concentration camp in Austria and a funeral home in South Dakota, I certainly did not expect it on the USS Midway in San Diego or an old Methodist Church in Minneapolis. I think I was picking up some unquiet spirits, although my own true love would really rather I kept that sort of talk under wraps. Hee, hee! Good thing he doesn’t read my blogs! Love!
Don’t think I’ve ever read any of her stuff so I’ll have to check it out. On the ghostly experiences, churches would be rife with spirits – think of all the funerals. And I don’t know what it is about boats, but I had the creeps on the Queen Mary in Long Beach and there were some eerie moments when we went to the Titanic exhibit (which was fantastic, by the way). Open minds, that’s all it takes. So we can’t count on him as a subscriber?!?
I have to warn you, friend: 45 is turning out to be kind of a tricky age. I didn’t think it would be when I hit it a couple of weeks ago, but it is. When it’s your turn the end of this month, beware of people who feel the need to constantly remind you that you’re only “five years away from 50”. Oh, the horror of it all! That only leads me to wonder what’s supposed to happen when I turn 50? I envision it to be something fantastic like I win the lottery, move to Europe, become a world-famous author and discover that you really can lose 50 pounds on the Chocolate-and-Wine diet. So if it turns out to be something less than that, I may be disappointed.
Forty-five? Hah! I laugh at forty-five. And fifty. Generally speaking, aging is better than the alternative, right? I have a friend who just turned fifty this week, and as I told her, she makes fifty look like the new thirty-five. I could just admire her beauty and energy but there is a bit of aggravation that she sets the bar so darn high. My thirties were WAY better than I expected, and the forties started out rough but my youngest graduated middle school this week ending five years of hell (counting both boys’ time there,) and I am really looking forward to the next stage. I don’t know about you, but I’m smarter, more confident, further on my writing, and less apt to take crap than I was five years ago. I might be a bit more delicate in the joints and digestion and daily grow closer to death, but before we completely fall apart I like to think there might be grand adventure and published books with our names on them in our futures. The Chocolate-and-Wine Diet? I’m already on that, I didn’t know it had a name.
Oh, you won’t see it called that on an infomercial but that’s what the clerk at the Quik Shop says it is. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be any documentation on how much of which you should have when so you have to figure out the portion sizes on your own. I’m up for adventure if you are – I’ve got both annual leave and gas money to burn.