DAY 339: HELLO CHANEL, GOODBYE CHANEL

     Well Miss Coco and everyone else.  I bought my first pair of Chanel shoes today, a pair of black loafers--my first Chanel anything.  They were on sale of course, with an extra 25% off.  I called my sister before I bought them, she said it sounded like a good deal, a good investment, and something I'd wear for a long time.  I'd needed a bit of persuasion/support to bite the bullet and buy such expensive shoes.  I felt good and went ahead and bought them.
     Then I took a picture of them and sent it to my sister.  I also sent the photo to a friend who's been wanting to buy a pair of Chanel loafers to let her know there were some still left at the store.  Both my sister and my friend said that the shoes I'd just purchased were old ladyish, dowdy and looked like nurse shoes.  Just great.  I must have been swayed by the label and the super sale price.  All I can say is thank goodness Neiman Marcus has a good return policy or I'd be wearing those expensive, black Chanel loafers for the rest of the my days.

DAY 338: SKULL & CROSSBONES

    A couple of years ago my sister bought a pair of rain boots with little skulls and crossbones all over them.  She loved them and so did everyone else.  She’d get compliments galore just walking down the rainy New York streets.

     I thought her boots were terrible.  I asked her if she liked walking around portraying death or a bad omen.  Well my how times have changed.  Who recently bought a pair of flip flops with skulls and crossbones on them, in turquoise no less?  This girl.  Oh and guess who’s already gotten compliments on how cute her flip flops are…yep, you know it.  Umm, does this make me a hypocrite?

DAY 337: HAPPY 42ND ANNIVERSARY!

     My mother was a June bride, which made my father a June groom.  People always seem to want June weddings.  I don’t blame them, especially if they live somewhere with a tolerable climate in June.  Today, June 28, 2012 would have been my parents’ 42^nd wedding anniversary.  They got married at the Essex House hotel in New York between Sixth and Seventh Avenues on Central Park South.  My grandparents threw a fancy wedding.  My dad always thought that they made it so elaborate because it was my mom’s one party, since she’d never had a bat mitzvah and the party that comes after that rite of passage.  Whatever the reason, it looked beautiful.  I’ve seen the pictures. 

     I think my sister would agree that our prized possession is our parents’ wedding album, and if, heaven forbid, there was ever a fire, that would be the one thing we’d run out of the house with—oh, along with the box of cards and letters my parents wrote back and forth to each other while they dated long distance.

     My parents were married six years before they had me.  They wanted to have enough savings and a house before bringing a child into the world.  I appreciate that and I appreciate how they got to know each other during those six years.  They were a team, true blue couple.  If I ever get married, I don’t think I’ll have (no, I know I won’t) those six years.  I’m older and will probably need to have a child right away if that’s what my husband and I want to do.  Realizing that is a bit disappointing; I won’t get that alone time with my husband like my mom did. 

     Before my mom got sick, I thought my parents had a good marriage.  Of course, they had their occasional fights and strong debates, but they weren’t those types of arguments that tear people apart.  It was just life.  And while my mom was ill, I know they had a great marriage.  Any woman who decides to fight a disease with the best doctors and at the best hospitals, even if that means being miles away in Seattle from her family who lives in Albuquerque, because she wants to ultimately be there for her children as they grow up and have a long marriage with her husband, is a woman I’m proud to have had in my life.  And any man, who travels to see his wife every weekend in Seattle and hound the doctors and nurses about his wife’s medications and symptoms--basically becoming a doctor on his own so he was fully educated about his wife's disease--while leaving his children with neighbors, relatives or babysitters and kissing the chance of any promotion at his job goodbye, is a man I’m honored to have known.  I've never witnessed any two people fight for each other and on behalf of each other like I saw during those three years while my mom had leukemia.

     That’s it.  That’s the stuff.  That’s a great love.  Mom, Dad, I wish you were both here to celebrate your anniversary together and not just as a memory or hope in my heart.  But since you’re not; cheers! mazel tov! and happy happy always happy!  (Remember your anniversary when I spilled red wine all over the dining room carpet in an effort to try and serve you two and ended up running to my room crying because I'd ruined your special day?  You both said it didn't matter and that you still had a happy anniversary.) You are missed and you are incredibly loved.

DAY 336: IMMORTAL

     Is Michael Jackson really immortal?  I’m going to find out tonight at: Michael Jackson The Immortal World Tour by Cirque Du Soleil.  I loved “Love” the Beatles Cirque Du Soleil show in Las Vegas, so I hope this one won't disappoint.  I don’t think it will.  MJ’s music alone makes me happy.

DAY 335: THE _______ THAT CHANGED MY LIFE

     I just entered the ELLE Essay Contest: The ___ That Changed My Life.  The guidelines read as follows: “[c]alling all ELLE readers who are also writers: You could be published in ELLE’s October 2012 Personal Style issue! We’re looking for essays of 500–750 words in length about a treasured piece from your wardrobe. It’s about more than just a favorite item of clothing, because a cherished dress is never really just a dress: It’s a reflection of where you’ve been, what you’ve accomplished, how you see the world—a reminder of definitive moments in your life.  So here it is: your chance to write a humorous, poignant, heartbreaking, or shocking ode to the clothes that made you who you are today.”

     Wish me luck!  Looks like I’ll find out in October.  My ELLE Essay entry is below: 

The Skirt Suit that Changed My Life

     When Mrs. Adams informed me that I’d have to go write an essay for her in the next room, my right hand clenched into a fist and crumbled my chocolate chip cookie amidst an abundance of nervous, 10 year old sweat.  Only minutes earlier, I’d gingerly chosen the prize cookie out of the assortment in her red tin.  Now, I wouldn’t even get to eat it.

     I’d arrived at the writing sample stage of my secondary school interview.  I was a fifth grader hoping to gain admittance to my town’s elite private school that enrolled students starting in the sixth grade.  Well, I think my father wanted me to get in more than me.  But when you’re 10 years old, what your dad wants is what you want, especially if your mother had died months earlier at the age of 39. 

     Between the time Mrs. Adams offered me a cookie (and told me she was known as the Cookie Lady around the office) and enlightened me that I’d have to provide a writing sample, she’d asked me about my family.  I told Mrs. Adams about my mother and how the doctors had diagnosed her with leukemia three years ago.  I saw true empathy in Mrs. Adam’s blue eyes.  And then she told me how she’d lost one of her own sons to a debilitating disease and how her second son was confined to a wheelchair with the same condition. 

     As Mrs. Adams handed me The Blackfeet Indian brand No. 2 pencil, I opened my palm of crumbs to her.  Unfazed, she scooped out the morsels of my uneaten cookie and I wiped the remaining crumbs on the side of my plum, micro suede skirt.  While in remission the year before she passed away, Mommy had sewn that plum colored skirt and matching jacket for me.  Cream piping traced the neckline, sides and sleeve holes of the suit’s jacket.  I loved that skirt suit.  I felt like a grown-up when I wore it. 

     If a 10 year old could have a power suit, that one was mine.  The jacket fit perfectly and closed at the neck with an intricate, cream frog closure that matched the piping.  The skirt looked great, especially when I wore it with cream, cable knit tights.  Like most of our clothes, Mommy had sewed the entire suit on her Singer.  But she’d re-stitched the frog several times by hand to make sure it lay perfect on the jacket. 

     By the time I sat down in the annex to Mrs. Adam’s office to write an essay about a bear in the woods, I felt proud and I was ready.  I had this.  Mommy’s memory surrounded me in my plum power suit and it made me invincible.  I wrote and wrote until that pre-sharpened pencil transformed into a nub.  I wanted Mrs. Adams and the admissions committee to know that I’d be a great addition to their school.  I wanted them to know that despite my family’s recent tragedy, I was prepared to get to work and attain a top notch education. 

     As it happens, whether by wearing that plum colored skirt suit, good genes in the brains department, my killer essay, a little luck, some smarts I picked up along the way or a mix of all of those things and more, the Albuquerque Academy admitted me to its incoming sixth grade class.  I attended that school from sixth through twelfth grade.  In two years I’ll have my twentieth high school reunion.  And while I no longer fit in my perfect, handmade, plum power suit, it still hangs in my closet.  My mother had sewed what she thought was a needed garment in a little girl’s wardrobe—something dressy, but more mature than a party dress; a piece that gave a girl poise without seeming haughty.  Little did she know that I’d use it to open one of the many doors in my life and think of it always as a work of art.

DAY 334: STRAWBERRIES AND CREAM

     Summer’s here and so are the strawberries and cream—well they’re available at Wimbledon in case you’re in the neighborhood.  Two years ago I attended Wimbledon and got my strawberries and cream fix, in addition to a Pimm’s Cup or two.  You’ll need that type of sustenance and more if you decide to wait in the queue; especially if London is in the middle of a heat wave and you opted to save money and not buy your tennis tickets before you flew across the pond.

     My advice, spend the money.  Yes, spend the money, $400 or $500 on Wimbledon tickets.  Buy them online as soon as you know the dates you’ll be in London.  Oh and travel with someone who’s willing to spend this kind of money on tickets.  You’ll save time, get more sleep, not get as sunburned, be able to enjoy yourself, and actually see the tennis you want to see.  I wished we’d done that instead of waking up at 4:30 a.m. (or earlier) to get on the tube in London and travel to Wimbledon, only to wait in a field outside of the All England Club from 6 a.m. to 10 a.m.  And then once the gates opened and we finally made it to the turnstiles to pay our 25 pounds to enter the grounds, we had to wait (in the hot, hot sun—surprisingly England can get unbearable in June) until 1:30 p.m. to actually get onto a side court. 

     Let this serve as a tip or a reminder, you cannot get into a show court (Centre Court, Court 1 or Court 2, etc.) with a ticket you bought in the queue.  Not gonna happen.  It’s disappointing and more heartbreaking than anything when you hear the cheers for Rafael Nadal on any of those courts and you can’t even sneak a peek to see what he’s wearing that day.  Additionally, Wimbledon has a strict one in, one out policy.  Meaning: even if you’ve been waiting in line to get on a court for hours and you finally get on and get a seat, if you get thirsty, hungry or have to go to the bathroom and get up from your seat to leave, you just lost your seat and you won’t get it back.  Never ever. They won’t let you save your seat for your friend or vice versa, even if she’s just going to get her strawberries with cream.  If she leaves, she’s out.  So essentially you must commit to that court, those players and your better be full in your tummy and have an empty bladder.  If not, you’ll be on and off that court in no time.  This is terribly annoying if you’ve just waited in line FOREVER to get on the court—trust me.  

     Back to the berries; they’re worth it.  They’re smaller and cuter than the ones we get in the U.S.  The cream doesn’t make them too heavy a snack.  But I like any and all berries.  I am a berry.  Berry is my last name.  My dad used to joke he was going to name me and my sister and Razz and Straw.  Now wouldn’t that have been precious?  Probably not, even though there’s a kid out there named Apple.  But it was endearing and it got a laugh out of us every time. 

DAY 333: SHE WINS

     The only celebrity we saw in Miami was S. Epatha Merkerson.  She played Anita Van Buren on Law & Order.  Then my sister, who lives in New York City, called me when I got back from my trip and told me that she saw Susan Sarandon (with her much younger boyfriend) at the movies tonight.  That's it she wins.  I definitely can't compete with that star sighting.

DAY 332: WEATHER MEN

     Well, the weather men were wrong.  Thankfully the rain stayed away today and we actually got some sun.  How am I so tired, when all I did was eat and lay on a lounge chair?  Good thing our dinner reservation isn't until 10:45 p.m.  That's just enough time for a pre-dinner nap.

DAY 331: VAMOS A MIAMI

     It’s here my first actual vacation day of 2012.  I’m ready for the beach and my piña colada.  Anywhere I can, I’ll order a piña colada (chain restaurants like Olive Garden and Red Lobster are the best for ordering a fruity drink) because just drinking one makes me feel like I’m on vacation.  But today, I’ll be drinking one for real on a real vacation.  Hello little cocktail umbrellas, how I’ve missed you.

DAY 330: HAIRCARE DISCRIMINATION

     During my first haircut at college (not my first haircut ever, just my first one while a co-ed), the stylist told me that my hair was so dry it “wasn’t even taking the water” while he washed it.  I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I have a good idea and it involves lots of split ends.  I’d also like to point out that naturally curly hair is always drier than straight hair, it’s a fact of life—welcome to my world. 

     The stylist also gave me an education on hair products before I went back to my dorm.  He was black and he told me that I needed to use African American hair care products.  He put some Right On Curl on my hair while I was in the barber chair and I liked the way it felt. More importantly I liked the way my hair looked with that product on it.  Right On Curl is a curl activator moisturizer manufactured by Lustrasilk, a large ethnic hair product company.  I asked my stylist where I could buy some Right On Curl.  He replied that beauty supply stores sold it.

     I left that salon on South University in Ann Arbor with much shorter and healthier hair.  I also left on a mission.  I had to get a yellow pages and find a beauty supply store I could take the bus to or find someone to give me a ride.  A week or two later, I got a ride to a Sally Beauty Supply store off campus.  I waltzed into the store excited to get my hands on some Right On Curl. 

     But when I asked the black sales lady with long braids to help me find the hair care product, she said: “that’s for black people.”  I told her I knew that but that the guy who’d just cut my hair told me that I should use it in my hair.  She looked disgusted and then grumbled: “Right On Curl is for black people, you shouldn’t use it.”  She kept on saying this even after my explanation.  When I tried to back away from her and find the curl activator on my own she chased after me.  That sales woman literally chased me out of the Sally Beauty Supply. 

     I was enraged.  How rude!  Not to mention a bit racist.  So what if I’m not black?  Does that really mean I can’t use black hair care products?  I don’t think so.  I got back in my friend’s car ready to burst into tears.  We spent the rest of that autumn, Michigan, afternoon searching for another beauty supply store.  I finally found my Right On Curl and was permitted to purchase it.  In fact I bought another Lustrasilk product to use after the Right On Curl.  It was called Moisture Max. 

     I wanted to drive back to the Sally Beauty Supply and show off my 2 bottles of ethnic hair care products a la Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when she went back to that snobby store on Rodeo Drive with all her expensive purchases, but I didn’t have the guts.  I just wanted to go back to my room, put on my robe, haul my shower caddy to the communal bathroom and wash my hair and then douse it in you guessed it. . . Right On!

DAY 329: ADULT CAMPER

    I never went to sleep away camp for the whole summer.  I went for a week, maybe 2 max.  It was nothing like in the movies, with the boys’ cabins on one side of the lake and the girls’ on the other.  There were no midnight swims or boat rides to go meet members of the opposite sex.

     But I did go to tennis camp, where things got a little spicy, and I went there recently—within the past 5 years.  My ladies tennis team took advantage of the 2 for 1 special pricing at John Newcombe’s Tennis Ranch in New Braunfels, Texas 2 years in a row.  Campers affectionately call the place Newk’s.  Anyway, from November to February, Newk’s offers 2 for 1 pricing, because that’s when it’s cold in Texas, which means that’s when it’s too cold for the country club ladies to be playing outside in the dead of Texas winter.  (My team plays out of what I like to call a faux country club—there are no dues.  We are definitely not those prissy country clubbers who have ball boys and pros who squeegee the courts for us after it rains.  We have to get our own balls, our own water and we have to dry the courts after it rains by ourselves.)     

     Texas doesn’t get that cold for anyone who’s lived east to condone the use of the phrase “dead of winter.”  Unfortunately, on the February trips we made to Newk’s it was pretty miserable outside and I played most of my tennis gloved, in several layers, including a fleece jacket.  I also wore a wool hat.  (One’s grip on the racquet isn’t that good in gloves, even if those gloves have grippers on them.)

     My second year at adult tennis camp, a men’s team was there too.  We met them on the drill courts and may have even played some “live ball” with them.  Then at night we hung out with them at the bar and during karaoke.  Newk’s is known for its karaoke.  Most people stick around the ranch and that’s where they end up after dinner.  By the end of karaoke, one of the girls on my team was sitting pretty cozy with one of the guys on the men’s team.  The next morning I heard he’d walked her back to our cabin and given her a good night kiss. 

     That’s great good for her, right?  Umm, no, not right.  Definitely not right if he was married.  I learned all this after the fact.  Knowing what she knew, my team mate invited her kissy friend to be on our mixed doubles team.  Then I learned they were dating, but on the down low, because he was married.  Apparently, he was separated but still technically married and may from the sound of it have even been trying to work things out with his wife.  So that’s how that guy rolled—kissing other women besides his wife and possibly trying to get back with his wife.  Hey, if you don’t really like one, why not keep her around and bring someone else into your life of confusion? 

     All of this made me a little green.  I’m not into adultery and even though I’m not certain this was adultery, it felt fishy to me.  Fishy and queasy are not how to I like my extracurriculars.  I don’t want the drama of someone’s failing marriage and his new found lust for one of my team mates unfolding on the tennis court.  I’d rather focus on the game.  As a result of these moral standards, I told the captain I wasn’t interested in being on the team’s roster for the next season.  I’m not sure exactly how it turned out for those 2 star-crossed tennis lovers, but all signs point to that woman on my team still being single.  And to that I have 3 words: but of course.  

 

DAY 328: MY SISTER AND THE SPCA

          My sister and I grew up in a house without pets.  My parents, one from the bustling city of Delhi, India and other from the busy, borough of Brooklyn, had no room or time for pets.  In fact my father feared for his life when a dog came into the room or greeted him at someone’s front door.  My mother, on the other hand, seemed unaffected my cute puppies or kittens.  You are what you know and in the case of animals, my sister and I acquired our parents’ same traits and feelings.  So when my sister cautioned that she stood ready to alert the SPCA due to a story I’d told her about a date of mine, I knew it was a big deal.  (And for the record, until today when I looked it up, I didn’t even know that SPCA stood for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.) 

I’d gone on a couple of dates with a guy who worked long hours, lived in an apartment in Dallas without a doggie door and still chose to own a dog.  In his defense (probably the only time I’ll stand up for this person), he did take his dog to doggie day care on most, but not all work days.  We had a date planned for a Friday night.  I’d gotten tickets to see a comedy show in Ft. Worth, a forty-five minute to an hour drive away, and invited him.  He’d drive.  Of course he would—chivalry isn’t dead…yet. 

When I asked my date to go to the show he seemed excited.  Then he even texted me to ask if we should stay the night in Ft. Worth; his reasoning was if we had drinks at the show or at dinner in Ft. Worth it wouldn’t be a good idea to drive back to Dallas.  The other option would’ve been to be responsible enough not to drink at all on the date or to just have one beer at the start of the night.  Apparently sobriety was not on the menu, but a hotel room was, with me in the roll-a-way bed. 

My date’s idea of a joke (I think) was offering me a cot, while he got the room’s real bed. Now, I don’t know when the most appropriate time to invite a girl to stay the night with you in a hotel is (not to mention telling her she drew the short end of the stick and got the kiddie bed), but I wouldn’t guess it’d be before you kissed her.  I lose this one.  Hey, maybe he wanted to get the kiss and everything else out of the way all at once. 

This is the sexier; I mean not so sexy part (stay tuned) of this story, but part of it all the same.  I replied: “[o]k, that makes sense.  I agree, let’s not drink and drive.  And if you’ve had a long week and wanted to drink a lot, sure we can stay the night in Ft. Worth.”  If I were a guy and I heard those words come out of a girl’s mouth, I’d high tail it to the nearest Walgreens or CVS to pick up some “stuff” for later that night.  Not my date.  He didn’t do that and he didn’t even make a hotel reservation after bringing up the whole hotel idea in the first place.

Instead, he arrived at my apartment thirty minutes late.  Thirty minutes late, meant that eating dinner before the show wasn’t an option.  When I came out of my apartment and called down to him asking if I should bring an overnight bag, he shrugged, pointed to the phone at his ear and mouthed: “I’m on with the Marriot right now.”

I asked him: “Did you bring stuff to stay the night?” 

He replied, again in the form of a shrug, “toiletries.”      

I took his being on the phone with the hotel chain and his confirmation that he had toiletries (which I now doubt he actually had with him) as a green light, as in we’re staying the night in Cow Town.  Accordingly, I went back into my apartment and grabbed my overnight bag that I’d pre-packed, because staying in Ft. Worth was the plan, right?  He’d even called me that morning to tell me he’d call hotels and make arrangements for someone to watch his dog.

By the time I got downstairs and asked him to open the back of his car so I could put my bag there, he was still on the phone with the Marriot.  He wasn’t making reservations.  He was trying to resolve an issue about a credit he had and a prior stay.  It didn’t get resolved to his satisfaction.  He finished his phone call and started complaining about how he hadn’t been home since 6 that morning and that he hadn’t let his dog out since 6 a.m. either.

At this point, I realized my questions about staying the night and my overnight bag were all for naught.  We weren’t going to be staying in Ft. Worth.  It was 6:45 p.m.  We hadn’t eaten and we didn’t have time to drive to Ft. Worth and eat before the show.  The most reasonable and kind thing to do would’ve been to drive to his apartment and let the dog out, but that’s not what my date chose to do.  He chose to start driving to Ft. Worth.

This is the moment in the telling of the story when my sister began to cringe.  She doesn’t even live in Dallas.  I told her this story over the phone and I could tell just by her tone and audible sighs that she despised my date and the way he treated his dog.  She knew that the show started at 8 p.m.  She knew that it’d end close to 10:15 p.m.  And she knew we still had to eat and drive back to Dallas.  That’s over 16 hours the dog had to hold it and not go to the bathroom in my date’s apartment. 

“Hold it right there,” my sister exclaimed.  And followed with: “[y]ou should’ve called the SPCA.  That’s animal cruelty we’re talking about!  That guy should be turned in for that.  What a terrible pet owner.  Disgusting.” 

Well, my sister’s right.  That guy shouldn’t have treated his dog that way.  He should’ve let the dog out before we started the drive to Ft. Worth.  He probably should’ve driven straight to his apartment after we got back to Dallas and before we ate dinner, which for the record I suggested.  But again, he didn’t do that either.  He figured if the damage had been done, it’d been done and going to get the dog right then wouldn’t solve the problem of us both feeling famished.  So we found a restaurant still serving dinner and arrived there around 11:30 p.m.  We finished eating at 1 p.m.  Then my date drove me home. 

When I asked him to help me pull my unused overnight bag out of the back seat, he looked at me and announced: “I didn’t know you brought a bag.  If I’d known that, we definitely have stayed the night in Ft. Worth.”  Really?  This guy really didn’t know I brought an overnight bag, after I asked him if we were staying in a hotel and after he opened the door to his car for me to put my bag in the back seat. Am I supposed to believe his obliviousness?  I don’t think so. 

But I’ll tell you what I can’t believe—the text message I got from my date after he got home and surveyed his apartment for wet spots.  His message read something like this: “[g]ood news.  No accidents!” That message meant his dog didn’t urinate on his carpet or anywhere else in his apartment.  In case anyone’s still counting, my date’s poor little dog (I forgot to mention that he also told me his dog was blind) held it for over eighteen hours.  Even for someone who didn’t grow up with pets, I find that outrageous.  Plus, if someone’s going to treat his dog like that, how is he going to end up treating me?  This is one of the questions I’ve asked myself since that date along with whether or not it’s too late to notify the SPCA.

 

DAY 327: FAMOUS

     Well, we made it.  We finally made it.  A photo of me and my friend was published in our law school's quarterly magazine.  I knew that photo would end up somewhere.  My friend and I are wearing matching t-shirts at our 10 year University of Wisconsin law school reunion and we're posing with the school's mascot, Bucky Badger (who by the way is on the t-shirts we're wearing!).  So if that wasn't screaming extreme photo op then I don't know what is.

DAY 326: FREAKING FATHER'S DAY

     I'd almost forgotten that today was Father's Day--not one of my favorites.  At least on Mother's Day I can call my grandma.  But on Father's Day I don't have my Dad to call anymore or any of my grandpas since they're all deceased.  That's what makes it so hard.  But I call my sister today and that makes me feel a little better--well as good as it can get when the person I really want to talk to isn't here to talk to anymore.
     I was six and  rollerskating in my front driveway making a big U over and over again, when my mom came out to get me and tell me Papa (my dad's dad) had died.  Then we both sat on the step in our garage crying.  I didn't even take off my roller skates and my mom didn't bother trying to take them off.  I don't know how long we sat there, but it was a long while.
     When Dad died, my sister and I were both there.  We were in a hospital room with lots of machines and lots and lots of big decisions to make.  And of course lots of tears  I wouldn't wish that on anyone.  It was the absolute worst.

DAY 325: NOT WHIPPED

     For the record, whipped frosting is a waste.  Bring on the buttercream!

DAY 324: IT'S ALWAYS A GOOD SIGN...

     ...when you see a man walking out of a strip club clutching his shoes.  I mean, what just happened in there?  And why did I have to witness his walk of shame or maybe walk of pride?  Oh, I know why, my office--the manufacturing facility in which my office is located--is in the industrial part of town and our across the street neighbor is a strip club.
     Actually, I pass 3 strip clubs on my way to work--and no I don't work in one.  Occasionally I park on the street right in front of Cabaret Royale.  It just happens that those are the same days I get a police escort to my car at night.  Sometimes the security officers see me walking into work in the mornings and they escort me from my car into our facility.  It's always interesting.

DAY 323: THERE SHE GOES AGAIN

     There she goes…to another concert…again.  Tonight I’m going to see the Glory of Love singer, Peter Cetera, in all his glory at the Dallas Symphony.  What can I say; I’m on a concert kick. 

     Idina Menzel will be a hard act to follow.  She was excellent last night; and as my date said “totally relatable.”  She pulled audience members out of their seats and asked them to sing with her.  She ran around the stage barefoot and spoke with her Long Island accent about boobies and even cursed a little.  At first I was shocked and then I decided I was ok with it.  Actually, I was more than ok with it.  Hey, at least she’s comfortable enough with herself to be herself.  That’s more than I can say for half the people I meet. 

Day 322: THAT LADY FROM WICKED

     Someone recently told me that I look like or remind them of Idina Menzel.  So I’m doing the only reasonable thing I could think of—checking her out.  I'm going to see her live and in concert tonight.  I need to find out if that was a compliment or not.  I mean that’s what you’d do right?  No just joking (sort of), I actually do like her singing and thought she was good on Glee (not to mention she has good taste in husbands…hello Taye Diggs).  It should be a great concert and if it’s not, this theater sells candy during intermission, along with wine and hard liquor.  Actually maybe not hard liquor—just beer and wine.

DAY 321: TOO EARLY FOR SHAVING

     I shaved my legs too early.  How do I know this?  Well, my mom found out and she wasn't happy.  I was at my next door neighbor Janet's house the day before sleep-away camp.  Janet was older than me.  Janet was in middle school and I was in the fourth grade.  She convinced me my legs needed to be shaved.  (Hey, I am half Indian and I'd say my legs were hairier that most other nine year olds.)  She handed me a razor and some shaving cream and told me to get to work in her bathroom.  So I did.  Big mistake.
     When I went home my mom was almost hysterical.  "What'd you do to your legs?," she asked.
     I responded with the obvious: "I shaved them."
     "But you're only nine, you don't need to shave yet," she retorted.
     "Yes, I do.  Janet told me I did."
     At this point my mother's fury doubled or maybe tripled.  Then she said: "well, at least you'll be at camp for a week and the next time I see you most of your leg hair will have grown back."  And that was that.  Off to camp I went.

DAY 320: NEW CARPET

     Yay, my new carpet was installed today!  Despite the pain of moving a ton of things off of the carpeted areas, removing all things from the wall and unhooking all of my electronics, the day went smoothly.  The carpet guys only nicked one of my really nice pieces of furniture--of course--and then I proceeded to mess two things up as I moved everything back into place.  (Isn't that the way it always goes?)
     By the way, thanks guys for leaving everything in the middle of my apartment so I move it all back to the way it was, in 90 plus degree heat, since I was instructed to turn off my A/C before the carpet installation took place.  It's now several hours later and I think we just broke into the 70s.  Goodnight!  It is so hot in this place.  It's sheets only tonight, no comforter.

DAY 319: RAIN DELAY

     Today's rain delay during the men's final of the French Open really disappointed me.  But on the other hand, Nadal was down, so maybe this extra night's sleep will revive him and he'll be ready to win tomorrow morning.  Please please please make him win!

DAY 318: COSBY KID

     I'm going to see Bill Cosby tonight.  He's going to do some of his comedy and a question and answer session with the audience.  I'm so excited.  I watched the Cosby Show religiously while I was growing up.  I wanted to be Denise or Vanessa and have a little sister named Rudy.  Of course, I wanted a brother named Theo who had a best friend nick-named cockroach.  So for me, seeing Mr. Huxtable in the flesh will be a thrill.  I wonder if he'll wear a Cosby Sweater.  Probably not, it's 90 degrees here in Dallas.

DAY 317: GO RED!

     Today was the American Heart Association's Go Red for Women Luncheon.  Even though I wish I'd been able to secure more donations for the silent auction, it was a good experience to be on the Auction Committee.  It reminded me that if you ask, people usually donate. 
     The best part of the whole lunch was hearing Jackie Joyner-Kersee speak.  What an athlete.  The thing that really stood out for me in her speech was what poor shape her father and sisters are in.  They basically seem sedentary, which is incredible to me if their own daughter and sister was an Olympic athlete.  But people do things that surprise me everyday.  Why should this be any different? For some reason though it feels so blantantly ironic, not to mention sad.

DAY 316: GOODBYE DREAM SEQUENCE

     I've now taken both Melatonin and Ambien (not together!) to help me sleep.  All I can say is no more dreams.  For real.  I can't remember any of my dreams anymore.  Is this good or bad?  I haven't decided.
     Also, waking up in the morning after taking one of these aides isn't easy.  I used to hear my alarm and jump out of bed, no snoozing.  Now I'm a snooze queen and that's definitely not a good thing.

DAY 315: ARE YOU READY YET?

     You take entirely too long to get ready in the morning if you hear the NPR news cycle twice.  In my defense, I was up super early, left the house and then came back an hour and 20 or so minutes later.  That's when I heard the same headlines I'd heard when I first woke up.  So I didn't technically take too long to get ready this morning; I'm just trying to make a point.

DAY 314: RIOT ACT

     When I worked for a judge, I remember him telling a story where he said he read the "riot act" to someone.  I thought that was an actual thing--a literal statute or law.  And him being a judge and all, it made sense to me that he was talking about a real thing.
     Obviously I was wrong.  However, I learned today that there was such a thing as the Riot Act.  It was an act of Parliament in Great Britain in 1715 (per wikipedia).  You learn something everyday.

DAY 313: BARELY RECOGNIZABLE

     A woman at work exclaimed to me today: "I barely recognized you."  I'd straightened my hair and apparently I look that different when it's not curly.  At my old job, one of the executives came up and introduced himself to me after we'd been working together for at least 6 months.  He literally couldn't tell it was me.  Maybe I made the wrong career choice.  I should've been a spy.   

DAY 312: A MARKETER'S WET DREAM

     I'm a sucker for infomercials and all those products sold during late night hours.  I can't help myself.  Everything looks so good and those products all look like they work so well.
     In addition to that, I'm always buying the latest advertised products--the bigger, better versions of things, especially if I like the packaging.  I buy so many "new" or "improved" items (those words are actually stamped right on the product in big, red letters, or something similar) that my ex-boyfriend called me a marketer's wet dream.  Nice.  For the record, I haven't bought a Thigh Master yet; but you never know...the night's still young.

DAY 311: DON'T SMELL MY PITS

     In defense of white shirts everywhere, I've decided to not to wear antiperspirant deodorant when I wear white shirt--every time I do, no matter what the pits turn yellow.  My friend told me that the same thing happens to her because of her pH and how it mixes with the chemicals in the antiperspirant deodorant , so she refuses to buy anything white to wear anymore.  Now, I'm not going to go that far.  But I will instill an antiperspirant deodorant ban.

DAY 310: NEW SNEAKERS

     It's June 1--time to bring out the new cross trainers.  Well, that's what they say at least: change your workout shoes every 6 months...at least.  They're so clean!  And truth be told, I think I can tell a difference, but maybe I'm conditioned to think that way by all those running shoes people.