Happy New Year?

Yes, we’ve all seen this:

In fact, there are a whole slew of videos on YouTube dedicated to the follies of female drivers.  It is irksome, to say the least.  To further squeeze lemon juice onto the papercut,  I ran across this little snippet of information the other day,

Female Scientist Confirms Men Are Better At Parking Than Women.

Yes, you read correctly.  At least I know that I got to that parking space sooner because I can ask directions and/or read a map.  Bitter, you say?  Well, yes.  I take great offense to that because I have always been quite adept at parking.  I parallel parked like a pro on my first attempt when I took my driving test.  I drive a behemoth Suburban which I deftly squeeze into parking spots all the time to the great discomfort of my co-pilots.  I always hear the drawing in of breath when I’m inching closer to the bumper in front of me.  “I got it…I got it.. (big grin)!” 

A smidgen of a sidetrack now.  Suburban…. What is with that name?  It is anything but.  Have you tried navigating that ungainly beast through a city?  It is large and imposing not only to compact parking spots but anyone within a car’s length on the freeway.  It should have a name that evokes its lack of sophistication………….Redneck, Backwoods?  I was recently interviewing for a job that would require driving my own vehicle here and there on a regular basis.  The guy interviewing me asked if I was comfortable driving the Suburban throughout the city.  Maybe it was my look of sheer “you’ve got to be ****ing kidding me…” that didn’t seal the deal.  Maybe I should’ve strapped him to my front bumper, found the nearest mall parking lot and demonstrated my parking prowess.  Think that would’ve gotten me the job?

A new year.  Ahhhhh, so shiny and brimming with promise.  Speaking of promises…. I have made a few to myself.  Not so much resolutions but an effort to make it a great year and hopefully make myself a better human.  Yes, yes…I know, I’m already so wonderful but every gem needs a polish now and then, right?  (On the subject of polishing things.  If you are a fan of Mythbusters, you will know that it is possible to polish a turd.)

I, of course will be keeping track of my journey blogstyle.  I have a new self-improvement blog that I will be kicking off later this week.  I will continue this blog as well as a photoblog and contributing to another mommy blog site that is in the works.  Basically, since I have aspirations of writing and photography I need to be doing both on a regular basis.  Makes sense, eh?

So maybe my Oprah-esque desires for world domination will come to pass.   Of course, Oprah finishes her Favorite Things segments…..

Move Aside Queen, or the Claws Come Out!

For those living under a rock, you are hereby given notice that Oprah is hanging up her talk show microphone.  That shocking revelation was disclosed last week…or was it the week before?  Women and a handful of men everywhere are bracing themselves for the end of the television universe as we know it.  Of course we still have a couple years to go before she’s done but might as well drag that farewell out as long as possible…right?

Anyway, that brings up the next burning question…..Who will replace Oprah?  Yes, that, according to almost every network out there is a serious topic worthy of mention….. Since Kanye wasn’t invited to the Country Music Awards and that war is soooooo 2007, we have nothing else to keep our ADD nurtured. 

So, I being the humble servant to the rabble of my faithful readers am graciously throwing my hat into the ring.  I volunteer to squat in the house that Oprah built. 

First order of business…….do something Oprah-esque…….Opti-fast diet…nah…..ugly cry..nope…..

*lightbulb*

The best part of Oprah’s show is the Favorite Things! (insert screaming here)  Since Oprah tightened up her purse strings this year and did away with the Favorite Things show….I will appease the masses.  Everybody reach under your chair………kidding.  Hey, this is a low-budget production.  All you are finding under your chairs are dust bunnies or if you are sitting in my house you are finding old goldfish crackers, a pen and a linty cat toy (no, those aren’t my favorite things.)

I am going to break my favorite things into two categories, girly and mannish, which surprisingly could also describe a tranny but that’s for another blog. 

Whiskers on kittens….

Just like Oprah, I’m regularly bombarded by requests for my beauty secrets.  Unfortunately, this never-ending harrassment has led to a serious lack of sleep and general upkeep on my behalf.  I am now a haggardly shell of the vivacious woman I once was…but on the days I do have it together, I use the following:

Shu Uemura Cleansing Oil-  My cousin, Tara, turned me on to this stuff and I love it!  Yes, you can clean your face with oil but I would recommend leaving the auto variety in the garage for those of the cheapskate nature.  It is a bit pricey but a little goes a long way and they make it in several variations according to your skin concerns.

Shu-Uemura Eyelash Curler-  Simply the best curler out there.  Sure, Revlon makes a decent cheaper one but really, how often do you buy these?  Well worth the money because this one won’t leave your lashes with that weird crimp line.

Tweezerman Slant Tweezer-  Great for eyebrows or splinters.  I would recommend hiding it when not in use so it doesn’t end up in the garage or elsewhere.  Kind of like your good scissors.

Clinique Almost Lipstick in Black Honey-  This product came out a few years back.  It is not quite a gloss and not as heavy as a lipstick, something in between.  The color looks dark but goes on sheer and it looks great on anyone…even trannies. 

M.A.C. Lipstick-  Hands down the best lipstick out there.  They always have a fantastic selection of colors.  My favorite finish is the Lustre but you can buy it in Matte, Creme, Glaze…etc.  Be forewarned, if you decide to brave the M.A.C. counter at Nordrstom’s, speak up and bring some makeup wipes.  You may need to tone it down when you leave or the talent scouts for Cirque Du Soleil might hit you up on your way out.  They always need new clowns.

The North Face TKA100 Hoodie- Since moving to Phoenix, I have not had as much use for my North Face Denali fleece (which come in a hoodie version this year!) because it is so warm.  I found this last year and absolutely love it.  It is made out of a Polartec lightweight fleece (100) is designed to keep you looking like a woman and has my favorite feature, monkey thumbs no, that isn’t an alternative term for anything.  If I could, I would buy four more in different colors.

I know the hoodie isn’t really a beauty product but I had nowhere else to put it.  Anyway, I was wearing it last week when I was asked for my I.D. when purchasing a bottle of wine.  Now according to the button on the clerk they I.D. anyone under 30.  Hey, I’ll take thirty.  I, of course, acted all non-chalant when showing him my I.D., as if this happens all the time.  Whatever you do, don’t bring attention to the fact that you are more Cougarville than Kittenville.  In my case, I need all the mystery I can muster.

I have decided to break this blog into two parts, so manly things are on tomorrow’s blog.  You must come back and read for a chance to win one of my favorite things.  More details on that tomorrow.  In the meantime, I will be very distracted by the knowledge that Lance Armstrong and the rest of the Radio Shack cycling team are tooling around Tucson for training.  *sigh*  First my favorite QB, Brett was in the valley of the sun and now Lance is just a hop, skip and two hour car ride away……… I will put my stalker-ish leanings aside and be content with the fact that they, like me,  are also more Cougar than Kitten.  Meow.

 

All Bendy and Stuff….

“The heat makes you all bendy and stuff..”, my friend tells me over the phone.  I stifle a giggle thinking about my husband’s reaction to that revelation….then roll my eyes.  We are talking about Hot Yoga.  I have committed to taking these hot yoga classes with another friend.  The thought of once again being a physically inclined creature should be motivation enough but it was the “special” that appealed to my frugal nature and pushed me to commit. Two weeks of unlimited classes for twenty dollars……deal!

Now, as limber and graceful as I am (ahem), I ,believe it or not, have never done yoga.  I have no idea what Downward Facing Dog is or Sun Salutations….blah, blah, blah.  Being a child of the 70′s-80′s , the word yoga still brings to mind ex-hippies donning leotards sitting cross-legged in a room with macrame plant holders wearing what they want you to believe is a meditation induced smile but is really result of a “happy brownie” meeting all the while not noticing that they reek of patchouli………

(Happy Brownie Meeting….sounds like someone has a new Urban Dictionary entry!)

I had been intrigued by the thought of Hot Yoga since I heard a local radio DJ raving about it on 103.9′s morning show.  It sounded challenging enough… 105 degree room, yoga (whatever that is)…..so when my partner in crime (hereafter called Yoga Buddy or YB) suggested it one day, I was all for it.  We did our due diligence and visited the two studios that were closest to us.  They had similar specials, similar schedules, similar perky women at the front desk…..the deciding factor was location, location, location. 

“It’ll be fun.” I said, while plastering on a forced smile.  Apprehension was slowly creeping in along with visions of myself passing out and/or puking all over a yoga mat whilst being sweaty and red-faced.  An hour and a half! Oh…..joy…happy…happy….joy….hmmmm.   Memories of a Las Vegas/golf/heat stroke episode kept coming to mind.  On the plus side, it would be YB’s first hot yoga class too.  So we could look out for each other.  She could wipe the vomitus from my face as I lay passed out on the floor and make sure I don’t fall into an inappropriate position.  I would do the same for her unless we happened to both be passed out on the floor, legs askew.

We planned to attend the noon class.  I began preparation that morning.  It was recommended that you eat two to three hours before class and be well-hydrated.  This somewhat ruined my usual morning routine of copious amounts of coffee and late breakfast.  All in the name of fitness and well-being, right? 

breakfast- check

hydration- check

big towel, mat, sweat rag- check, check and check

sports bra, yoga shorts-  check, uhhhh…..crap! I’ve got yoga pants but no shorts.  The shorts are a must.  It says so on the pamphlet!  Yoga pants, meet the scissors….

yoga shorts- check

YB calls ten minutes before she is supposed to pick me up. 

“What are you wearing?”

“Sports bra…yoga pants, er shorts.  You?”

YB sounds a bit panicked.  The idea of wearing just a sports bra fills her with the same amount of glee that I have when it is time to clean out the drains and sinktraps in the house.  For YB it is definitely tank top over sports bra.  I on the other hand, don’t really care.  I can always pull out the I’ve-had-three-kids card.  (See, kids are good for something.)  The conversation then ambles southward and YB’s arch nemesis rears its ugly head….panty lines.  YB has had a long and often puzzling hatred of the aforementioned.  I don’t recall if I’ve ever seen her sporting any but  if you got her and Joan Crawford in a room together they could duke it out over the travesty of wire hangers and panty lines.  

The problem is we are talking yoga pants.  Now if you have yoga body, then yoga pants look great.  If you don’t have yoga body, then I’d recommend just not looking in the mirror…..ever.  Believe me, it’s better that way.  Don’t heed my advice and well…they’re yoga pants.  They are tight and highlight every lump, bump and panty line.  Unless, you wear a thong.  Then you just have to deal with the lumps and bumps and inevitable….let’s just call it, rope burn.  

YB brings up another yoga pant problem that no matter how yoga your body may be, is inescapable…..the dreaded…camel toe.  Since I find that term to be quite vulgar, it will hereby be known as dromedary digit or DD.  (Urban Dictionary….I’m on a roll.)  I have yet to find a pair of yoga pants that address the DD dilemna.  Of course, since I am not a yoga expert, I am not a yoga pant expert.  The only reason I even have a pair of yoga pants is because that roll down waist was very comfortable when I was very pregnant.

Throwing all shame to the wind, dromedary digit in check, we race down the freeway to the studio.  We are, of course, running behind and are in danger of being late.  Luckily, we arrive just in time and don’t have to suffer the humiliation of being the badly dressed newbies who get locked out of class.  I have to fight every urge to run.  Not due to my fear of yoga failure but because you are forced to de-shoe near the door and have to pad around the place bare-foot.  The place has a definite “odor” and it’s not patchoulie. 

I push aside thoughts of foot fungus and tip-toe into the room to find my mat.  There is a definite “odor” in the yoga room, as well.  It smells of old sweat, BO and a faint something I can’t quite nail down…oh, humiliation.  I lie down on the mat, looking up at the ceiling enjoying the comfortable warmth.  Then it begins……..

So how did it go?  You should find out for yourself and try it.  I managed to take ten classes in my trial period time, squeezing everything out of that twenty dollars as possible.  It was hot.  It was sweaty.  It was challenging.  I also realized that I have most likely spent a good chunk of my life in a state of dehydration.  That may explain the surliness….or not.

Oh yes, thanks to some awkward locker room moments….I now know all I need to know about yoga pant/short procedure.

Dirty No More

Wanting to shed the “Dirty Suburban Lady” moniker my neighbor most likely pinned me with, I decided a trip to the carwash was in order.  

Now, I’m not a big fan of the carwash but I am even less a fan of laboring in the hot sun over a behemoth of a vehicle that I barely tolerate.  I am not sure we are even allowed to wash our cars in the neighborhood and I want to keep a low profile around here.  I didn’t exactly endear myself to the neighborhood when I dressed as Amy Winehouse last Halloween.  The husbands smiled.  The wives fake smiled.  I don’t know if any of them realized it was just a costume.

I pull up to the oil change bay and put on my game face.  Nice but not too nice because I already know what’s coming.  

“just the oil change…no regular wash…..yes, I know it’s chipped….not today….uh, huh…..no, no…..no, I’ll pass (strained smile)…..thanks…”  I quickly make my way inside because I feel like I have a bullseye on my forehead.  I settled onto a stool inside and started to enjoy my frappucino when a guy comes in with a clipboard…”Suburban?”

And now it starts.  I feel like I’m in the finance room at a car dealership.  He tells me my transmission fluid is dirty and even has a little sample chart to prove it.  The color difference is marginal at best and all I see are dollar signs.  “Not today, thank you.”  He shuffles off only to return a minute later.  I need a new battery now.  “Well, thank you for the information.  I’ll keep it in mind.”  He is pleading with his eyes…..  We regard each other in an uncomfortably long and silent war of wills.  Poor bastard.  I’m pretty sure this isn’t the last I’ll see of him so I dismiss any thoughts of his starving kids waiting for him to bring home dinner. 

I’m convinced now that my sitting duck status is result of my shoe choice…sparkly Kenneth Cole sandals.  Damnit!  Why didn’t I wear the I’m-broke-Tevas or the sensible boring-brown-Borns.  I start trying to tuck my purse out of sight lest anyone knows what kind it is.  Although, any man who could label my purse from sight probably isn’t going to be working on cars…..(just sayin’).  I look around and notice that I am one of only two women here waiting for their cars.  The other lady is outside.  I notice her shoe choice and surmise that no one has tried to sell her seatbelt calibration.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She wore the no-nonsense boots.  She also wore the no-nonsense jeans which this guy seemed to like:

He thought he was being stealth….silly man.

Now thoroughly bored because my car wash nemesis fails to materialize again, I turn my attention to this fine establishment.  It really is one stop shopping of sorts.

If for some peculiar reason (or you’re my neighbor) you find yourself shirtless at the carwash…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If the spangled rose is too tame there is always this savage little number:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meow……. Yes, that is a tiger and yes it is all spangles.  Scottsdale fashion at it’s finest.  That is what I need to start sporting in order to fit in around this town.  Cougar wear at it’s finest.

Maybe what I really need to fit in here is a personalized license plate because ,really, there aren’t enough on the freeways.  Although, maybe all the good plates are taken such as,

LADYSAS

One of my neighbors.  I don’t think she thought it out all too well…

Oh well, since I’m too lazy and germaphobic to set foot in a DMV, I could go the easy route:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My hopes were dashed when I couldn’t find one that said Filthy Pirate Hooker.

Wanting to drown my sorrows over not finding the right plate I eyed the fine alcohol section smack dab in middle of the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something about buying a bottle of wine at the carwash just seems……….. Klassy.

Hey, I got the snobbery going!  Should be fitting in in no time! 

It’s just hard to take a place seriously when they are pushing religion on me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Along side dirty greeting cards

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In search of more normal fare, I found a carwash staple….air fresheners.  Although, something about these seemed suspect as well: 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t know about you but I am a bit hesitant to put my nose in strange places and “smell”…..

I perused the snack section in hopes of finding something to stifle the growls coming from my stomach (not the sparkly tiger shirt).  I spotted these and decided to grab something elsewhere:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t even know where to begin with these, so I leave you to your own devices.

I see my Suburban is getting the final touches and go outside.  I momentarily consider a switcheroo with a little Mercedes convertible but decide that it wouldn’t be practical.  I’d have to give up two of my kids or a kid and a husband. 

So for now, still just Suburban Lady.