One Straight Jacket, Size Small

More than once recently, I have thought that the world has gone fucking mad. There are too many examples to cite from our collective cultural crap hole so I'll spare you. But you live on this planet, you know what I am talking about don't you?

I am not sure if it is the madness that has kept me away from blogging for a year or if it has brought me back. But I can say one thing for certain: living in a house with two children four years old and nearly two years old combine with my live-in nanny who is a raging born again Christian, and the fact that I still don't have any friends here, my desire to cruse, be rude, irreverent, and an all around heathen during the 9 to 5 work day was starting to drive me to distraction. Where else but over here at the SWC Headquarters can I be all of these things and more?

In addition to wanting to say "Oh Fuck!" every once in awhile, I also came back because we had the occasional good times over here, haven't we?

Like this

and this

And speaking of "over here," I forgot to mention that I was transfered from the gated community on the hill to a mini-mansion on a private cove over-looking a bay. I know, sounds exciting but really, this place is just one big padded cell.

And hey, I am about to become a mother of three so y'all know I am a bit "touched" as the polite ladies in the American South used to say.

If there is anyone out there, throw me a bone. What has been driving you nuts since you last graced the halls the SWC visiting room?

Image by Annalucylle/flickr

What Would Angelina Do?

Life is happening over in these parts. Let's just say that a series of unfortunate events has resulted in a not so brief stint in solitary confinement at the Chinese equivalent of the Betty Ford Center. And who knew that Burberry had an exclusive line of clothing for female detainees?

Anyway, I am turning to you all out there in the ether for a little seriously needed advice.

It seems that my application for a position at the car wash is under consideration. I am being asked to drag my rump to the other side of the world to meet the manager and perform a wax job or two.

Though there are many potential problems with all of this, including the damage to my artistic soul as I face yet another reminder that a woman can not eat on her words alone, the biggest worry is what to do with my brand spanking new nine month old baby who is still nursing, esp. at night and loves him his mamma.

Do I take him and subject him to the 16 hour flight in (gasp!) coach? Live through the pain of killer jet lag and then a random baby sitter for a few hours (through a trustworthy service)and hope that I never have to tell the folks at the car wash that my son is holed up in the hotel waiting for me to come back so they shouldn't ask me do any additional buffing or help park the cars or see if I can work the computer in the front office?

If I leave him home he will be in the care of his father and much loved nanny. He will also be with his brother. But away from the boob. And he gets really, really cranky without me. And I am none to keen to wean him or be away from him either. We are talking 4 nights and 5 long days away from each other. Plus, I will also be with out my eldest child which is already causing me some major anxiety.

Angelina Jolie never has to think about these things, I know. But I cannot get the US embassy to give my nanny a short term visa. However, I did manage to use some miles that I didn't know I had to get myself a buisness class seat for the return flight. Of course, the flight to the soul crushing interview is fully booked and I am on a very long waiting list for an upgrade.


The mere thought of jetlag and long haul flights and blitz travel is making my head spin.

So I'm getting all woman on the street about this.

What would you do?

Recession Era Rags

Once upon a time, when I lived in New York, I thought of myself as something of a fashion maven. No, I did not follow the trends. With a closet like mine, I didn’t have to. You see, I am into fine fabrics, clean lines, exquisite details and neutral colors. My style was my own: man-eater meets librarian meets label whore meets punk rocker, or something like that. The over all affect was spectacular, as I am sure anyone who knows me can tell you.

But these days my closet is nothing to blog about. I mean let’s face it, is any garment truly timeless? Okay, perhaps crotchless panties. But never having owned a pair myself, I wouldn’t know.

Usually, when I ask myself these kinds of questions I turn to style guru Imogen Lamport over at Inside Out Style. As we say in the Rastafarian community, Big Up, Imogen! That lady is a super star. And she has got the best hair on the interwebs. Tell her I sent you.

Anyway, with all of the "Bankrupt. Everything Must Go" sales, I have been toying around with the idea of updating my wardrobe for the first time since the 1990’s. But something happened on my way to the shops. I saw a woman wearing a coat trimmed in fur. Though fur is not my thing, the coat was beautiful. Every detail screamed expensive and the woman herself looked filthy rich. Normally, I would have admired the coat and moved on. Instead I was disgusted. For some reason, I thought that her display of wealth, real or fake, was in bad taste. Further, I had to push back the urge to knock her over the head, take her handbag, and run like hell. Lucky for her, I am still on parole.

Anyway, this me thinking. What am I going to wear during the depression? If we are entering an age where class warfare will be de rigueur, what outfit would honor the times we are living in and reflect my personal style?

The cashmere robe as outerwear?
The bathing suit top as bra?
Hospital Gown as Inauguration couture?
Shopping bags from high end stores as purse?

The choices are overwhelming.

So let me ask you, what are you planning on wearing to the recession?

What Doesn't Kill You

Not long ago, wild monkeys in a Malaysian rainforest attacked me. That happened a few months before the wild rat attack that I survived while in Thailand. There was the harrowing escape from 50 angry bulls while hiking in Ecuador, the nearly fatal run-in with a pack of feral dogs in the mean valleys of Canyon Lake, California and the killer cockroaches in Morocco.

Of course there was my being held hostage by two different armed groups in the same week during a trip to Colombia. And while no guns were involved, I cannot forget the fistfights in Ghana, Holland, Italy and Coney Island. These were followed-- years later-- by some brutal verbal fisticuffs in, naturally, Finland, Norway and Denmark.

I have lived to tell about my unpleasant case of trichinosis that I caught while in Guatemala, the malaria that I caught while in Liberia, the strange three day “someone must of drugged my drink” illness that had me laid out flat for three days in a mysterious Parisian apartment. Oh, I must not my six month pregnant belly in a way too small bathing suit in Anguilla-- who knew that embarrassment could be a critical condition?

But what nearly did me in was the salmonella poisoning that I got this weekend. Never eat Indian food at an Irish restaurant cooked by a Chinese chef.

Photo by Andrew Carter

Working at the Car Wash

Growing up, I wanted to be a prima ballerina and a marine biologist. Then I wanted to be a lawyer for about two minutes. Then came the long period of wanting to be a Duran Duran roadie followed by an even longer stint wanting to be an archaeologist. And then I thought about revoking my citizenship to become a Greek philosopher. Finally, I settled on being a journalist. I carried the dream of being a reporter all the way across country to college where I landed some very juicy internships that only proved to me that I didn’t have the stomach for “getting a story” at any cost, i.e. my dignity. So I thought, maybe I would become a writer. A writer like Virginia Woolf, a writer like George Eliot, Kate Chopin, or even better, I would become a writer like Judy Blume. Maybe not. Or maybe I would do something grand.

And then came the defining moment of my life, the moment when the earth opened up and a hand dragged me into the underworld, transforming my destiny and making me the woman that I am today.

I remember it all so clearly. I was at the end of my junior year in college having coffee with a professor who I idolized, feeling like a student at Aristotle’s knee, except, we were women sitting in some West Village pseudo intellectual haunt and it was still the Clinton era.

Anyway, this young professor asked me what I was planning on doing with my life and I said that I wanted to travel around the world looking to join a worthy cause that came with some really hot rebel soldiers and fight a great historic battle against the powers that be from some remote jungle location. I would fall in love with the tragically romantic populist leader (think Che as played by Gael Garcia Bernal) and together we would win over hearts and minds across his developing nation. He would rule his country with me at his side. A bloodless coup would oust him and all our comrades. The people would be in tears. Fabulously wealthy leftist Europeans would take up our struggle and my rebel lover and me would live in exile in Paris. We would become celebrities among young idealists everywhere. From our country house in Aix en Provence, Gael and I would charm them with stories from our combat years. Our children, precocious and beautiful, would play at our feet. The birds would sing.

A relatively easy and achievable dream, one would think.

But the professor lacked my faith. Playing the part of mentor in an Oscar winning performance, she started messing with my plan. She planted the seeds of doubt. She corrupted my soul. She showed me the dark side. Basically, she murdered my spirit. And years later, I would come to find out that it is just like her to do that. Of course, my evil twin sister was so on to her, but did I listen? No. Anyway, being young, impressionable and on that day, most likely suffering from a hangover, I took a big bite from her carrot.

Without going into the painful details, I followed a career path that the professor laid out for me with all the aimlessness of a Zombie looking for dinner. Truly, I was never happy doing what I did for many years with middling success. And yes, every once in a while, I would look up from my desk and in the reflection of my computer screen I would see a hint of the woman that I could have been.

And why am I thinking about all of this now, many, many miles away and several years after the fact? Obviously, this is a symptom of having too much time on my hands. So what I am saying here people is that I think I may need an actual J-O-B. I don’t mean this phantom job that I call myself having as I slog away on the computer day after day. I mean an actual get dressed in the morning (or at night should I decide that I could peddle my wares on the street) grab a cup of coffee and head out the door kind of job. I need a job that pays. But with 10 million Americans out of work, I figure I may have some competition. What can a girl do with skills that include: public speaking, surfing the web, in-line skating, master spin artist, expert pillow tester and chocolate taster?

I am racking my brain trying to figure out which jobs I might be qualified for so I thought I would open it up to you— my one loyal reader. You keep me blogging for better, for worse. Thank you.

Anyway, go for broke. The person with the top three suggestions will win a pretty tin of almond cookies—sent directly from Hong Kong.



**I decided to stop offering the can of tainted milk and toxic toys as no one seemed eager get in on that action.

And the cookies will be store bought, don't worry!

Occupational Hazard

After the excitement of Tuesday’s election, I have been forced to settle down to more practical matters.

Today I had to go to the doctor. The problem, it seems, is a growth. For months now I have had growth on my wrist. I know, I know it would have been much more intriguing if I had a growth somewhere else and then later discovered that it was the unbirthed head of an evil triplet. Anyway, this growth is called a ganglion cyst. Apparently, the cyst has formed on the tendon of my middle finger. It seems as though my frequent past time of flipping people off comes with a side effect.

And speaking of side effects, after the visit to my doctor I went next door to another doctor’s office to see about my other growth—the one that I euphemistically call my "belly."

Like flipping people off, pregnancy and birth has some side effects too. Some are more common than others. And I just when thought that I had bounced back from forty extra pounds, loose joints, sore boobs, nausea and exhaustion followed by months of insomnia, I am hit with some new information.

PRSMD.

What is this PRSMD you say? According to my doctor I suffer from “postnatal rectus sheath muscle diasthesis.” Funny, I thought it was called (and spelled) diastasis, but what do I know? I am only allowed to practice medicine in Ukrainian prisons.
Basically, it means that my stomach muscles have separated. No biggie you may think to yourself, all pregnant women experience some of this. And you would be correct. But few women have their muscles separate so much that they are faced with the horrifying reality of fitting into their low waist skinny jeans but having to wear maternity tops for the rest of their lives.

This can only be summarized in one word: Yuck.

My doctor, a smartly dressed woman who has an accent that sounds a lot like Nigella Lawson, which I used to find quaint until she told me that surgery is inevitable. Actually she said this:

“Sure you could workout, but there are only a few exercises you can do and your separation is so wide that you really are going to need surgery. So you better hurry up and decide if you are going to have more children. And if another child is in the offing, I would recommend that you start trying in about two months.”

No, you wouldn’t be wrong to scream (along with me) WTF?!

But the Mister has always been geeked for three kids and is now campaigning hard for the next installment. He is, of course, less interested in adopting.

But me? I am not so sure.

Is three really the new two?

Should I drink the Kool Aid?

Note to Self

Today is my birthday.

To commemorate this day and my various accomplishments over the past few years (had two babies, became an insomniac, ended a long career, gave up a monthly paycheck, moved out of the city and an apartment that I loved, got married, became seriously unemployed, moved to the other side of the world, started eating my way through Asia, acquired a golf cart, lost all my friends, was late for an important deadline, and took up blogging) I am going to eat a pint of Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream and leave you with these immortal words:

"I'm not perfect, I'm not an angel, but I try to live a certain way because it brings honour and respect to my mother. I tell people that when they look at me, they're looking at nothing but a big, overgrown, tough mama's boy. That's who I am."

The Sound of One Hand Clapping

Blogging. Never thought I would do it and I am not sure why I am doing it now.
--An exercise in narcissism?
--A distraction from real world issues?
--A form of writing while avoiding my “real” writing?

All of the above.

The past few nights, Hub and I have been watching season one of the show Californication. I know, not new in the United States but new to us folks here in Hong Kong, thanks to our local DVD Rental Store. Anyway, I think that Hub not so secretly longs to be like the main character: the sex saturated clumsy but likeable looser, Hank Moody played by David Duchovny. Through the show, Hub is reliving his pre-wife and children days. Actually, ”living” is the more appropriate word as Hub is hardly a one-nightstand sort of man.

Anyway, he likes the show. The writing is solid but the story line screams of a smart fifteen-year-old boy fantasy trapped in fifty-year-old man body. The verdict is still out for me. But one thing that stuck in my mind is when Hank the struggling novelist turned Hollywood writer whore and fellow blogger said that, “Nobody writes anymore, they just blog.”

So true.

I recently stumbled my way through a ton of blogs about every subject under the sun. I can’t decide if the scariest blogs are by the right-wing demagogues, the porn sites fronting as blogs or the blogs by fashionista teenage girls which display photos of their latest shopping sprees (a different sort of porn).

But what I learned as found my way out of the black hole of the blogosphere is that blogs are like books.

Hardly anybody reads them.