The Problem with Happiness

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon your perspective, I have been very content lately. Fortunately because of course content is a preferable state to discontent. Unfortunately because some of my best writing comes from a deep spot of annoyance inside me, which I think is located approximately where my appendix used to be.

Today’s blog will be a simplistic exercise in nothingness, unless I become irritated in the next few minutes. First, I’d like to describe my recent trip to Scottsdale with Tom to celebrate my birthday.  In a word: it was perfect.

That’s three words. Oh well.

Not only did we get some very valuable time alone together, we also had the pleasure of golfing with his youngest son and having dinner with him that evening. The next day he brought his lovely young girlfriend to the pool and we all had a great time, even if they had to sit with us which I am sure was embarrassing.

Speaking of the pool, I took a fun photograph during an invasion of locals onto the resort grounds. It seems that the two women in the photograph below felt that they should be allowed to use the resort facilities, along with their 6 children, simply because they knew someone having a facial at the spa.

Ordinarily, I have to assume that if you are going to crash a resort and steal services in the form of using their pool, you would have the presence of mind to hunker down, mind your own business, and be quiet, as well as obeying the usual social norms of non-obnoxiousness that we all try to follow from time to time (with the exception of the Divorce Lawyer Who shall not be Named, of course).

Instead, this crew came in with their garbage bags filled with clothes, yelling at each other and the staff, and in a remarkable show of class changed the baby’s diaper and threw the dirty one on the ground. Lest you think I am making this up, please look at the photo closely. See?

After they screamed at the waiter because the hotel did not serve banana milkshakes (and neither of these “ladies” needed a milkshake of any variety, let me tell you), I couldn’t take it anymore. I carefully ambled over to the staff member who had been verbally assaulted, and asked if they were guests at the hotel. Apparently they were not, and she had already radioed her manager for help. That’s the guy you see in the picture, squatting down in front of the squatters and giving them the bad news that knowing someone in the spa did not a hotel guest make, and therefore, they needed to skedaddle.

As a lawyer, one of my favorite things is to listen to people of questionable intelligence announce that they are going to sue someone for making them mad. The blonde (er, sort of) woman in the chaise on the left was furious, and screaming that she was going to call her lawyer that day and “sue the fuck out of this dump!” It took quite a while for these charming ladies to locate their numerous offspring and depart, but in doing so I learned a lot about some people. For example, you are wrong if you think you have a legal right to trespass upon someone else’s property and sun yourself. In addition, telling a hotel employee that they are “worthless” and a “shitheel” is not likely to inure you to good service in the future, should you actually ever pony up the money to enjoy the place.

Below is a photo of the onsite gym, which was one of the best I had ever encountered at any resort.

We made it there every single day and pushed ourselves hard, which made me feel OK about ordering the Breakfast of Champions on my birthday.

There were some really interesting features at the hotel, one of my favorite of which was the Koi pond. At feeding time, these creatures would practically jump out of the water to take the food out of your hand. It was very cool. Also, they look delicious.

In addition, for some reason this sign gave me a good laugh.

It’s just rather graphic, don’t you think? Couldn’t you just say “no diving?” What’s with the illustration of what could happen if you don’t follow the initial instructions? When we see a stop sign on the street, that seems to suffice – there is no illustration of the gruesome scene that could ensue if you fail to stop and are t-boned by a blonde gas-guzzling SUV driver, who was probably putting on makeup at the time she was running late to do absolutely nothing.


Last but not least, I was horrified at the airport coming home to see these two gentlemen carrying around a box with what I’m sure we can all agree is a very divisive and emotion-invoking symbol: the swastika.

The larger man on the right is apparently is a Buddhist Monk (did you know they fly first class? This one did, anyway). I’m not sure what the other guy’s job description is but he was flying in what would be considered more traditional non-monk-like garb. As they wheeled the box through the airport, people turned and stared and I was pretty upset.

“Hey Tom,” I whispered, “What do you think about me going up to that guy and telling him my grandmother died at Auschwitz, and that I find his brandishing of the Nazi symbol horribly offensive?”

He just blinked at me and looked confused. “Why would you do that?”

“Don’t you ever want to stand up for something, and at the same time, pretend that you are totally someone else?” I asked, upset that he couldn’t understand my desire to misrepresent my heritage and begin an altercation with a religious figurehead at an airport.

“I stand up for things, but only when I’m being paid by my clients,” he laughed, and then added, “and why would I want to pretend I am anyone else? I am your husband – duh.”

Altogether now, awwwwww!

I kept my mouth shut and later found out that the original version of the swastika (the counter-clockwise version shown here) still has very deep positive meanings in many societies, including in the Buddhist religion. You’d think the fact the Nazis co-opted the swastika and (after turning it clockwise) made it into such a powerful symbol of hatred, death and injustice, it would be abandoned by others. Apparently not.

Thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday.  The rest of you can all go to hell.

Pagan/Piggin

Yesterday was an interesting day. Someone, upon reading my Easter blog, was upset and labeled it “sacrilegious.” I think sacrilegious is akin to blasphemous, which means having a gross irreverence towards those things or people that are held sacred.

I wasn’t really raised in a religious house, although we did go to church on Easter (sometimes) and Christmas Eve (again, sometimes), so my attitude towards and belief of God was not drilled into me from a young age (insert obvious tasteless joke about Catholic priests and child molestation here). This has left me as an adult struggling to find where I stand on the whole “big guy in the sky with a flowing beard” issue.

"I'm telling you for the last time, Sarah Palin is not MY FAULT!"














I sincerely apologize to anyone who may have been offended by my Easter/Schmeaster posting, but I have had a bit of an issue with organized religion and its many fables for years. Frankly, whether or not there is a supreme being is beyond my pay grade: I simply have no idea. But I do know this – if there is a God, I don’t think he (or more likely, she) is reading my blog and putting me on his or her shit list, planning on keeping me out of heaven or even worse, making me clean the toilets once I get there.

Even if there is a God, how am I supposed to know which religion I am supposed to embrace? There are countless varieties of organized worship around the world, many of which hold diametrically opposing views. So, by nature, my religion’s views might think that your religion’s views suck. That’s sacrilege, right? If I have irreverence towards what is important to you (and you towards what is important to me), I have crossed the line into a dangerous area called “blasphemy” which is a harsh sounding word that connotes very bad punishment if you are found to be doing it. Blasphemizing, I mean. Again, no, that is not a word, but this is my blog and if I want to invent new words I can do so.

Assuming we have a Creator above and beyond random physics and luck, I have got to assume that the Creator knew what they were doing when they gave humans the ability to question, reason, cook, and be funny. I think the Creator, if reading my blog, would be glad to see that I am having trouble making sense of the whole “Christ came back from the dead after three days” story.

It is interesting to me that so many of us become so upset when our chosen religion is questioned, challenged, or mocked. Mocking seems to get religious people up in arms the most. The Pope made some sort of off-hand statement last year that Islam was a religion of violence, and after some initial furor the controversy died down.

However, the Danish cartoonists who dared mock Mohammad in 2005 with their clever/evil pens are still subject to a Fatwa and continuing death threats. That’s right: some people are so fanatical about their religion that they think you should die if you try to make a funny about it. Hmmm. That just doesn’t seem very nice to me. I thought deity worship was supposed to make us nicer to each other. It certainly hasn’t worked that way for Fred Phelps. Mr. Phelps is the lovely “God hates fags” guy who protests homosexuality by picketing the funerals of soldiers with signs that say “God loves dead soldiers.”

I’d love to be even more profound, but I have to pack for my birthday trip, which brings me to my last point as I sit and ponder where my bathing suit is: a friend of mine emailed me yesterday very happy that she and her husband had lost a significant amount of weight on a new diet. The diet consists of eating 500 calories a day, so I don’t find the fact that they have lost a lot of weight surprising. I do, however, find it amazing they haven’t killed each other or eaten their children, because that’s what I would do if someone only gave me 500 calories a day. 500 calories just gets me through happy hour, frankly.

Anyway, my friend suggested this diet to me and my first reaction was to have very hurt feelings. After all, you wouldn’t suggest a diet to a thin person, right? That would be akin to offering Rogaine to Rod Blagojevich.  Madeleine says I am being too sensitive, which is weird, because I never take things personally!

Easter, Schmeaster

Happy Easter to my tens of thousands of loyal readers. This morning I celebrated the holiday by strapping on my new running shoes and heading out with the pup.  After about five miles, we ended up here:

This is a very very steep set of stairs that leads up to Portland Heights.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

So she got a ride...

View from the top.  Phew.  Now I just need to get back home.











Easter is a very important holiday to me, both because I am fascinated with the whole Jesus/crucifixion/resurrection story and also because I have an unusual fondness for hard boiled eggs.


On Good Friday (and when is a Friday not good, I ask you) I sat with my girls E and M and we all tried to hash out the Easter timeline. Before you assume I have formed some sort of bible study group, please note that this conversation took place in a nail salon before happy hour. Everyone should get a mani-pedi to celebrate Christ, don't you think?

M is the only Catholic in our group, and E follows a religion that worships Chardonnay on the cross and a pack of Marlboro Lights on the altar. I know this because I recruited her to my church, you see.  I'm a deacon. 

Anyway, with M being the only one amongst us who knows anything about this holiday, we peppered her with questions:

E: "Why don't you have the ash thing on your forehead?"

M: "Um, because we do that on Ash Wednesday and today is Good Friday."

E: "Oh! So today was the Last Supper, and it was really yummy, so that's why they call it Good Friday?"

M: "Noooo, the last Supper was the night before the Crucifixion, which was on Friday.  That's why it's called Good Friday."

Me: "Ok, I am confused. First of all, that doesn't sound like a very Good Friday to me. I've had some bad dates and bad mushrooms on Fridays past, but nobody ever nailed me to a cross and made me stay up there until I died. What's up with calling it Good Friday? Should be Really Shitty Friday if you asked me."

M: "Oh, well, you see..."

Me: "And another thing, how long did it take for him to die up there? I assume they came for him sometime in the morning, right? I doubt the Romans got up especially early to pick up JC for his appointment with the more nasty side of government. Those Romans were a wild and crazy bunch - they probably had an orgy the night before that went late.

So say they arrive around 9 a.m., do the whole 'banging on the door, get yer ass out here Jesus schtick,' take him to Golgotha (which is NOT located in a central part of town plus during rush hour this probably took at least 45 minutes to an hour), and hoist his petard up there. I'm sure the nails in the hands and feet sped things along, but wouldn't it take him a while to die up there?"

Chow: "It took ten hours."

We all looked down.  Chow was one of our nail "technicians" and I had no idea she had been listening to our conversation. I wasn't even sure she spoke English, but she rubs a mean foot and paints a pretty toe, and as long as she doesn't try to do a French manicure on me (these are forbidden by Tom), we get along famously.

Me: "Ok, Chow, thanks. So as far as I can tell, the earliest he may have finally expired is what, between 10-11 p.m? Assuming there was very little traffic on the road that night, his buddies MIGHT have been able to slot him in the cave by midnight.  Maybe."

At this point M looks disturbed, E is laughing, and Chow is fingering her cuticle cutter a bit too deliberately.  I think I may have offended her, which concerns me, because I truly make it a habit to never offend anyone, especially with something I have said.  It's my best quality!

Me: "My point is, ladies, if he died late Friday night and he came out some time Sunday, how is that three days? It's really more like a day and a half."

Chow and M chimed in simultaneously: "He rose on the 3rd day, not after 3 days."

I was perplexed. "The third day of what? The third day of this incredibly bad weekend that started with the woefully misnomered "good Friday?" 

[By the way, those of you who are wondering if "misnomered" is a word: me too.  I wondered too.  But then I realized that this is my damn blog and I can create my own vocabularity (rare words) if I want to.  Remember "Schadenfreconomics?"  Enough said.]

Later we treked up to my house and continued the discussion with the aid of communion wine. It was a very enlightening afternoon and one which I would never forget had I not done so already.

Last thoughts for the day as I wait for my potato dauphinoise to finish and we head out to see Tom's family for easter dinner:
I have enjoyed all the press coverage lately regarding Belloti's 2.3 million dollar handshake deal to get money rained upon him when he decided to move along to the next best thing, also known as a cushy gig at ESPN.  Or maybe it wasn't working out for the University, and they wanted him gone.  Maybe, as is usually the case, it was a mutual decision and neither party was to blame, or at the least they could shoulder the burden of blame equally.

Regardless, Belotti made a lot of money while employed by University of Oregon.  He was handsomely compensated for his work and this deal stinks.  It stinks to high heaven, up there where Jesus hangs with his dad and the Ghost Dude. Why would you consider paying someone for years AFTER you were no longer connected to them? It's crazy, right? Shouldn't Belloti have to sink or swim on his own, now that the relationship has been severed? He doesn't even have to work anymore, what with this cash bath the college is giving him. He could just sit on his rear the rest of his life collecting his monthly checks. Or at least for the next six years, anyway.

Come to think of it, this sort of thing happens every day...

Are we there yet, and how do we know?

As W.C. Fields once wisely noted, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There’s no use being a damn fool about it.” (W.C. Fields also once said “Ah, the patter of little feet around the house. There's nothing like having a midget for a butler.” But I am digressing.)

This day I find myself struggling with the definition of “success” in a recent endeavor of mine. What do you do when you are receiving directly contradictory indicators of progress – which data do you believe?

As the thousand of my readers know, one reason I began “this blog thing” at the end of last year was because I wanted to hold my very large feet to the fire in terms of accountability for my new “health plan,” also known as the “losing a bunch of weight before we embark on Vegas for my baby-daddy’s wedding so I can wear a really sexy dress and also not be embarrassed by the pool in my bathing suit” plan. Of course, the diet blog quickly devolved into a cooking blog, and after that, a general sort of ranting space. Sorry about that.

However, despite the fact that I don’t write about it very often, I have continued my efforts to slim down, and in fact I have begun to notice that my clothes are really getting big. I also see that I was not actually born with two chins, as one of them has recently disappeared. Finally, several people have remarked on my new appearance, and I am not just talking about Tom who has to compliment me three times daily or he doesn’t get a cookie.

And yet, I haven’t lost that much weight, pound-wise. That has been driving me crazy. My conscious decision was to only step on the scale once per week, so that I didn’t get more wacky about it than I should. Two pounds per week, I estimated, would be a good weight loss rate. Given that goal, by now I should have lost around 25 pounds. I haven’t. Therefore, success/progress indicator #1 tells me what I am doing isn’t working.

But wait! How to explain the loose clothes, the reduction by half of chin inventory, the warm words of encouragement from my secretary, the butcher, and my ex-husband (“you look better than you used to, good for you!”)? I know something is happening to my body, but the pounds lost on the scale don’t seem to capture the degree of change I have seen.

Therefore, I made an appointment to be measured by a charming little device called “The Bod Pod.”

"I am so very happy to be here!"














The Bod Pod looks like a giant navy bean that happens to have a window. Most navy beans don’t have windows, so that is somewhat unsettling. It works in a very complicated way which you wouldn’t understand unless you are at the right end of the intelligence spectrum (see earlier blog re: worst date ever http://postdarwinianhubris.blogspot.com/2010/01/great-first-date-profoundly-bad-third.html, but needless to say, it is supposed to be the most accurate measurement of body composition out there.

So this morning I kissed my husband and son farewell and headed to the gym for the Moment of Truth. The man administering the test was very nice but annoyingly fit. His muscles had muscles, and he looked like the kind of guy that bikes everywhere, even on vacation. By that I don't mean he goes on vacation and gets on a bike when he gets there, I mean he picks a location and sets out on his Schwinn to get there.

After I sat in the giant bean for the test, he quizzed me as I put my shoes back on (no shoes in the Bod Pod! Ever!).

“So, what do you think your number is?” he asked.

“I don’t know, 50%,” I laughed, wanting him to know that I know that I am not as hot as he is and also showcasing my hilarious rapier wit in a self-deprecating fashion.

“Come on, really,” he said, “you look very fit.”  I think he said "fit."  He may have said "fat." 

Well, as it turns out I am 23% body fat as of today. For women and giraffes, that’s a pretty decent number. My ultimate goal is 19% by the middle of summer, but I am feeling pretty happy about where I am. The only reason I am even publishing this here is because I have scheduled another Bod Pod appointment for May 7, right before the Vegas debacle. I hope that by posting today's results on my blog, and by promising additional data on a specified date in the future, I will be motivated to continue making progress. Fear of looking like an idiot who can’t follow through is a wonderful motivator, after all!

This is what 23% looks like on me.  On my Vespa.  With my kid.













Coming back to my original question: how do we measure progress? My weight in and of itself would not impress anyone as being low by any means, but my body fat percentage and the fact that all my clothes are too big indicate that I am moving towards achieving my goal, albeit somewhat slowly.

This seemingly incongruent set of data has taught me a valuable lesson today. There are many traditional indicators of success: when gauging someone’s career achievements, for example, we may look at their salary, level within a company, and whether or not they have a wide degree of visibility in their industry. But the truth is, unless they are happy with the person they have to gaze at every morning in the mirror, all of that other stuff doesn’t really matter.

The same goes for weight, obviously, as many of us are hung up on a certain number that we envision as our ideal weight. The fact is I am never going to weigh 125 pounds – not without a good deal of cancer running amok in my body or the loss of at least one major limb. I am throwing away the scale and focusing on what I see in the mirror and that, my friends, will get me where I want to be.

Where do you want to be, and how are you tallying your progress in life?

Deep questions from a super-duper deep woman,

Robin

PS: Margot's first look at horses from our trip to Gearhart with the Pinkertons.  She measures success by how many times she gets love and affection in a day.  Sounds like a pretty decent achievement barometer, if you think about it...

Schadenfreude Love Song

As Homer Simpson once said, “Those Germans have a word for everything.” Today I find myself pondering the word “Schadenfreude,” which does not really have an English counterpart. Schadenfreude (it is always capitalized when used in German) can be defined as the “malicious satisfaction in the misfortunes of others.”

By the way, the transposed variant "Freudenschade" was apparently created to mean sadness one feels at another's success, although there is no such word in German. In America we would just call Freudenschade what Fox news felt collectively when Barack “Hussein” Obama was elected.

The dictionary explains Schadenfreude with a quote from historian Peter Gay, who felt Schadenfreude as a Jewish child in Nazi-era Berlin as he watched the Germans lose coveted gold medals in the 1936 Olympics.  When reflecting on those feelings he experienced as the Germans suffered humiliating losses, Mr. Gay quite correctly and honestly observed that Schadenfreude “can be one of the great joys of life.”

Who can blame Mr. Gay for celebrating in losses suffered by such a vile and ferocious oppressor? The Nazis were really, really mean. As a Jewish child in Nazi Germany, Mr. Gay probably had good reason to wish a painful and drawn-out death on anyone associated with the German regime, so taking pleasure in the government’s embarrassment over simple athletic competition is not only to be expected, but shows a certain amount of restraint.

That being said, if you ask a group of people if they have ever experienced Schadenfreude, I would bet that many of them would deny it. What a petty and ugly emotion to admit to, right? It makes one look small and mean and a little bit unbalanced. And so I come to you now with a confession – a horrible admission about myself that I am writing down only because I know almost nobody reads my blog:

I have Schadenfreude. I have it BIGTIME. If it were a medical condition I would be hospitalized right now and probably being read my last rites.

Oh, they don’t read last rites to atheists? Damn.

Anyway, there is someone in this country who is a very, very VERY bad person. This person (hereinafter referred to as BDL) has spent many years making a fortune off the misfortune of others (new term: Schadenfreconomics).  BDL goes to great lengths to be as malicious, nasty and disagreeable as possible to anyone considered to be on the other side of an issue. BDL is the type of person who sees a fly buzzing around in your house and goes after it with a chainsaw. By the time BDL is done, the fly may be gone and it may not be, but everything in your home is destroyed and needs to be replaced. Unfortunately, you can’t afford to replace these things because BDL charged you $200,000 to trash your Asian-inspired furniture and family photos in the process of going after the fly. You never asked BDL to kill the fly, perhaps you just mentioned it was annoying and you’d like to figure out a way to get it out of the house. Now the place is a mess and you’ve got a big bill to pay.

Note that I wrote “your” home and not BDL’s, because our friend would never do anything contrary to his or her own benefit. BDL’s house is quite large, beautiful, and not at all trashed.

Back to Schadenfreude: it has recently come to light that BDL is going through some very tough times right now. Very serious times, in fact, and if I imagine myself in the same situation, I am overcome with fear and dread and all sorts of bad feelings that could possibly lead to a panic attack. But I am not facing that scenario – BDL is. And as my shrink would surely ask me if I had the presence of mind to get the counseling I so clearly need: “how does that make you feel?”

The ugly, small, petty rotten truth is: happy.

There.

I admit it.

It makes me happy that someone who has for decades delighted in creating misery for others is now miserable.  This is something different from the merely observational sin of Schadenfreude which goes even further to include creating the misery itself and then delighting in it.  For this offense we will hereby coin the term “SadoSchadenfreude,” all rights reserved thank you very much.

BDL is not only a SadoSchadenfreudian (SadoSchadenfreudist?), but also one who along with Glenn Beck practices Morose Delectation on a regular basis, which is the habit of dwelling with enjoyment on evil thoughts. It troubles me that I share any characteristic with BDL besides the fact that we are both (allegedly) carbon-based life forms, but apparently I do. I’d like to be more like a Buddhist experiencing “Mudita,” which is the opposite of Schadenfreude and means celebrating in the happiness of another. On second thought, I do that – a lot. So I guess I’ve got my darkness and light, my yin and my yang, my devil on the shoulder/angel on the shoulder just like a lot of other people.

The Book of Proverbs mentions an emotion similar to that now described by the word Schadenfreude: "Rejoice not when thine enemy falleth, and let not thine heart be glad when he stumbleth: Lest the LORD see it, and it displease him, and he turn away his wrath from him." (Proverbs 24:17–18, King James Version).

So I guess if I asked myself WWJOAOCFTMF (What Would Jesus Or Any Other Christian For That Matter Feel?) at worst perhaps I could just feel some sort of benign ambivalence when I hear that someone really awful is suffering. And so I add yet another goal for myself for 2010: do not delight in the misfortune of another just because they may be a monumental and unmitigated asshole.

Readers (both of you!), I would be so grateful for your comments if you would like to share any of your experiences with Schadenfreude, which really should be included in the list of emotions along with sadness, joy, anger, need for compliments on new jeans, etc.

Confessionally yours,

RD

Appearances can be deceiving

I have to admit that from time to time, meaning every day, I stop by various gossip websites and check in on the lives of the rich and famous celebrities who enjoy either an elevated status in America or a degree of infamy. The past few days have provided me with an extraordinary amount of insight into just how screwed up this world is. For example:


Kirstie Alley, a rabid Scientologist who has achieved the ultimate status of “clear” (she can control things with her mind and she is generally superior to everyone else except my dog) has launched a weight-loss program, despite the fact that it appears from recent photographs and interviews that she lacks the, er, credentials to give weight loss advice.

She is getting an enormous (wink, wink) amount of press this week as she promotes her weight loss “elixir,” which is basically some vitamins, a website, and a weight tracker. Genius. The word on the street (10th and Salmon, to be specific) is that the company is a front for Scientology and that profits will be split between Ms. Alley and the cult, I mean, church.

Here’s the thing: according to Scientology, a person who reaches the high levels within the church that Kirstie Alley has reached (“Clear” and above) “has achieved the extremely high state of being able to be at cause knowingly and at will over mental matter, energy, space and time as regards the first Dynamic (survival as self)." To put it less ambiguously, because like everything else ever written by L. Ron Hubbard that was written really badly, a Clear is supposed to be free of the "reactive mind" (similar to Freud's "unconscious mind"), and is theoretically responding to stimuli only by conscious control.

Don’t get me wrong, that all sounds great, really wonderful! But if that is true, why can’t Kirstie put down the burrito and jog around the block a few times? A Clear is supposedly capable of moving inanimate objects with the power of their brain alone…so why can’t they move their body away from the table?

In the interests of full disclosure, I should note that I find it profoundly unfair that simply because she was on a hit television show last century, this woman who has gained and lost the same 90 pounds about twelve times should be in a position to make money off that fact. I have recently dropped 13 pounds by working my tail off in the gym and monitoring my food intake carefully. Where’s my book deal? Where’s my reality show? Why can’t I go on Oprah? I think Oprah would like me, and then we’d go out to lunch and become friends and she’d introduce me to her best friend Gayle who is TOTALLY NOT her lesbian lover and then she’d give me some of her money and I wouldn’t have to blog for cash anymore.

Oh wait, I don’t make money here. Nevermind.

OK, the other story that REALLY irked me was the GQ interview of Rielle Hunter, Johnny Edward’s mistress and baby-momma who took her pants off for a photo shoot and was subsequently infuriated when the magazine printed the photos. Because she thought they were head shots. No, really. Behold:

I especially like the really sexy pose with Kermit and Dora (watch our Kermit, Miss Piggy is going to be pissed!). I wonder what was going on in the photographer’s mind at the time. Who was the intended audience for these photos? I don’t want to sound reactionary and un-arty-like, but it seems to me that these photos might appeal to a pedophile who doesn’t want to get caught looking at actual child pornography. In a way, posing this fame-hungry DPPNF (democrat potential presidential nominee fucker) seductively with children’s toys is prurient. At the very least, it’s just bad photography, which anyone can tell you is abhorrent. Since I forced you to look at those hideous shots, I will attempt to reverse the damage to your eyeballs by presenting you with this:

This is of course Tom and Margot, the day we brought her home to complete our family of four kids, one ex-husband, one future fiancé of one ex-husband, and a tangential relationship with a very large cat named Audrey. Pictures of handsome men and adorable puppies never fail to bring a smile to my face. Tom, if you are reading this, by “handsome men,” I obviously mean “handsome men to whom I am (currently) married.”

I digress. The interview itself reads like a transcript of an overheard conversation in a girl’s high school locker room. Ordinarily I would provide a link to the article, but in this case the content is so toxic and gag-inducing that I cannot be held responsible for any of you clicking through to it from here. However, one thing that really shone through in this piece is the fact that John Edwards and Rielle Hunter are truly meant for each other, so if communicating that was the writer’s intent, I suppose she achieved her goal. Still, that GQ commissioned this trashy interview and these awkward attempted soft-kiddy-porn photos is really disappointing. I’d cancel my subscription if I had one, but I don’t because I am not a gay 25 year old male. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Finally, I was saddened to hear today that Sandra Bullock’s husband has been caught with his hand in the naughty cookie jar, and the actress has pulled out of public appearances and gone underground, which in Hollywood-speak means she is not currently standing in front of a camera talking about herself or her latest project, rehab stint, or the Dalai Lama. The scoundrel, aptly named Jesse James (because he’s a relationship outlaw, get it?), has apparently been “making the beast with two backs” (good one, Shakespeare) while his wife has been out of town filming. Here is a photo of Sandra and her I assume soon-to-be ex-husband at the Oscars:

Don’t they look happy? She is glowing and beaming, looking at him as if he had just given birth to a solid gold baby. And SHE’S the one who won the damned Oscar! They have only been married four years and if the allegations are true, he’s been cheating for at least a year. On her. With this:

What hit me about this story today was the profound disparity that can exist between the projected life and the real one. The average American who has heard about Sandra Bullock, especially in the past few weeks, probably thinks she has a damned near-perfect life. She’s talented, her latest movie is a hit, she won the Oscar, she’s rich, she’s beautiful, blah blah blah. The list of things for which we can all envy Sandy Bullock seems to be infinite. And yet, when you peel back the layers of the onion a bit, she’s got problems just like the rest of us. Big ones.

How many other people are out there, seeming to have it all and at the same time really struggling? How many out there are an active participant in the marketing of their life as one series of wonderful and life-affirming incidents after another? What percentage of us draft our own false narrative and transmit it via our facial expressions, choice of car, club membership, and boasting of our long and happy marriages that resemble nothing more than a false storefront on a movie set?

There are many famous examples illustrating the hypocrisy of perfection: L. Ron Hubbard railed against anti-depressants but died with them in his body; Tiger Woods portrays the loving husband and father for commercial gain but really he’s a manwhore; Ted Haggard preaches against homosexuality even after being found with a penis in his mouth.  Then again, these false portrayals are all around us. Phoniness is overwhelmingly annoying to me, as well as to Holden Caulfield, but I guess it is too much to ask that we all tell the truth. One of my new goals in life is to project an accurate portrayal of who I am and what I am about.


But of course that’s easy for me, because my life is perfect. Can’t you tell?

I'm sorry

Dear Blog (and of course, Dear Readers):

I know I have neglected you.  There are countless numbers of reasons: work, family, "life issues" (also known as discovering more gray hairs and as a result having to schedule additional therapy).  The truth is, while my lack of writing has been a result of all those things and more, that is no excuse.  It is an explanation, but not an excuse.  Therefore, I am here to apologize to you and to promise to make amends. 

In the past month, much has happened that has been exciting and challenging.  My job has taken on additional dimensions and I am having the time of my life, while earning money at the same time.  That just doesn't seem possible, but it's happening, and I for one (well, not really for one, because Tom is also thrilled, probably because he gets more presents now) am really happy about it.  It is hard to describe what a sense of peace that can bring someone - I actually enjoy going to work every day.  Who'da thunk it?

I have also been kicking some major patooty on my health plan (see first blog entry noting blog theme, which I quickly abandoned) and have lost 12 pounds.  Therefore, instead of writing pithy blog entries over the past four weeks, I have been focusing on my appearance and obsessing over the amount of exercise I get (a lot) and the amount of food I eat (not much) which is of course totally shallow and meaningless and ridiculous.

Still, my skinny jeans are loose.  Ha!

This is me.  Really! 

What motivated me to write today was an experience I had with a total stranger that reminded me that we live in a world with really wonderful people in it, despite the existence of That Certain Divorce Lawyer Who Shall Not be Named.  Today we discuss Ruth, who I may also refer to as "Angel Ruth," "Nice Lady," or "She Who Rocks."

Yesterday I was negotiating online (or so I thought!) with two companies to secure a rental home in Las Vegas.  Both companies were willing to come down in their price, this being a really yucky recession and all, but one in particular really let me hammer them down.  Pretty quickly, in fact, I had them accepting about 50% of their regular rental fee.  While Angel Ruth (the woman I negotiated with on the other property) was exceptionally nice and very responsive, she just couldn't match the deal that I got from "David."  I have written "David" in quotes as a subtle form of foreshadowing which you should have picked up on if you have any experience with my writing "style."  No, that wasn't foreshadowing.  Get with the program.

To make a long story even longer, as I was bidding adieu to She Who Rocks and thanking her for her time, she cautioned me to check into the rental I had selected.  She provided me with links to the Secretary of State office in Nevada as well as some helpful hints for verifying that a property is a legitimate rental. 

"Pee shaw!" I laughed.  "Smart girl lawyers like me don't have to worry about being scammed!"  But something was nagging at me, my spidey sense was tingling, and I decided to check it out.  I won't go into the details since they are numerous and lengthy, but "David" was a dreaded Internet Scammer!  He may not have been pushing a Nigerian objective or promising me easy money, but he was almost sucessful in tricking me into sending him a large amount of ducats to rent a house that is not only NOT the house he advertised and not owned by him, but which also basically does not exist.

After I figured out the scam with a little help from my nosey sister Melinda (thanks, sis!) I called Ruth to let her know how much she had helped me.  Unfortunately, I got her voice mail so I just hung up and wrote her an email.  She then passed along my story to her supervisor and we had a great talk on the phone.  I plan to rent their property instead, and to write about my experience so they can warn other would-be travelers.

Anyway, not to sound too negative, but there are some really awful people in this world, and sometimes if you are anything like me, you may feel like you bump into more than your fair share of them.  However, I have got to believe that there are more people like Ruth out there: people who don't need to help others but they do anyway.  So today I salute nice people everywhere, and hope to become more like them every day.  Sometimes it can be a struggle to avoid snark and be gracious, or to go out of your way to do a favor for someone, but the resulting good feelings pay the bill for restraint and inconvenience.

Peace, out.

PS: I promise to write more in the coming weeks and to be exceptionally engaging.  Keep my feet to the fire and show me you are out there reading by contributing comments - please!