Stop and smell the turquoise

Instead of racing home after a quick Saturday morning at the office, Shawn and I decided to get out of the box, take time to stop and smell the roses, live it up, add to the dash.

We strolled through the really fabulous Downtown Scottsdale Farmer's market - the produce, the bread, the jars of pickled stuff and the tamales - it all looked so good. Got us hungry. We kept walking past the jewelry and t-shirts and cowboy hats, passing tourists marveling about how green the palo verde trees are. Gorgeous day. Snuck into the amazing, delicious, cozy, funky, funky, funky Orange Table restaurant for some brunch.

I Do or Do I?

Am I sane because I'm happily married or am I happily married because I'm sane?

Rock Star

It took me a week, but it finally happened.

When I walked out of the Michael Jackson movie This Is It last week, I was inspired. Yeah, I was sad that he died, sad that I never got to see him in concert and sad that all of us fans led him to such craziness. But most of all, I loved the clothes. Michael looked so hip and all of the people around him at the rehearsals looked good, too. Not a boring outfit in sight. So I started a personal little mission to beef it up, no more dull, wear at least one thing every day that Michael would like. I fell in love with his Ed Hardy pants, black, cool designs and writing down the sides and told Shana on the way to the parking lot after the show that I wanted to get some of those. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. Shopping the next day, Black Friday, we ran into Marshall's and got spilt up. Suddenly Shana appeared in front of me holding the exact same Ed Hardy pants. She was cracking up as I bought them ($29.99!!!). The past week has involved a black velvet jacket, funky t-shirts, even a new one with gold grommets, lots of long lost scarves, high boots, dangly earrings, a bit more eyeliner than usual and I even dug out a zebra print purse that looked so cute when I bought it, but I have never had the guts to actually use. The compliments have been abundant. But, today. Today was the ultimate. Usually locked away in my office, this morning I was playing Nurse Lisa  when I put a sick mommy and her teen-aged daughter in an exam room to wait. I could tell that the girl gave me the once-over with my jeans, boots and red jacket, chunky jewelry and big, big shiny hair leftover from last night's way overdue cut, color and highlights extravaganza. Shawn went in and did his thing and must have mentioned the whole wifey issue, because as the two were leaving, the mom smiled, nodded toward her daughter and said, "She thinks you look too much like a rock star to be married to him."

Ha! Shawn's usually the Rock Star around this place. Well, not today.

Thanks MJ.

The Marinara Sauce Story

The following is a true story. Totally gross, but true.

Years ago when Shawn was in the Navy, I went to Israel with a few other Navy wives to see our sailors while their ship was in port. One of the other ladies, Mrs. Love (can't remember her first name) told me a story on the trip across the Atlantic. She had some kind of family tradition involving that "time of the month" and marinara sauce - and how by feeding your new husband some, you know, would bond him to you forever. I wanted to throw up. I thought she was kidding. Later on at our new local hangout in Haifa, The Milky Pinky, sitting on the patio, eating ice cream, she brought up the story in front of all the guys. Mr. Love was overcome with happiness, glowing at his new bride and her adorable ways, thinking about that spaghetti night back home.

Somehow it all came back to me when Shawn told me that Shana called about a funny new product called the Diva Cup (I hang out with a bunch of Divas, so she thought I needed to know about it).

divacup

I have no idea how it works, but it's an alternative to tampons and pads. Shawn asked her, "What are you supposed to do with what's in the cup? Make marinara sauce?"

I feel like tracking down Mrs. Love...

Politics as usual

For eight years I read every left-leaning political book I could get my hands on just to keep from going crazy (it probably made it harder, though). I was like the opposite of a tea bagger. Or a birther. I was one of those bleeding heart liberals that actually thought Al Gore won in 2000 and then that Kerry pulled it off in 2004 (I even read books and articles with proof, you know, science, science that explained step-by-step how I was right). The Iraq war seemed like a pretty stupid idea to me and sucking dry the biggest surplus in our history, ditto. I thought that maybe somebody should be punished for 9/11 and watching from my job in health care the profits of the drug and insurance companies balloon while our patients suffered seemed a bit backwards. So I kept reading. But when Obama won a year ago I took a little break. I took a deep breath. I started reading some other things, novels, some fiction, and well, okay, Obama's two books, where the politics, at least, was wrapped in pretty bows. But yesterday I returned to my old ways and picked up the new book about the campaign. It is great so far, makes you realize what an incredible feat it really was, how all of the odds were stacked against him and that how, when surrounded by some extremely talented (and lucky) people, almost anything is possible. Then today, Mr. Perfect President came out from behind my rose-colored glasses and said war, war, war. He sounded like W.

Even Karl Rove cheered.

Oh God

There is a God and her name is Mary. Mary the yogi. I left the massive full moon and the palm trees and the purple mountain majesty behind and met all my yoga peeps in the sanctuary tonight. The candles glowing in the dark room, the Asian/Indiany music, the soft words telling us how wonderful we are and that we are all exactly where we need to be, that we have enough, we give enough, we are enough would make anybody a true believer. Then Mary, who is always giving, giving, giving, gave some more. She passed out our holiday gifts (do you get gifts from your yoga teacher? I think not), raffia-wrapped, lavender scented eye pillows for our "orbits" that I planted right on my face for our last pose. Intoxicating.

Movie Madness - The Blind Side

Great feel-good true story with a happy ending. Lots of lessons about what it means to be a family, race, expectations, community. Sandra Bullock is incredible.

25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee

Oh. My. God. Hilarious play about a spelling bee (and life in general) - and the Rated R version had the whole place in tears!

Phoenix Theatre

Help

I'm last on the list. Number 262 out of 262 at the library holding for my December book club book, The Help. I'll never make it in time. I usually don't have any trouble getting my way, sitting at my computer with my new selection of books ready to get typed in, then a day or two later I'll get an email telling me to head over to the drive-thru down the street and pick up. It's great. See, I don't buy books anymore. It started way back when I realized that it would make a lot of sense to put all of my book budget toward my student loans and these days it's for other reasons - I don't have room, I rarely read a book twice (there are too many other ones out there) and while I've heard that it grosses some people out to read a book so many others have touched, taken to bed, taken to the bathroom, carried around in purses, I like it. It's used, it's shared. Germs can't live that long anyways. Right? So I mentioned my dilemma to a friend who just so happened to have a brand new copy, fresh from the Amazon box that there's no way she could read this week anyway. So I borrowed it. It was pristine. I was the first one ever to open it. It made me nervous. I tried to be careful (the last book I borrowed got left on a plane, sorry Laurel). But the very first night I noticed a little tear in the book cover on the back. Did I do that? I took the thing off and put a small piece of tape on the inside, then carefully put the jacket away in a cupboard, safe from any more harm while I read some more. I read fast, wanting to get it back to my friend ASAP, plus it was just a really good, hard-to-put-down book. It's about a town in Mississippi, race, prejudice, friendship, history, great language and accents. I kept going, speed-reading, but thinking about the fact that I don't own this book, putting it down gently, consciously taking care of it, focusing. Then came the soy sauce. I must have let my guard down hurrying through the last half, because on page 363, it happened. A splash of soy. I tried to clean it up, but it just made it worse. I quit reading and left it open so it could dry. The next day I finished the book, dropped it off at Nancy's and picked up the other book I had been reading, Lit.

Totally different book. A memoir - growing up in the dusty slums of Texas with alcoholics, desperate to be a writer, a poet. Marrying into a wealthy, cold family and moving to Boston, where the alcoholism catches up to her. Incredible, jaw-dropping writing. Where does she find those words? She's just now coming out of her darkest part and I can't wait to finish it. It's a new book, so I can't renew it. Since it sat alone while I raced through The Help, I'm behind. The thing is due today. God, the pressure.

Bloomies Black Friday

Call me crazy, but one Black Friday I found myself in the biggest store in the world in one of the biggest cities in the world - Bloomingdales, New York City. The place was wall-to-wall people, a sea of faces sticking out of coats and hats and scarves, trying to get a jump on their holiday shopping in a never-ending display of slashed prices and jingle bells. We were herded through the departments, occasionally elbowing our way out of the path into a must-have display. Total madness. I didn't get it. I've never been one of those organized, list-in-hand, sitting outside Toys 'R Us at 5 am the day after Thanksgiving early shoppers. I'm more of a December 21st-ish, click here now, free shipping and we guarantee Christmas delivery kind of girl. But back at Bloomies three year old Shana announced that she had to pee. After seeing the lines in two mobbed bathrooms (after waiting, waiting, waiting for the elevators), we stayed put in the third, hoping for the best. But the poor kid just couldn't hold it any longer. Suddenly everybody got nice and we were pushed to the front of the long line where I ducked into the next open stall and stripped down my little elf, rolled up her wet things and wrapped her adorable naked little butt into my coat. We headed back out into the crowds and found a brand new Bloomingdales Black Friday outfit.

At least it was on sale.