Category: Advice

A Day in the Life, Advice

The Purposeful Tourist

the outside lane

I used to really worry about doing things “right”.  That is, I used to worry about doing things in a way that would show me to be urbane and cosmopolitan.  If I read a list of 10 Things NOT to do When in Paris, I would memorize it just in case I found myself in some little cafe there.  I never wanted anyone to think I was a tourist.  This is why I did not wear sneakers to Europe.  Three days in to my tour, I wished I had worn sneakers.  I may not have looked like a tourist, but my toes were bleeding, and that’s gross.

I read this list of things NOT to do in Italy, and one of those things was order coffee after noon.  I saw the same thing on one of Anthony Bourdain’s shows, talking about how only the gross tourists order coffee in the daytime or evening.  Ten years ago, I would have dog-eared this information, along with the proper pasta twirling technique.  At this point in my life I say, and it is best said in a French accent because that makes everything sound snootier, “Fie on your lists.  If I want coffee at 5pm, I will order coffee at 5pm, and if you think I am a gross tourist, you can go hmph yourself.  I’m the one paying you, not the other way around.  You do it my way.”

This is proof positive that I am a nasty American, I suppose.

I also don’t get having to forgo ketchup or steak sauce if you want it, or soy sauce in a sushi restaurant just because the chef thinks his meal is perfect as it is served.  Again, if I am paying for it, I want to eat it the way I like it.  I want my salmon well done.  I want my tuna well done.  I want my A1 on the side of my steak.  If this makes me a Philistine, well, I am happy to wear the robe because it fits.  In fact, give me two robes because I will probably order the wrong wine as well.  Actually, I will probably order a Coca-Cola.  And I want a straw.

It is ridiculous to me to hear of chefs who won’t serve their guests because their guests’ palates aren’t up to the chef’s standards.  It is just as ridiculous to me that some designers won’t cut more generous sizes because, gasp! fat people might want to wear them!

Thor and me being tourists in Manhattan. We’ll take it!

It’s all faux elitism.  “If I don’t follow these silly, arbitrary rules that exclude people who aren’t in on the secret handshake, how will the people who aren’t in on the secret handshake know they are missing anything?  And if the riff-raff don’t know they are missing something, how can I enjoy lording it above them?  Look at this cake you can’t have, you Poor!  Now, have some cake! Hahahaha!  You can’t! Nom nom nom!”

Whatever.  I can cook my own steak, and it tastes just as good.  And I can have my coffee without getting side-eye from twit who thinks there is something wrong with being a tourist.

Tourists rock.

Being Tourists at my favorite tourist trap in the WORLD. Spongeorama. Click this picture to reveal the glory that is the Sponge. Best. Museum. In. The. World.
Advice, Career, Style

The Difference 2″ Can Make

the outside lane

I’ve mentioned before that when I entered the workforce, my idea of the difference between professional dress and professional dress was the difference between where you plied your trade.  That is, my skirts were short, my heels were high, and I caused some ruckus for the HR group.  In fact, I was so oblivious about the hazards of my hemline, that when I was offered a little lap covering in church, I just thought it was sweet that they were giving me a blanket.  When I figured out that it wasn’t about my comfort, but the pastor’s line of vision, well, I was horrified, and my skirts haven’t been that short since.

I also learned a great lesson in kindness from the way those church ladies treated me.  No one tried to make me feel bad about my skirt.  No one even mentioned that it was an issue.  They simply offered me a solution that was comfortable to them, and comforting to me. 

You can’t really do that in a business setting–if your employee is flashing your clients, and your clients aren’t paying specifically for that privilege, you have to nip that in the proverbial bud.  But, you can do it in such a way that your employee walks away with his/her dignity*.

As far as dressing for the office goes, my personal preference is a 2″ Neck to Knees rule.  Nothing that is more than 2″ below the place where your neck meets your torso, and nothing higher than 2″ above the knee.  Nothing so tight that you can’t easily pull it out at least an inch from either side of your body.  See?  No dresses that are longer than 2″ above the ankles, and no trousers that are shorter than that (but DO NOT take my advice regarding trouser length.  That will just get you in trouble!  Ask Amy.) 

An old friend of mine had a theory about buying dresses.  “If you wear a size 6/8, then Work-Cute is a size 8.  Date-Cute is a size 6.  Always go to the larger for work, and tight-tight-tight for the date!”  She had two, identical polka-dot dresses, one in her Work-Cute size 6, and her Date-Cute size 4.  My then-work-cute-size 10 would just sigh and keep puffing alongside her as we jogged through River Legacy park.

It is fortunate that I don’t have any ego attached to how I look when I am working out because when Carrieanne worked out, she just got prettier.  She had this amazing, thick ponytail that swung like a pendulum, and she was a gorgeous tan that just flushed rosy when she was overheating.  This opposed to how I sweat like a swamp rat with my thin hair matting down to my scalp, and how when I get hot my skin turns red enough that observers frequently find it alarming.

You know, when I was a baby, my skin would turn so red when I cried, my mother actually took me to the pediatrician.  I’m telling you, when I get hot/angry/upset/laugh really hard, my skin is…  If it weren’t my own, I would find it fascinating to watch it turn colors.  As it stands, I just know I can’t play poker and that aggravates me.

 

*Ideally, dress code is something that should be covered during the interview process.  That allows a potential employee insight into the work environment, and gives him/her the opportunity to determine whether or not he/she is going to have to completely overhaul the wardrobe to adjust.

Advice, boot camp best, Health, Inside Lane, Philosophy, relationships, Uncategorized

What is Sexy: Part Five and Final

the outside lane

In just a couple of days, on May 22, you’ll see The Outside Lane featured on theNickelodeon Parents Connect Sexy Mama Boot Camp.  Leading up to that, I’d like to introduce you (and any new readers) to some things I think are sexy.

1.  Taking care of yourself is sexy.

The older I get, the more truth I find in the addage, “If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”  And, mama can’t be happy if she is sick, tired, or sad.  I find in my own family that my attitude affects everyone.  Last year, around this time, I felt like I was mired in a mess of myself and tired of making excuses for putting off taking care of Lane.

  • I had not taken time to exercise because I already had working-mother-guilt about leaving Thor in daycare, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him being in someone else’s care for even five minutes more than was absolutely necessary.  This was an excellent excuse to avoid the gym!
  • I had neglected my eating habits because I didn’t have time to shop, prepare, or cook decently.  This was an excellent reason to order pizza!
  • I had completely ignored my emotional self because I was trying to be a soldier.  This was an excellent reason to…uh…blog?

A friend’s divorce (that mirrored my parents’)  pushed me over the edge.  I was reliving the same hurt I had experienced with my parents’ nasty split, and old splinters from that broken heart were working their way into the present.  It jolted me and forced me to really take stock of what I had, and what I needed to have in order to get me through the next fifty years of my life.

Breaking points don’t have to be bad.  You remember Glow Sticks?  The only way to get anything good out of them is to break the capsule inside, release the chemical compound that catalyzes illumination, then shake like crazy.  The potential to glow is in the stick the whole time, but until you crack the hard shell surrounding the hydrogen peroxide and let it out into the phenyl oxalate ester and fluorescent dye (thanks, Bill Nye, Science Guy!), activating the potential, you’ve just got a whole lot of nothing at all.

I think a lot about glow sticks when I’m having a rough patch.  How will I shake up what’s been broken, so that instead of being bitter, I can be brighter?  Sounds corny, doesn’t it?  Rave on!

Last year, I quit making excuses for not taking care of myself. 

I got into therapy, joined Weight Watchers, started working the menus I had through my membership to JulieAnneRhodes.com, and I hit the gym.  I worked on healing my heart, my health, and the circumference of my hips.  I swam laps.  I did yoga.  I substituted apples for Doritos.  I went for long walks with my family.  I changed jobs.  I made changes in relationships.  I learned to say no to other people, and yes to myself without guilt.  And I like to think I am brighter for it.  I know I’m happier.  I know I’m healthier.

Following is a list I can highly recommend for sexy, sexy self-improvement.  Some of it is local to me (in Dallas/Fort Worth), but it’s a starting place of what to look for if you’re outside the area.  Take care of you, Boo.  No one else is going to do it for you, but everyone around you will benefit when you get started.

2the9s, Advice, Explaining the Strange Behavior, Howling Sea Lane, music, parenting

Do You Think I’m Sexy?

the outside lane

You know I can’t resist a challenge, so when Mommyfriend posted about the Nickelodeon ParentsConnect Sexy Mama Month, I had to step up to collect my (hopefully well-earned) badge, and nominate a few ladies whose sexiness is undeniable.  But first, in the interest of feminism and my own temper, let’s talk about sexy.

I was actually thinking about “sexy” this morning: what constitutes it, what it isn’t, why it is such hard word to use.  The latter was the easiest for me to answer.  Our society pushes the Virgin/Whore dichotomy on women from the earliest ages.  It’s adorable to dress your daughter in Prostitot Chic, but even while she’s bouncing her buttons off to Rhianna’s latest ode to getting the booty, she must be sure to blow the most innocent of kisses, lest you focus on her bare midriff and get the wrong idea.  As a society, we can’t decide if we want women to be independently minded regarding their sexuality, or if we want them to conform to patriarchal  ideals of chastity.  To paraphrase Tom Jones (and you should absolutely do this in any situation even remotely apropos) the ideal is someone you’d like to flaunt AND take to dinner.  Or, to quote Nikki Sixx (all my role models are rock stars),  “A woman should be a lady on your arm and whore behind the door.”

Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to attempt to fill all those roles?  And at the right times?  Lord above.  Sexy is a hard word to use because it is a major bitch to fulfill!  Now I won’t win my badge because I cursed.  But according to AskMen.com, men find dirty mouths really sexy, so maybe I’m still in!

What isn’t sexy is a trick question because there is an audience for everything.  Just watch a season of Secret Diary of a Call Girl and you’ll get filled in on folks who fancy sploshing, pony play, toilet bowl licking, and all manner of things you’d need to be either very desperate, or very bored to even imagine in the first place.  Even the star of the show, Billie Piper, is a big question mark.  I know men who find her luscious, and men who find her completely unbelievable as a sex symbol.

What we are told is not sexy is anything that does not conform to the Playboy ideal of big hair, big boobs, and a big Photoshop brush.  If it is obviously over 30 years of age, 130lbs, and/or has hips, throw it back.  We are told that sexy is young, tight, sleek, slightly moist, and ready to say yes to you, and no to everyone else.

What is actually sexy is entirely relative, and is absolutely why I will never try to fight you for your husband.  I find my husband absolutely attractive and very sexy, and I’m so blinded by all things Bryan that no one else even registers–that’s actually true, and possibly embarrassing in its schoolgirl crushiness.  But as Salt-n-Pepa said, “He keeps me on Cloud Nine just like the Temps; He’s not a fake wannabe tryin’ to be a pimp; He dresses like a dapper don, but even in jeans; He’s a God-sent original, the man of my dreams.”*

Sexy is difficult to pin down because it means so many different things to so many different people.  So while some might find the ParentsConnect Sexy Mamas Month icon picture of a thin, mostly naked woman, jumping on a bed sexy, I find the angle of her legs alarming  because that’s not going to be a pretty landing.  I also find it insulting because it insinuates that this is what a “Sexy Mama” looks like.  And while some Sexy Mamas might look like this or better, there are hosts of brilliant and beautiful women who do not find representation here.

But I should get to the question portion of the blog, shouldn’t I?  ParentsConnect asks:

  • What makes you feel sexy?
  • Who’s your sexy mama role model?
  • What’s your best tip to help other moms feel super-confident and sexy?
And The Outside Lane answers:
  1. I feel sexy all damned day long (that’s more dirty talk for the male audience.)  You know why?  Because I feel sexy when I feel powerful, and I feel powerful because of my intelligence, my wit, and my strong legs.  I feel sexy because when I walk, my posture tells you that I am force to be reckoned with, the world is my catwalk, and my theme song is The Imperial March.  When I am strutting across the office, that’s what is playing in my head.  The only times I don’t feel sexy are when I am feeling stupid over a mistake I’ve made, or when I’m bent over the backseat trying to scrub baby vomit out of the floorboard, but even then I’m aware that for some people (like the aforementioned husband) my backside is a major selling point.
  2. My imaginary sexy mama role model is Judy Dench as M in the James Bond series.  She is strong.  She is powerful.  She is a snappy dresser, and she doesn’t have to resort to flirtation to get her way. My reality sexy mama role model is Hilary Clinton.  Our politics differ, but she is strong, she is powerful, she is a snappy dresser, and she doesn’t have to resort to flirtation to get her way.
  3. My best tip to help other mothers feel sexy and confident is this:  Find your strengths and play to them.  Find your weaknesses and make peace with them.  Get yourself a theme song, and then strut because the world is your catwalk, too.
ParentsConnect also wanted to know if there were other Sexy Mamas we wanted to nominate, and why.  Here are a few of mine:
  • Jamie of A Dash of Domestic, who is strong, powerful, a snappy dresser, and who makes managing a home economy look easy.  She is huge-hearted, giving, and does her utmost to mentor her fellow women into more successful lifestyles.  Sharing is sexy.
  • Krista of One & Four, who is strong, powerful, a snappy dresser, and who is one of the best graphic artists I know.  She has battled just about everything life can throw at you with bravery and grace, and is making the world a better place for four very lucky men.
  • Arwen, of ArwenBicknell.com, who is strong, powerful, a snappy dresser, and who makes Having It All look like a piece of cake, even when she’s stuck in traffic for eight hours in a snowstorm.  Actually, Arwen is probably my real Sexy Mama role model.  If I weren’t so lazy, I might have a shot at molding myself in her image, alas.
  • Gina, who doesn’t have an open blog yet, but who should because she is strong, powerful, a snappy dresser, and an example of how Single Parenting is not only just okay, but can produce excellence, intelligence, and massive contribution to society.
  • Irene, who also needs an open blog, though the world might not be ready to laugh that hard.  She is also strong, powerful, and a snappy dresser.
  • As are June, Amy, JulieAnne, Emily (who might just become Thor’s Sexy Mama-in-Law one day) and a score of other women who haven’t taken to the internets yet.
Sexy, to quote Fun Boy Three, ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it.  And that’s what gets results.

So, ParentsConnect, I humbly submit myblogself for your perusal, not unlike one of Littlefinger’s girls in his King’s Landing brothel.  Check me out.  Judge the straightness of my teeth, the curve of my lips, the heft of my–well, let’s not get too close.  We’ve only just met.  But let me know, as Rod Stewart so prophetically asked, “Do ya think I’m sexy?”

*I would have chosen the lyrics in verse 4, but my dad reads this.

Advice, Explaining the Strange Behavior, hair, Howling Sea Lane, Lancient History, Thor

Bad Hair and Carrots of Shame

the outside lane

I do things for this child…

Tonight, I found myself apportioning 10 raisins a piece for 21 children before questioning whether or not that was in fact the instruction given by Thor’s teacher, who had asked for 10 pieces of each of 10 snacks she had listed on a quest to have fun working with the kids on counting to a hundred.  Brain-tired, I shoved a handful of raisins in my mouth and mulled.  Or chewed.  Whichever.

There was a tradition in the Sophomore year of my high school, for upper-classes to take on girls as Little Sisters.  We, the younger ones, were doled out at random to the older girls.  One of the bonding exercises was for the Big Sister to dress the Little Sister up in hideous nerd gear and parade them around all day.  It just so happened that I was growing out what amounted to be Annie Lennox’s haircut as that day rolled around, and I had clipped my shaggy bangs back from my forehead with a baby clip.  This was prior to the 90s, when baby clips became fashionable, lest you think to yourself, “I’ll bet that looked cute.”

I was standing in the school bathroom with my Big Sister, who was so not into me.  She had two Little Sisters, and had known one of them–the cool one, whose mother didn’t make her wear her skirt at LITERAL TEA LENGTH–from birth, and was just not up to having a dorky hanger-on.  Another Big Sister walked into the bathroom, took one look at me–not even having put on a single bit of nerd gear yet, just me and my baby clip, bare face, and tea-length skirt–and cried, “Oomeegeeeesh!  Her hair is so NERDEEEEEEEE!  OMIGOOOOOOOOOOOD!  AWESOME!!  BWAHAHAHAH!!11!!!!1!!!”  Yes, I could hear the 1s within her exclamation points.

There was this moment when my eyes met my Big Sister’s in the reflection of the mirror, and what I saw was her total revulsion, disappointment, and embarrassment at having to deal with me at all.  We both knew I had shown up looking like that.  She already knew I looked like a dork.  I was just finding out.

It was one of those John Hughes moments, and should have been followed up with Jake Ryan calling to take me to the prom–that’s how meaningful it was.  It was also a defining moment for me.  I smiled at my Big Sister, turned to the other girl and grinned as widely as I could and I said, “I know!  Ohmigod!  I look like such a nerd!  Like, I need a pocket protector, or, like some horn-rimmed glasses!  She’s done it perfectly!”

My Big Sister was visibly relieved, and I think that’s what embarrassed me the most.  I ended up with a beat-up cowboy hat made of straw, and a half-hearted makeup job, and I spent the rest of the day trying not to cry.

The next day, I wore my baby clip again as inoculation against the way I had felt.  That was my way back then.  If something I really liked turned out badly, I tried it again a) just to see if maybe I had played it to the wrong audience and a change of “venue” might help the problem, b) to show the people who made me feel bad that I didn’t give a rat’s rump what they thought, c) to pick at the scab because I was a bit of a masochist.

Thanksgiving, this year, was the first time I had been able to attend one of Thor’s class parties.  It was a Thanksgiving Feast buffet.  I volunteered to bring carrots, enough to serve 5 classes of 1st Graders, plus teachers, plus any parents who were attending.  I thought I was the only person bringing carrots.  I had also been advised that serving dishes would be provided.  So, I showed up with 3 large bags of baby carrots, and a large bag of carrot chips–for variety.  Some other mothers had also provided carrots, so by the time I arrived, my offering was overkill.

I got busy with helping and didn’t pay any attention to my carrots, and didn’t even see them again until I was in the teachers’ breakroom washing the dishes we had used for the buffet.  Another mom–this gorgeous, Charlie’s Angels looking mom, who is incredibly nice, and helpful–came in with my carrots and offered them to the teachers since we’d had overflow.  The teachers–y’all–the teachers sneered.  I was shocked.

I stood there washing my dishes, trying not to make eye contact with Gorgeous Mom, who knew the origin of the veggies, and who had extracted herself from the teachers’ conversation immediately.  That conversation among four, elementary school teachers went like this:

“I can’t believe how lazy some people are.  You don’t have time to even put the food on a tray?”

“Right?!  I would never show up with something that was so obviously from the grocery store.  You can’t make something at home?  You’re that busy?  Huh.”

“Homemade is always the best.  You know some people will just take the stuff they buy at the grocery store and put it on a platter?  That’s so rude.  I wouldn’t even take that to a friend’s party.  What do people think of you if you do that?”

“That you’re lazy!  And you don’t care.  And look–she didn’t even take them out of the bags.”

It went on.  And on.  And on.

I stood there, washing and drying, listening to these women talk about how rude, and tacky, and lazy, and disgusting I was for having brought food to the school, which I had purchased at Kroger, and left in bags so that they could be used as needed and otherwise shared if there were leftovers.  I had purposefully bought more than I thought was absolutely necessary, and I had thought people might like some fresh veg.  Uh…rude, tacky, lazy, and disgusting.

I was fifteen again.  Standing in that bathroom, eyes locked on [redacted]’s, knowing I had fallen short.  Only, instead of being hurt, I was pissed the feck off.  Who were these harpies?  Seriously?  Rude, tacky, lazy, and disgusting?  No, honey.  Rude is me saying I’ll bring food and then backing out without telling you.  Tacky is only bringing enoug’h for my child’s class and no one else, knowing it is a feast for all the classes.  Lazy is not bothering at all because some other mother will do it.  Disgusting is me spitting on the carrots before sharing them with you.

I seriously considered telling them they were talking about me, but I chose not to.  I was so taken aback, and disbelieving that by the time I had decided what I wanted to say, Gorgeous Mom had steered their conversation to kinder, gentler topics.  It seemed a moot point.  Besides, I could have outed myself, then the likeliest thing would be that they would tell the rest of the teachers that Thor’s Mom was rude, tacky, lazy, disgusting, and uber-confrontational.  For the child’s reputation, I swallowed my bile.

Tonight, I started working on those raisins and had such performance anxiety, I cannot tell you.  My packets weren’t pretty enough.  The Saran Wrap press-n-seal was too sticky.  There was no uniformity.  No aesthetic.  I started to panic.  Would Thor’s teacher think I was rude, tacky, lazy, or disgusting?  Was I even doing it right in the first place?  I had 10 packs of 10 ready to go.  I needed 11 more.  Or was I just supposed to send in 210 raisins by themselves?  Did there have to be 10 even for each child, or should I send one of those big boxes of raisins and let the teacher distribute at will?  OH MY GOD!  BABY CLIPS AND CARROTS!

So, I ate them.

I’ll work on it again tomorrow, after getting some clarification from Thor’s teacher, and having lived down my goofy hair and party tray shame through exhibitionism.

The moral of the story is: Be careful when you mock.  You may be mocking the person standing to your left.

 

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