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In the immortal words of Montell Jordan - This how we do it!

Hey, there Persephone, where you been so long?

I have always maintained that the secret to time travel is the difference between the perception of time when you’re doing something fun, like watching a really intense movie and look up and go “Wow, that was 2 hours?”, and the way time passes when you’re doing something NOT fun, like waiting for a bus, and look your watch to realize the half hour you’ve been standing there is only 5 minutes, and you have 10 more to go. Harness that slip differential, and we could all go back and watch the moon landing.

There’s also a fundamental difference in the perception of cold. On a day when it is 40 degrees and will only get up to 42, I walk to the train shivering and turtling down in to my heaviest jacket, muttering through blue lips things like “cold, so cccold, will this ever end?” But on a day when it’s 40 in the morning, and I know it will be getting up to 67, I throw on my jean jacket and go hippity-hopping off down the bunny trail, singing happy songs about birds and flowers and sunshine. 40 is still 40. But not all 40s are created equal.

All of this to say, spring has sprung and, like the boids, my heart is on the wing. March came in roaring like a Cowardly Lion, and is lamby-pie sweet all over. Not to say that there won’t be another cold snap. This is Texas, y’all. We’re not safe from one last winter freeze to come along and pinch our fannies on the way out the door. But TODAY the sun is shining, and all is forgiven. The penance of winter is over, and spring is doling out warm embraces again.

It takes all sorts

Well, there’s something on Yahoo about the capture of JihadJane is causing terrorism experts to “rethink” how they profile terrorists.

Really? Ya think?

So evidently because a 5 foot nothin’, middle-aged blond from Fort Worth (and by the way, thanks, toots, that’s just the kind of image boost the Dallas-Ft. Worth area needed – Crazy Crackers ‘R’ Us) was raising money and plotting murder in the name of Islam, that is a game changer. We’ll have to profile all sorts of different (and next time I fly out of DFW and get stripped searched because I might have a bomb in my brassiere, I’ll think kindly of you, Janie, old girl).

Why is it that any time anyone who’s not a white guy does this stuff, they add that to the possible profile? Blacks, eastern Europeans and southeast Asians may by converts. Second or third generation middle eastern men could be hatching a train-bomber plot. Now white women might have gone all Jihad Jane. It all gets into the profile. Except if you’re a white guy.

Prior to September 11, the biggest domestic terror attack in this country was the Oklahoma City bombing – 2 white guys. The guy who took a gun to shoot up the Pentagon – white guy. The guy who flew into the IRS building – white guy.

You know why they don’t add in white guys? Because then everyone would be on the list.

To which I say – ah ha! The whole profiling thing just gives law enforcement a false sense of security that they can predict who is a threat. They can’t. You can’t tell a person’s history by looking at them. The dark-skinned young man in front of you could be a second-generation American who is funding terrorism. Or he could be a recent immigrant who is looking forward to nothing more than living the American dream. If you take away profiling that means everybody is a suspect. Well, yeah. It would also be easier if liars all had shifty eyes, blonds were all stupid and the bad guy always wore a black hat.

The truth is that crazy doesn’t have a race, gender, creed, age or nationality. And if you think violence will solve anything, you really are crazy.

Wild, wild dressed

Maybe I’m going through a Lady GaGa phase. But suddenly, I’m loving bad fashion far more than I’m loving good fashion. Or “good” fashion. Because, what is fashion for if not to catch the eye? And frankly, if I see one more immaculately fitted, strapless, solid-color gown, I’ll just fall asleep right here. Yawn, yawn, yawn.

It’s the crazy-ass stuff I’m loving. Like Charlize Theron at the Oscars, with her folded-napkin-rose boobs. Or anything Tilda Swinton puts on. I want Helena Bonham Carter looking like she might have forgotten to change out of the costume on the way from a Tim Burton set. And, bien sur, La GaGa.

Or this!

From Rhianna. She looks like a superhero. Plantasma! It’s big. It’s jade green. It’s jersey knit. It’s got wings. It’s weird. I love it.

I’m tired of tasteful. I’m tired of “pretty”. I’m tired of right. I want wrong. I want so, so wrong. So wrong, that yeah, it's right.

How much do you suppose a body double would cost?

So, while the whole fam-damily is in town, we’re going to do a big family picture. Great! We should do a family picture. It’s been a long time. The last picture didn’t include the sibs’ spouses. And none of the kids were around yet. This is a moment in time. It should be documented.

But lord-love-a-duck, I hate having my picture taken. And this is my own personal sort of vanity, in which, in my head I’m perfectly presentable. Neither a great beauty, nor a complete hag, yet with a certain plain-Jane charm. And on my good-self-esteem days, I can maintain that idea, even when looking in a mirror. But then somebody takes my picture. Well, there goes that soap bubble of optimism. Great googly moogly! Is that what I look like?

And enough people have told me that no, no, the camera is a two-dimensional representation of a 3-dimensional object. And either you are flattered by the flattening, or you are not. I am not. The camera he, don’t love me.

And I don’t take enough pleasure in my own face that I want to work on it. I could stare into the mirror. This angle or that? Half-smile, three-quarter-smile, full smile? Chin up, chin down? Bore me to death.

And even given all that prep work, I’m bound to have a blob of foundation, a lick of hair that sticks straight out from my head, or be the only one in the picture with their eyes closed – “We tried, but this was the best one of the bunch! You were the only one who looked funny.”

So, since there just aren’t that many pics of me floating around, this will be the one that everyone has. Especially the Grandma who keeps saying, “The last picture I have of you is from your graduation. That was a long time ago.” And it will be staring at me from my parents wall every time I go over. Yep. No pressure there. Let the anxiety commence.

The Red Carpet Pic of Dorienne Gray

Well, I didn’t watch the Academy Awards, because, well, you know. And the other you know. But I did look at the red carpet pics. You know I loves the fashion.

But I gotta say, some people are starting to fuh-reak me out. Namely the women who just aren’t aging. You know how they used to say that it wasn’t fair that women get “old” while men get “distinguished”? Well, evidently changing society’s attitude, it was easier for women in Hollywood to just stop getting old. Sigourney Weaver, gorgeous. Katherine Bigelow, she’s 58??!?!? Demi Moore, she’s not getting older, but Ashton is – do you suppose she’s sucking the life force out of him while he sleeps? (okay, hee-hee) There was just picture after picture of these Hollywood women who should be dames by now, but seem to stopped aging around 40. Frankly? Weird.

There used to be a progression to the red carpet. First you were wearing a dress cut up to here and down to there. Then the thigh high slit would disappear as the legs are the first to go, but the boobs still looked pretty good (as long as there was plenty of support), so the plunging neckline would stay front and center. But then the décolletage would start to go, so the neckline would start creeping up, and the under-arm wobbles would start the sleeves growing down, and with the poochy tummy comes the floaty fabric. Pretty soon, you were 50, in a snappy caftan, and looked like a head and pair of hands floating down the walkway.

But there’s Demi Moore with the down to there and up to there. With her sadly withering former boy toy. Who may look like her grandpa by next year’s Golden Globes. He’s starting to look a little distinguished.

A little attitude adjustment

I don’t know, I guess it’s just one of those moments that makes you re-think what it takes to be happy.

My brother is in town for a visit with his wife and two sons (three and 9 months). Given that my brother was a bit of a hellion, it’s always a surprise to see that his boys are high-spirited, but basically well-behaved boys. The older boy, C, is a little mischievous and mercurial, and the younger is a pretty happy-go-lucky little soul.

It was raining yesterday, so they were stuck in the house. And while C was laying on the couch watching Sponge Bob, his little eyes just fluttered closed, in spite of the fact that he as not sleepy, and did not need a nap (at least according to him). After about 45 minutes, his mom decided that if they didn’t want him bouncing off the walls at midnight, it would be a good idea to wake him up. Maybe, the rain was messing with him, they don’t get much of it back home in Arizona. Because he was rubbing his eyes and blinking and giving a cranky “No!” to any question – “C, want some juice?” “No!” “You want a snack?” “No!” “You want to lay back down?” “No!” Just more rubbing and frowning, with his hair sticking out in all directions.

I asked him, “You want to go outside and look at the frogs?” My dad likes pottery frogs, so there are quite a few out in the front yard. After a few minutes of consideration (which evidently involves, squinching one eye and frowning a bit), I finally got an “uh-huh”, and it being the only thing that didn’t rate a “No!”, I thought I’d better jump on it. So, we found his orange Crocs, and pulled his sweatshirt hood up and ventured outside.

It was a three-year old walk. Down the sidewalk to inspect the frogs, and the gnomes that keep them company, across the street to watch the water go down the storm drain, around the corner of the house, and back up the side to make sure we caught the frog house.

But once we got back in, the eye rubbing and cranky puss were replaced with something called the “Hot Dog Dance”, which involves wigging, jumping in place, then spinning around until you fall over dizzy. And a lot of laughing.

That’s something we adults could learn from 3-year olds. It doesn’t really take that much to blow out a bad mood. A little walk. Some good stuff to look at. And it’s time to do the Hot Dog Dance