Juztin with a "Z"!

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/06/fashion/06noticed.html?ref=fashion

So, apparently tween boys want Justin Bieber’s haircut, but are embarrassed to ask for it. Imagine how they’d feel if they realized they were asking for Liza Minelli’s haircut.

Relax, fellas. It could be worse. At least you asking for Liza Minelli circa The Sterile Cuckoo, and not Liza Minelli circa Arthur 2 (looking at you, Adam Lambert - time to rein it in just a skootch).

Junky junk food

What have I done?

I accidentally underpacked food today. The orange that I had intended to use as a reflux barrier for my fish oil pill (trust me, you do not want to take one of those without a firm cap of food going down on top of it – I’m a petite flower, fish burps are not nice), turned out to be bad once I peeled it. Rats.

No big deal. I’ll just go down and get something out of the vending machine. I’ve been pretty good about “unmessed-around with food” for the last few days. A bag of something should be just fine. And actually, I haven’t had anything like pre-packaged chips or cookies in months. My indulgences have been more in the Taco Bueno nachos or Burger Street #1 combo vein. The grab bag foods that I used to rely on for lunch haven’t really been in the picture. It would be a nice little treat to have a bag of chips.

So, I grab a bag of salsa flavor Sun Chips (and old favorite), swallow my pills, smile in anticipation . . . yuck! What the hell happened???? That is really, really gross, people. Like, I would remove my tongue and wipe it on my pants if I could. Second bite, just as gross as the first. Revolting would be too strong of a word. But icky would not. I know I loved these things six months ago. Not that I was ever fooled by the “whole grains mean it’s health food” marketing ploy. Chips is chips. But they have a little texture. And the salsa flavor is zingy. Or it was. And I see no “new improved taste” label. I think it’s my taste buds that have changed. [And, I’ll note that my sinus cavity is burning a little, but that is probably just paranoia/hypochondria.] But having already taken the pills, I was committed to finishing the bag. Every guh-ross bite. Again, fish burps, not good.

On the one hand, I’m glad that this little bag of chips wasn’t just the slippery slope of a return to bad habits. Believe me, a bag of salsa flavored Sun Chips is no longer a temptation. But on the other hand, I’m kind of disappointed that they are really not available to me any more. At least on an occasional basis. I appear to have ruined my palate with healthy food. Possibly, I could get the capacity for these things back, if I really dedicated myself to debauching my taste buds. But the (allegedly) flaming sinuses thing doesn’t really make that sound all that tempting, even though it condemns me to healthy snack jail.

I offer this as a faint warning to others. It’s one thing to exert one’s will power. It’s entirely another to no longer have the option.

Be still my beating heart

Everybody has their kinks. What floats your boat may sink somebody else’s battleship. Me? I loooooove drawers. Not fancy, French knickers. I mean as in “chest of”. Though I get rhapsodic over a nice shelving system too. Storage baskets. Ooooooo – divider trays. The Container Store is my porn shop.

My ultimate fantasy is to have one of those super-tricked out closets. You know with all sorts of little cubbies and clothing rods of varying heights. With color coded sweaters and t-shirts, and shoes lined up like neat little soldiers. A place for everything and everything in its place.

And, frankly, I’m to the point where I’m just going to go balls to the wall on my fantasy. I’m dead serious. I’ve decide that the only difference between me and organized people is a good shelving unit. If I have to figure out where something goes, the answer is always going to be draped over the closest available stationary object. I end up with a pile of shoes in front of the TV. Kitchen towels in with my pajamas. Toilet bowl cleaner in the front entry.

Like any good fantasy, the whole organization thing has always seemed a little indulgent and naughty to me. Like the kind of decadence that only an anal-retentive plutocrat would indulge in. Well, I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants on holding back the tide of chaos too long. And my toukas is now threadbare. No more. I want order. And order I shall have!

Happy Hunting

Well, I took the day off so that I could take my niece prom dress shopping. Not real sure on my qualifications here. I wasn't a prom type when I was prom age. But my main claim to fame on this front is that I have a car, vacation time, and no objections to being surrounded by miles of taffeta. So, we've got her fancy heels in the car, and 2 major dress stores scoped out. Tally ho and view halloo.

Ya Gotta Laugh

Here is one thing I've learned as I hit the second half of life - it's just not going to get any easier. For years I thought, "being a [teenager/young adult/adult] is just so hard. If I make it to the next stage it will get easier." Wrong, wrong, wrong. It never gets simple. Your relationships never get easier. Your finances never get easier. Your body never gets easier to live in. I've often told my younger friends, if you haven't developed a sense of humor about your body by the time you're 40, you're screwed.

I mean, when you're young, you can take things very seriously. Why not? Everything is tight, high and firm. It is a force to be reckoned with. But eventually, the butt has less bounce. There are wobbles where there were never wobbles before. And gasses. There are gasses, people. I knew that older folks were kinda gassy. But I never really understood that it would happen to me. Me! And it all starts long before you're eligible for AARP. That's a little secret noboby let me in on.

And oh, sure, there are dyes, and creams, and "procedures", and injections, and what not that can help with the wobbles and sags and graying. But it's pretty much like trying to keep the tide back with a push broom. Good luck with that. And there's really nothing that's going to help with the gassy. Oh, you can muffle it, but you're never really going to silence that symphony. Not altogether, you're not.

But a sense of humor? It's a thing of beauty, my friends. The person who finds laughter in their laugh lines and giggles in their gasses will find that life is, if not easier, much more enjoyable. Don't take life so seriously. It'll give you frown lines.