An Open Letter...

Dear Miley/Hannah,

I heard that you are considering writing your autobiography. Interesting. Or would it be? How old are you? 15?

Since I have lived long enough to actually qualify for autobiographical status - may I please step in?

The Top Ten Reasons Why Mi-anna Should Not Write Her Life Story:

10. You have not lived long enough to write your memoirs. There is NO story.
9. Memoirs about your toddler years and the time you had diaper rash does not a book make.
8. Hannah Montana is NOT a real person....you knew that, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU???
7. What's the most horrible thing to happen to you? Your period starting?
6. Again, the time you got one pimple, does not qualify as a learning example for others.
5. You are too normal acting to have a salacious story. Have you forgotten to wear underwear lately? Shaved your head? Didn't think so.
4. A story about how you are a complete creation by Disney and you can't even sing all that well? We might be able to go somewhere with that!
3. Has your daddy pimped you out? Bought you boobs and lips? Sold you to the highest bidder? No? Oh yeah, that's Jessica Simpson - now SHE'S got a book in the making!
2. No, dear, Robitussin for your cough does not qualify you as a drug addict.
1. The world doesn't need to be subjected to your "Achy Breaky Daddy" any more.

Please reconsider, Mi-anna. Wait until you at least get your driver's license then maybe you can write a chapter about the time you scraped the fender backing out of the garage. Now that will keep 'em on the edge of their seat. I feel a movie in the making....

Stayin' Classy

You all know that I am quite the philanthropist. A true "Lover of the People" and because of this intense need to help others I must tell you about a t.v. show. Let's call it what it is - a warning.

The Real Housewives of New York City on BRAVO. I somehow got sucked into this show. Okay, it was storming and I was stupid enough to make cookies (sheet after sheet - it takes forever!) so for a little kitchen company and because the Dog Whisperer was on hiatus or something, I watched.

These have to be the most vapid, selfish, ignorant women in NYC. All of these women are convinced they are "classy" and of the "upper crust" of society. In fact, after a night at the opera, one of the women spent the following morning scouring the New York Times to see if she made "the society pages". Her husband kept telling their 4 year old, Francois (yes, thats what they named their kid AND they try and make him speak french!), that Mommy might be in the society pages.

A different woman (I refuse to learn their names) decided to have a dinner party. She carried her chihuahua around and fussed about seating arrangements (for 6 people....no, did you hear me? FOR 6 PEOPLE WE HAD TO HAVE SEATING ARRANGEMENTS??). Then when they did sit down for dinner they had a whole discussion about what being classy meant. One of the women said it was your ambience. I'm not sure she knows what the word ambience means. I am guessing at her use of this word because with her New York accent it was actually a little hard to tell what she was saying.

Sidebar: Here's my opinion of "class": If you must tell someone you are "classy," chances are you aren't. I hate the word classy. If you must have a discussion of a higher life station then please use a word like sophistication or maybe comment on someone's good taste.

There is nothing redeeming about this show. At least some reality shows are entertaining. I guess I watched a couple of them because I was waiting for something....the punchline? one of the women to be a serial killer?

Hasn't everyone (except for those who practice polygamy in weird sects - then you become reality entertainment on the news) in the world learned that if you are on a reality t.v. show, chances are you are NOT going to look good, smart or normal?? You have to weigh over 400 lbs, have tattoos on every inch of skin, give birth to a litter of children, be a midget, be willing to swap your wife, have bratty kids, live on an island, eat bugs or.....what? Have I left out anything?? If a reality show comes calling remember the words many of us grew up on....Just Say No.

Fears

I am not afraid to admit that I have certain fears. Obviously, admitting to them is NOT one of my phobias.

In my adult life I have often contemplated how fear has shaped my life. Most people fear failure. Not me. I fear success. I used to tell myself I couldn't work outside the home because I would be "too good at it" and then I would neglect my children/husband/home and be left in ruin.

Hubs: "So you are afraid you will be too successful?"

me: "pretty much."

Yesterday I was at an office building and had to use the escalator to go downstairs. This escalator was the Mt. Everest of all escalators. It was tracking at about 35 mph with a black ski slope incline. My stomach did a sickening flip-flop. I have a fear of escalators. This fear is somewhat justified because I did fall down one when I was about five. To this day, I don't like anyone to be too close behind me when I get on. I have to jump on with a style similar to playground jump roping (remember when we were given huge long jump ropes and 2 - 3 people at a time could jump?? Remember how we would hold our hands over our head getting the rhythm so we could "jump in"??)

Growing up, I had the run-of-the-mill childhood fears (the dark, boogers, snakes!). I remember a few fears distinctly. Someone gave me this doll that was supposed to walk. The freakishly scary, Barbie-on-steroids was like 2 1/2 feet tall! I got her for my birthday when I was four. I will never forget the first night I had her. I tried to go to bed - squeezed my little eyelids shut but, SHE was staring at me - from the corner of my room. I got up and dug out all the toys in my wooden, coffin-like toybox and placed her FACE DOWN. I had this idea that she would not be able to get out this way and I would be safe. It worked!

Another somewhat irrational fear that has dogged me from childhood is my inability to let any part of my body dangle off the bed. I envision someone or thing under my bed will be able to grab my careless appendage and pull me under. Not sure what would happen then but it must be awful because I can not let anything off the safety zone of the mattress.

Fear can save our lives or it can cripple mercilessly. I guess it would be controlling the fear, instead of the other way around that is key.

Along Came Poly

I remember when polyester made its big debut. I was still in elementary but I will purposely be vague on when that was....

My grandmother and my mother were estatic. No ironing! The bright colors didn't fade! It was so versatile! If you wanted a seam - just sew one in!

My grandmother liked to sew. I hesitate to call her a seamstress because that would imply she was a professional and was...well...good at it.

I suppose if I had to heat my iron up on my wood fired stove in order to get that certain crispness to my clothes, I would empathize with the rapture that polyester inspired in my grandmother. She began cranking out hot pink, turquoise blue, not-of-this-world green and burn-your-eyes-out yellow pants with matching vests. Let's just say that I was less then thrilled. I should have been grateful but, unfortunately, my fashion sense was already dialed up full blast. I knew that the clothes my grandmother was cranking out like moonshine from a still were a huge Fashion Don't.

I just didn't see how indestructible clothing could be viewed as great. Yes, I suppose it had it had its applications and probably I was wearing early Kevlar and didn't even know I was bullet-proof. But let me tell you another story about it:

About 10 years ago, my hometown of OKC was putting in a new major highway. It involved bulldozing around a lake. One day on the work site, a dirt mover came upon a car in the water. The car was from the 1960's. It was traced to a doctor who lived in town. The story was that his wife and daughter had left the house one icy, winter evening, never to be seen again. Although the doctor claimed that the marriage was good, he was always viewed with a little suspicion. Finally, he was cleared and people just assumed the the wife and daughter started a new life somewhere. Until their car rose from the water.

Their skeletons were intact inside the vehicle. They had been lying undiscovered in this watery grave for almost 30 years. The daughter's polyester outfit was LIKE BRAND NEW.

Moral of the story? I don't want my clothes to outlive me.