I have been a loyal fan of the Pussy Cat Dolls. They brought a fresh, vampish twist to my beloved girl pop genre. I purchased, listened to and blogged about their entire CD. When they opened for Christina Aguilera, I was just as excited to see them as I was to see her and I sang every lyric along with them. I love the songs and I love the choreography. Nicole is a great singer and a fantastic performer.
The Tragedy: Nicole is leaving the group.
So what does the rest of the group do? They’re not ready to stop. I respect that - I wouldn’t either. I truly believe that they deserve the same credit that Nicole does in the success of PCD. After all, Pussy Cat Doll just wouldn’t be the same. They are great dancers so they should keep dancing and performing.
Entering Dangerous Territory: But they don’t want to just keep dancing and performing – they want to simply replace the missing member and carry on. Which would probably work if they were still a burlesque troupe. But they are NOT still a burlesque troupe. They have crossed the line to become a pop group.
The Travesty: They are doing all of this on a REALITY TV SHOW.
I just can't do it. I am, officially, no longer a fan.
3/14/2007
3/08/2007
Ma'am - I - am
Yes, ma’am.
An insulting insinuation of a woman’s age or an expression of respect used to address any female over the age of 2?
The answer, it seems, depends on where you call home. My first encounter of the first meaning was in college when after a brief conversation with a cashier, my Bostonian friend said with a look of sheer horror, “Did she just call me ma’am?” I soon learned that not only can calling someone “ma’am” be insulting, but calling someone “sir” can sarcastic.
In Texas, we learn to say “please,” “thank you,” “ma’am,” and “sir.” We use this terminology freely around friends, family, and strangers. We use it whether we are talking to people older than we are, to people who are the same age that we are and to people who are younger than we are. And to me, it makes perfect sense that we use the term “ma’am” to get someone’s attention. “Hey!” sounds rude and abrupt. So does “Miss” and “hey lady!” “Excuse me” is too impersonal. Down here, we don’t like to sound rude, abrupt or impersonal. Until they deserve it that is.
So imagine my shock today to read an article in which the author (clearly not from Texas) actually spent $3000 on various dermatologic facial procedures all because she started hearing too many people call her “ma’am!!!”
Here’s what bebe Me has to say to her: Yes, ma’am, all the dermatologists and plastic surgeons in Texas and the deep south would looove you.
Outer Power
I discovered the power of fashion in my life at an early age - the power it has to propel me through gloom, to amplify celebration, to inspire me through creative blocks and to simply bring pleasure to my life every day.
I often hear comments that imply that interest in fashion is some sort of obligation, a rite of passage or even simply a means to a goal. “Oh, yes, I used to keep up with that stuff when I was at that age when it was the thing to do.” Sometimes it is followed by: “…back before I got married. Now I don’t need to impress anybody.” And then there are the implications that paying attention to clothing, hair and make-up is vain, shallow, snooty, only for the wealthy and is surely an indication of insecurity.
I find this perplexing, because for me, fashion is just not any of those things (well, it is a little vain.) Fahion is art. Since I was a little girl, I’ve always dedicated a corner of my thoughts at all times to picturing the pieces of my wardrobe and mentally sorting through all the different combinations of tops, pants, skirts, dresses, shoes, jewelry, purses and belts. Not really because I was trying to maximize my wardrobe, but because it’s a creative outlet. It’s color , lines and texture. It’s mixing things up and keeping things fresh. I do the same with make-up and I do the same with hair.
What is the power in the process of choosing what to wear, which make-up to use and how to style my hair? It gives me something to look forward to every single day when I’m sad. It makes an already special event even more special. When I feel an ebb of creative thoughts, it reassures me that the juices are still flowing somewhere in me. It brings out a strongly opinionated side of my generally open-minded nature as I most recently experienced while watching the 2007 Oscar’s Fashion Police show on E! this year, sometimes wholeheartedly agreeing with the fashion experts and other times jumping up and yelling at the screen about how WRONG these same “experts” were.
This is not a power that comes and goes depending on where I am in life. Sure, the details may change with trends, age and yes, personal budget. But the fulfillment remains the same. For that, I am grateful.
I often hear comments that imply that interest in fashion is some sort of obligation, a rite of passage or even simply a means to a goal. “Oh, yes, I used to keep up with that stuff when I was at that age when it was the thing to do.” Sometimes it is followed by: “…back before I got married. Now I don’t need to impress anybody.” And then there are the implications that paying attention to clothing, hair and make-up is vain, shallow, snooty, only for the wealthy and is surely an indication of insecurity.
I find this perplexing, because for me, fashion is just not any of those things (well, it is a little vain.) Fahion is art. Since I was a little girl, I’ve always dedicated a corner of my thoughts at all times to picturing the pieces of my wardrobe and mentally sorting through all the different combinations of tops, pants, skirts, dresses, shoes, jewelry, purses and belts. Not really because I was trying to maximize my wardrobe, but because it’s a creative outlet. It’s color , lines and texture. It’s mixing things up and keeping things fresh. I do the same with make-up and I do the same with hair.
What is the power in the process of choosing what to wear, which make-up to use and how to style my hair? It gives me something to look forward to every single day when I’m sad. It makes an already special event even more special. When I feel an ebb of creative thoughts, it reassures me that the juices are still flowing somewhere in me. It brings out a strongly opinionated side of my generally open-minded nature as I most recently experienced while watching the 2007 Oscar’s Fashion Police show on E! this year, sometimes wholeheartedly agreeing with the fashion experts and other times jumping up and yelling at the screen about how WRONG these same “experts” were.
This is not a power that comes and goes depending on where I am in life. Sure, the details may change with trends, age and yes, personal budget. But the fulfillment remains the same. For that, I am grateful.
3/06/2007
March 6, 2007
What a coincidence that the quote in my day planner is:
Yesterday, I made a monumental decision regarding my future – choosing between two fantastic graduate programs to attend. Unfortunately, I had less than a week to decide, the last few days being a blur of visiting the schools, talking to as many people as possible and changing my mind every hour, depending on what I was looking at or who I was talking to. My brain hurts.
You would think that a decision would bring some sort of relief, maybe some excitement. But it didn’t. I’m just exhausted and plagued with uncertainty and nagging reminders of what I might be giving up by choosing A instead of B. I know I would’ve regretted not choosing A, but truthfully, I have plenty of regrets over not choosing B. Having two equally good options truly is that cliché, a blessing and a curse. Why then, being the eternal optimist, am I only feeling the curse?
Maybe because the uncertainty of picking one program over another isn’t what’s bothering me the most. Perhaps I hoped that making the decision would somehow eradicate the rest of my original misgivings about going to school in the first place. They are still there.
I haven’t been telling anyone about my decision because I’m just not ready for the responses. "Aren’t you excited?" "Isn’t it great?" "You’ll love it!" "You’re so lucky…I wish I could go back to school." "When are you moving?" And I’m too exhausted to fake it. Because the truth is, I’m not excited right now. So how can it be great? I'm not completely sure that I'll love it. I’m aware of my fortunate circumstances so I feel guilty for not feeling lucky and for not being one of those people who LOVES school. I’m just not one of those people. And even though I put in a lot of time and soul-searching to come to terms with the fact that going back to school is what I want to do, there are still plenty of things about it that I’m not looking forward to. I’m not saying that I don’t want to go. In fact, as much as I’m enjoying my work as an Event Coordinator, it seems more clear every day that I’ve made the right choice. What I’m saying is that I’m not as enthusiastic as I think someone should be after making that right choice.
So I’m grasping for something to pull me out of this funk so that I can celebrate my own excitement and not everyone else’s. I’ll start with the words of Abraham Lincoln. One day at a time.
The best thing about the future is that it only comes one day at a time. –Abraham Lincoln
Yesterday, I made a monumental decision regarding my future – choosing between two fantastic graduate programs to attend. Unfortunately, I had less than a week to decide, the last few days being a blur of visiting the schools, talking to as many people as possible and changing my mind every hour, depending on what I was looking at or who I was talking to. My brain hurts.
You would think that a decision would bring some sort of relief, maybe some excitement. But it didn’t. I’m just exhausted and plagued with uncertainty and nagging reminders of what I might be giving up by choosing A instead of B. I know I would’ve regretted not choosing A, but truthfully, I have plenty of regrets over not choosing B. Having two equally good options truly is that cliché, a blessing and a curse. Why then, being the eternal optimist, am I only feeling the curse?
Maybe because the uncertainty of picking one program over another isn’t what’s bothering me the most. Perhaps I hoped that making the decision would somehow eradicate the rest of my original misgivings about going to school in the first place. They are still there.
I haven’t been telling anyone about my decision because I’m just not ready for the responses. "Aren’t you excited?" "Isn’t it great?" "You’ll love it!" "You’re so lucky…I wish I could go back to school." "When are you moving?" And I’m too exhausted to fake it. Because the truth is, I’m not excited right now. So how can it be great? I'm not completely sure that I'll love it. I’m aware of my fortunate circumstances so I feel guilty for not feeling lucky and for not being one of those people who LOVES school. I’m just not one of those people. And even though I put in a lot of time and soul-searching to come to terms with the fact that going back to school is what I want to do, there are still plenty of things about it that I’m not looking forward to. I’m not saying that I don’t want to go. In fact, as much as I’m enjoying my work as an Event Coordinator, it seems more clear every day that I’ve made the right choice. What I’m saying is that I’m not as enthusiastic as I think someone should be after making that right choice.
So I’m grasping for something to pull me out of this funk so that I can celebrate my own excitement and not everyone else’s. I’ll start with the words of Abraham Lincoln. One day at a time.
2/23/2007
You Know You Work In Texas when...
you hear the Senior Account Manager in the office next to you on the phone saying, "Oh bless your heart, it's co cold out there. Did you have to go out back and poke holes in the ice so your cattle could drink?"
2/19/2007
All in a (14) Day's Work
As I stumbled out of the cab in front of our hotel on the highest point of Bermuda, gasping for fresh air and trying (unsuccessfully) to ignore the queasiness in my stomach from the 25 minute taxi ride along the island’s serpentine road, I was met by what appeared to be a seven foot giant* wearing a suit coat, tie and Bermuda shorts (some sort of island mirage?) and offering me Bermuda’s national cocktail...oh, that dangerously smooth and delicious Dark & Stormy. My single-minded response? "Please, PLEASE, where is the ladies' room?" Clearly, my first hour in Bermuda was anything but indicative of what turned out to be a red-letter two weeks and perhaps, one answer to my previously blogged New Year’s Plea.
How does two weeks of working my arse off to help coordinate a sales training event, where 14 hour days are still too short to finish our work, manage to unravel 10 months worth of the stress-induced tightly wound knots I'd tied myself into? By providing that first illuminating moment we all wait for after a drastic career change: the moment when something clicks and all the pieces (the cryptic jargon, mysterious tasks and puzzling co-worker comments) start to fall into place and the big picture finally starts to make sense. The fact that it happened on the most alluringly beautiful island in the world just makes it sweeter. And the indulgently, fluffy frosting on the cupcake? Our client was a well-known, MALE-DOMINATED software company, famous for their fun-loving sales force. Being showered with attention from a lot of men at the same time who are not only fun, but also smart and interesting to talk to was like I said, the indulgently fluffy frosting... (enough for an entire blog post--see post below entitled "Candy for My Feminine Senses")
More highlights from the event :
•Going to the local market with my co-worker to buy client gifts and filling our cart with 20+ bottles of Gosling’s Black Rum, eliciting more than a few incredulous stares from local residents
•The flavors of Bermuda: fish chowder, fresh rock fish, violet candy, Bermuda rum cake, Dark and Stormies** and Rum Swizzles
•Spending more time ironing (thank you logo table cloths and event shirts) than I’ve spent ironing everything else combined in my entire life while warding off the obvious, not-so-funny Stepford Wife jokes
•Feeling like kids on Christmas morning when our missing Fed-ex box from Dallas finally arrived 4 days late (complete with screaming, jumping up and down and tearing open the box)
•The delicious, full chocolate, avant-garde chocolate sculpture (gift from the hotel pastry chef)
•Turquoise (count the gradations) water, white/coral sand, tourists on scooters, pastel colored houses behind moon gates (see photo below), and the truly genuine nature of Bermudian natives and residents
So on that last morning, as we pulled out of the hotel drive in the taxi to the airport, my stomach felt fine but my heart was aching. I already missed the island, permanently etched in my memory as the place I was when what should have been soul-sucking labor, instead turned out to be the invigorating gust of epiphany and motivation that I needed to just let go. The Magic of Paradise? I believe!
*The seven foot giant turned out to be our one and only Director of Conference Services, the gallant leader of our hotel staff, all of whom sport suit jackets, dress shirts and ties with Bermuda shorts, which is indeed a Bermudian custom and looks perfectly normal by the time you leave the island.
**Barrit's Ginger Beer and Gosling's Black Rum
How does two weeks of working my arse off to help coordinate a sales training event, where 14 hour days are still too short to finish our work, manage to unravel 10 months worth of the stress-induced tightly wound knots I'd tied myself into? By providing that first illuminating moment we all wait for after a drastic career change: the moment when something clicks and all the pieces (the cryptic jargon, mysterious tasks and puzzling co-worker comments) start to fall into place and the big picture finally starts to make sense. The fact that it happened on the most alluringly beautiful island in the world just makes it sweeter. And the indulgently, fluffy frosting on the cupcake? Our client was a well-known, MALE-DOMINATED software company, famous for their fun-loving sales force. Being showered with attention from a lot of men at the same time who are not only fun, but also smart and interesting to talk to was like I said, the indulgently fluffy frosting... (enough for an entire blog post--see post below entitled "Candy for My Feminine Senses")
More highlights from the event :
•Going to the local market with my co-worker to buy client gifts and filling our cart with 20+ bottles of Gosling’s Black Rum, eliciting more than a few incredulous stares from local residents
•The flavors of Bermuda: fish chowder, fresh rock fish, violet candy, Bermuda rum cake, Dark and Stormies** and Rum Swizzles
•Spending more time ironing (thank you logo table cloths and event shirts) than I’ve spent ironing everything else combined in my entire life while warding off the obvious, not-so-funny Stepford Wife jokes
•Feeling like kids on Christmas morning when our missing Fed-ex box from Dallas finally arrived 4 days late (complete with screaming, jumping up and down and tearing open the box)
•The delicious, full chocolate, avant-garde chocolate sculpture (gift from the hotel pastry chef)
•Turquoise (count the gradations) water, white/coral sand, tourists on scooters, pastel colored houses behind moon gates (see photo below), and the truly genuine nature of Bermudian natives and residents
So on that last morning, as we pulled out of the hotel drive in the taxi to the airport, my stomach felt fine but my heart was aching. I already missed the island, permanently etched in my memory as the place I was when what should have been soul-sucking labor, instead turned out to be the invigorating gust of epiphany and motivation that I needed to just let go. The Magic of Paradise? I believe!
*The seven foot giant turned out to be our one and only Director of Conference Services, the gallant leader of our hotel staff, all of whom sport suit jackets, dress shirts and ties with Bermuda shorts, which is indeed a Bermudian custom and looks perfectly normal by the time you leave the island.
**Barrit's Ginger Beer and Gosling's Black Rum
Candy for My Feminine Senses
I’m not going to lie. One of the highlights of the Bermuda event was that I was a female Event Coordinator after 2 months of long hours in a female-dominated industry, amidst hundreds of male software sales reps from a male-dominated industry who spent 10 days of intense training with each other.
Throw in a secluded tropical island, Gosling’s black rum, a nearby dance club that plays Shakira and Sean Paul, and what did this lucky girl get?
•Guaranteed friends and attention from men at every function and during every break
•Free drinks and invitations to socialize every night
•Lots of dance partners
•Someone telling me that I look like Fergie (YES, the singer, not the actual British royalty)
•The guy I’d been secretly crushing on all week looking into my eyes on the dance floor, grabbing my waist and singing along with the lyrics, “Who knew that she could dance like that? She makes a man want to speak Spanish…” (the fact that I don’t actually speak Spanish aside, why is that so endearing when you actually have a crush on someone, but so cheesy when you don’t?)
•If I simply mentioned something I might need, there it was. (a sofa on which to lay down and rest my feet, a jacket to keep me warm, a refreshing drink, etc.)
And the sweet red cherry on top?
A foot massage by not one, but TWO doting men (and not just any two men, but my two absolutely favorite men) at the same time, one on each side. Oh, but it gets better. It eventually turned into a foot, calf AND hand massage. And as I settled back into a relaxing state of nirvana, I had but a single thought:
“I LOVE (Male Dominated Software Company.**)”
Any girl who doesn’t take advantage of THAT, is either lying or crazy.
** Clearly, not the actual name of the company. This is still an anonymous blog, after all, and for the protection of all parties involved, I must add that the drinks and dancing happened only after the event when it was professionally kosher. In addition, despite the drinks and dancing, all participants maintained the professional behavior expected and no inappropriate lines were crossed.
Throw in a secluded tropical island, Gosling’s black rum, a nearby dance club that plays Shakira and Sean Paul, and what did this lucky girl get?
•Guaranteed friends and attention from men at every function and during every break
•Free drinks and invitations to socialize every night
•Lots of dance partners
•Someone telling me that I look like Fergie (YES, the singer, not the actual British royalty)
•The guy I’d been secretly crushing on all week looking into my eyes on the dance floor, grabbing my waist and singing along with the lyrics, “Who knew that she could dance like that? She makes a man want to speak Spanish…” (the fact that I don’t actually speak Spanish aside, why is that so endearing when you actually have a crush on someone, but so cheesy when you don’t?)
•If I simply mentioned something I might need, there it was. (a sofa on which to lay down and rest my feet, a jacket to keep me warm, a refreshing drink, etc.)
And the sweet red cherry on top?
A foot massage by not one, but TWO doting men (and not just any two men, but my two absolutely favorite men) at the same time, one on each side. Oh, but it gets better. It eventually turned into a foot, calf AND hand massage. And as I settled back into a relaxing state of nirvana, I had but a single thought:
“I LOVE (Male Dominated Software Company.**)”
Any girl who doesn’t take advantage of THAT, is either lying or crazy.
** Clearly, not the actual name of the company. This is still an anonymous blog, after all, and for the protection of all parties involved, I must add that the drinks and dancing happened only after the event when it was professionally kosher. In addition, despite the drinks and dancing, all participants maintained the professional behavior expected and no inappropriate lines were crossed.
2/11/2007
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