Are you happy?

Last evening I thought about the state of being we call happiness. I realized that I don’t ask myself often if I’m happy. I never have. But I’ve always recognized (and been grateful for) moments of happiness, and I’ve had my share.

For most of us, loved ones are part of the picture. Many of my happiest moments involve my children. Some, a man. Others, friends. Many happy moments have been entirely about my own accomplishments or experiences. A piece of writing I felt good about. Time spent with magnificent works of art. An unexpected encounter with a fascinating mind. Beautiful shoes. Yes, even a great hat.

Are you happy? Do you think about it?

When is the last time you were happy?

I remember nine days when I was smitten-and-not-quite-in-love. In Paris. Writing daily, seeing art, walking. Staying by myself in a studio apartment. No one to worry about except me. Rare. So rare, that time to myself. I was completely happy.

I can still recreate the shape of that feeling, if not its mass or its temperature. It is greater than a summation of happy moments. More intricate than any litany of ingredients to be enumerated. It is a state of wholly-owned self, full capacity in a pleasurable process of expansion. It is a burrowing inward where light flourishes, alone, as well as in the company of another.

Contentment is more familiar; it is warm bread, the face of your child, sleeping. The stack of bills on the kitchen table, paid. If contentment is warmth, happiness is fire.

How often are you happy?

When I say that I love Sex and the City for the relationships among the women – funny, honest, imperfect – the men I know roll their eyes and say “yeah, sure.”  The women I know nod.

In the Sex and the City Movie, there was an exchange I’ll never forget, as Samantha (Kim Cattrall) is assessing her relationship of five years.

“How long has it been since you were happy?” one of her friends asks. “Six months,” she replies.

Then she asks Charlotte: “How often are you happy?”

Her answer: “Every day. Maybe not all day every day, but everyday.”

What a response. Can you imagine what it would be like to feel happiness every day? Even a little?

What makes you happy?

Sometimes, we dwell on what makes us unhappy. It seems easier, though it shouldn’t be.  Do you ever find yourself doing that?

I know what makes me happy:

• My children, laughing.
• Fewer money worries.
• Work that matters, and pays my bills.
• Someone to love, and love me back.
• Writing well.
• Speaking French.

Strange, now that I look at my list, and the sequence of items. What makes us happy shifts and shuffles the longer we live; putting it into words is illuminating. Writing well and speaking French are the easiest to attain (which does not make them easy). They are also the only pieces of my personal happiness puzzle in which I have a major hand. Is the absence of happiness linked to lack of control?

Must we control our environment in order to be happy? Or just our fair share?

Passion

Then there is passion. To pursue what I love. Sexual passion. Intellectual passion. Ah. Now, now I see.

Nine days in Paris. The intersection of everything I love, with the exception being that my sons were not there, but they were on holiday and well. Yes. Intellectual spark, sensual play with a man who understood my most private selves. Speaking French. Writing, well.

I remember marveling at the time, rolling the words around on my tongue, in two languages. Aloud. Je suis heureuse. I am happy. This is happiness.

How do you define happiness?

• How do you define your happiness?
• How has it changed?
• Where do you seek it?

© D A Wolf

Nifty neighbor, Prez that puckers, Next logical steps

Time for me to lighten up. Ya think!?! And with LEDs at that, apparently. So here are some ticklish tidbits that fit the bill.

Nifty neighbor

I was wandering my local (blogging) neighborhood and stumbled onto this delicious drunken rambling from Momalom, and just had to share it. I needed a laugh last night in a BIG way, and this definitely did the trick. So please read every intoxicating word, then pop back so you can understand why I’m pondering the following: should I reconsider my holiday lighting?

Observe this delightful product I discovered while performing a search on LED lights. Not only is it festive (and clearly designed for seasonal cheer), apparently, some engineers find this illuminating source to be multipurpose.

I shall now hold my tongue. (With difficulty.) Nonetheless, it is early November. There’s plenty of time to reassess December décor.

Prez that puckers

Yahoo.fr is always an entertaining quick read in the morning. A few headlines en français, imagining my wheat toast as a fresh croissant, and my Italian Roast transformed into café au lait in a bowl, sipped on a Parisian terrace.

Last week, the image below graced French Yahoo’s front page. It is President Sarkozy and his First Lady, Carla Bruni, who is far from the typical political spouse (even for France). She is a musician, a model, and very much her own woman.

Still – you have to smile. Only the French would capture their First Couple in a sexy smooch with a headline that reads “Spice up your love life.” What better advertisement for tourism as the holidays approach?

Next logical steps

What happens when you take a woman lit + lighting engineer + sex + French sexy style?

That equation translates as follows: I am resolved to proceed with the necessary research to shed light on a subject of cultural, educational, economic and socio-psychological import. Yes, French sex toys (or jouets adultes), and the remarkable array of products in usage in frankly-franco relationships. Some are objets d’art – truly beautiful works of design. Others are, let’s just say, surprising. 

In the meantime, is alcohol not only the secret to a flourishing sex life, but to brilliant wit with words as well?

As a responsible and curious journalist, I have also decided:

• I will attempt writing tipsy (1 glass of red wine to feel sexy)
• I will attempt writing 3/4 drunk (2 glasses of same)
• I promise to schedule aforementioned drinking judiciously (yes, you’ve heard it before, I’m the wheels).

I hasten to add: this is all in the interest of scholarship, readership, writing experience, and possible joint international marketing efforts to ease the global recession (and potentially fill my own depleted coffers).

Now if only I were overseas, then I could combine studies into yet a third: writing drunk + sex toy education. It could be… enlightening. However, you recall my dilemma: sex in France versus proper parenting. For now, the best I can manage are a few transatlantic phone calls. And maybe a little heavy breathing.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Dear Family of Strangers Connecting

How odd to wake each morning and think of you, immediately. Even as dreams hover. Even as the week’s worries crystallize too quickly, as I wonder what we shall say to each other, as I picture you rushing to jobs, to schools, to computers, to the day’s errands all too hurriedly. How odd that you have names and faces, and I have no need to know them. Some of you have shared that information; that is a gift of trust. For the rest, I am at ease with your mystery and fluidity; you are whatever you present yourselves to be. And the way I recreate you in my imagination.

Here is how you appear to me. You are kind and quirky, troubled and preoccupied, energetic and focused, frustrated and worn. Some of you know already what is important:  your lover’s pauses, your baby’s smile, your dog’s cocked head, your autumn marketplace filled with aromas and colors. Some of you are still learning the lessons you are writing, as am I.

Opening the laptop beside me in bed, I begin to type eagerly, even before I’ve switched on Mr. Coffee, tapped my nails on my son’s bedroom door, laid out slices of Chicago bread on aluminum foil, then turkey, then muenster, to make his usual lunch.

As he wakes and showers, I fret that I will not find words shiny enough, hardy enough, clever enough to hold your attention. As the coffee brews and then I take the first steaming sips, I wonder if I will make you grin, or reflect, or offer you what you give to me, daily – a sense of family.

Dear Family of Strangers:

When the night’s hours permit, I voyage across time and miles, strolling the Promenade along an azure sea, purring through erotic escapades in Paris as fingers and lips tangle in my hair, reminding me as I swim up through the fog of waking: I am not lost, and I am not broken.

Sometimes, I sink into the well. I search for a foothold, but the climb seems steeper and more slippery than it once was. Then I remember that you are there, and you expect more of me than this defeat. I feel for a rope, a jutting rock; I press on to fill my blank screen. I close my eyes and the juice returns, the well evaporates, and words travel without a specific plan. Now there is sky. Now there is a grassy field and open air.

I know. I am brooding and sentimental. You won’t like me like this. I ask your forbearance. Tomorrow I will be brazen or silly, but I’m hollowed out in this season of torrential rain and growing darkness, cold creeping into my bones. I don’t do well in the chill. But know this: your stories warm me, your words and letters make me smile. You read my bad days and my better days, my sloppy days like today. And I read yours.

Don’t think I would reject you in your entirety, whatever that may be at a given hour. Complexity offers a rich reserve of knowledge, and pleasure. When I know you are happy, I am happy for you. Happiness is not a hurtful thing, it is a hopeful thing. When I hear you struggling, I shape my words to soothe, or to bolster, because you aren’t alone.

When you make me laugh, everything is brighter. And I am stronger.

Dear Family:

You who understand that we own nothing, but are resplendent caretakers of everything and each other: I thank you for taking care of me. For allowing me to do the same.

You who befriend me: you know who you are, some of you with names and faces, others remaining tucked behind your pseudo-anonymity, like myself. You each do me honor, and I will pay it forward.

You who are no longer strangers: you become my echo family. I sense you. I hear you. In return, I give you the best of me when I can. This. Words are my god and my drug. Words are not my only god, but they are my only drug.

You who place your lives onto a screen vaguely aware that the world is peering over your shoulder: your vulnerability is a gift. You dare to express your humanity despite our cultural propensity for mask. If only we could all expose ourselves and say aloud: I’m lonely, I’m scared, I’m angry, I’m exhausted.

Sometimes, you nod in the quiet as you read between my lines while I tiptoe around that very refrain: I’m lonely, I’m scared, I’m angry, I’m exhausted.

Thankfully, there are moments when I can say: I’m happy, I’m surprised, I’m filled with wonder. Those moments are fewer; I dwell at the bottom of the well more often. I do not abide my own failure, but I am failing to scale these walls, failing to find the light. Sometimes, a single hand is enough to help me out, for awhile.

It is nearly winter, and we will be forced to gather. We build a virtual hearth for heat and community, welcoming strangers, sharing provisions. I bring you my words as contribution. They are my most natural currency, so I persist in unearthing them. They must be aired, polished, examined to be certain they are not counterfeit, and then used as intended – in exchange.

I’m tired and wrestling with language today, sluggish in constructing cohesive phrases. So I will simply say thank you in this seemingly infinite, intimate space. I will continue to tell my stories and ask my questions, to listen to yours, to participate. We are creating family, and I revel in the oddity of finding it here, bestowed with such generosity and affection.

Big Little Wolf

A vous qui me lisez en français:

Je vous prie de m’excuser ; je devrais écrire en français plus souvent, mais j’avoue que cela exige un effort, et parfois – puisque j’adore votre langue qui n’est pas la mienne, je préfère ne rien offrir que de maltraiter la poésie du français. Ceci étant, je vous remercie d’être là – et vous vous reconnaissez dans cette lettre – vous qui étiez des inconnus ; vous qui ne l’êtes plus ; vous qui me soutenez, sans laisser un mot.

© D A Wolf

Phoenix rising from the ashes. Myth or possibility?

Is it human nature to believe that we can rebuild, even from devastation?

I thought of this last evening, of the myth of the Phoenix rising from the ashes. I was watching the season finale of Mad Men, as the main character’s life seems to slip through his fingers – his marriage, his illusions about his spouse, his children whom he loves, his career, his alliances (many, taken for granted).

Ruefully, the fictitious hero grapples with the world crumbling around him. But he uses his wits, character, and new found humility to spark the start of something new.

The myth of the Phoenix

The myth of the Phoenix rising from the ashes is applicable to many. In this ancient story of rebirth and renewal, a great and colorful bird, one of its kind, is destroyed in a blazing nest. From the flames, a new egg forms and the magnificent creature rises again from the ashes.

The Phoenix myth is about hope; for those of us who have been slammed by tragedy or hardship – death, illness, job loss, divorce, financial ruin – can we rebuild?

Inherent in American culture is another myth – stubborn insistence on dreams, on fighting “the good fight,” on picking ourselves up, licking our wounds, and trying again. Our American myth rests on a foundation of youthful beliefs in fairness, in “the system,” and in the power of the individual. Of character. 

Reality, not television

If I told you how many times I’d been knocked down and gotten back up, you’d shake your head, wondering if my stories were fabricated. They aren’t, but that’s not the point; every life will know some measure of catastrophe and we will be called upon to show what we’re made of. And then what? 

When the landscape of your personal and professional reality goes up in flames, when devastation accumulates, when events topple you over and over as you try to recover, how do you keep rising from the ashes?

In last evening’s Season 3 Mad Men Finale, the wise elder partner says to the much younger Don Draper (paraphrased): “You still have your whole life in front of you to take risks.”

He’s right. At 30 or at 40 the resources to reinvent one’s world are more easily assembled; you’ve experienced fewer defeats. Innocence may be tarnished, but not obliterated. Belief in support systems hasn’t deserted, and stamina remains intact as you call upon strength to rally new troops.

Guts, luck, leadership, alliances

When you rebuild from nothing,  guts, luck, and leadership skills are critical. If you don’t have them, you must create them, in yourself. You must forge new alliances, and if it’s your own charge you’re leading, that means motivating, inspiring, negotiating, and ceding elements of control in a difficult dance of interdependence. The rules of the game have changed. Territories are unfamiliar.

Gods and myths

In this same episode, a nonchalant Conrad Hilton describes his distaste for those who “whine” about their situation. “I didn’t take you for one of those… I built everything on my own,” he says.

For our flawed hero, Hilton acts as mentor and father; to some extent Don serves him, as though paying tribute to a god. To be cut loose with “it’s just business” is an unexpected and eye-opening lesson. The rules of the game were more complex than he realized. Myths have been shattered, along with everything else.

Hilton’s statement is a simplification. No one builds everything on their own.

Maintaining relationships, determination, competence, judgment – charisma – these all play a vital role in accomplishments of significance. And they are the building blocks of leadership which is, as we all come to realize, a lonely place. Leadership in constructing something new. Leadership, heading into war.

So I ask you:

• Are you looking to rise from your own ashes?
• Do you still believe it is possible?
• Are you doing it alone, or with help?
• In pursuit of your survival, or your success?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

The scene of the crime, the pleasure of a hat, a mother’s news

Intestinal fortitude. A great hat. A mother’s happiness. Friday was a good day.

The back story

Oh, the dilemma of working from home! How we weary of wrestling with isolation; writers in particular need an occasional dose of living beings – especially since that’s generally what we write about. And if you’re single (and your teens don’t talk),  no amount of roaming from desk to floor to couch will cut it. Sometimes you just need to get the hell out, and position your posterior at a coffee shop or book store.

I was leery of the locale frequented by Breastfed Boomer Boy (of last week’s bizarre botched pick-up fame). Was he a permanent fixture in that sunken arm chair? Might I require Groucho glasses and fake mustache?

Determined to return to the scene of the crime, I packed my laptop, power cord, and all the positive thinking I could muster. I dropped the Kiddo at school, then headed towards Barnes & Noble feeling feisty and defiant. As I took the back roads through one of the city’s lovely, older neighborhoods, I passed signs for an estate sale and was – of course – immediately distracted.

Common Sense (gotta hate it)

Damn this recession. The desire to pull over was tugging at me, but Common Sense was holding firm. You can’t, she said.

Shit, I whined. But these are gorgeous homes from the 30s, and when will I get this chance again? Common Sense scowled, powerless to prevent me from slowing, then parking at the end of a curving line of cars.

You shouldn’t, she said.

It might be good for a story, I countered, rationalizing my way into Temptation Territory.

Once parked, I took my time strolling past the gracious homes of stone and brick, enjoying the scent of boxwood in the air. I entered the house by a long driveway, into spacious rooms where I could imagine bustling life and elegant entertaining that overflowed onto a landscaped terrace. Inside, people milled about, looking through assorted books, furnishings, and kitchen wares.

I climbed the stairs and meandered in and out of bedrooms, poking through clothing and accessories. It all felt so intimate – seeing what another woman wore at various times in her life, touching her belongings without knowing her. But there was no emotional sting; she was older, had family, and had moved. The home was sold. The remaining estate proceeds were to benefit her favorite charity.

The encounter

And that’s when I saw it on a shelf, just above my eye level. The hat. Not just any hat. Black felt. A contoured crown covered in black sequins, and not one was out of place. Trimmed in a sheer fabric with a softly tied bow. A fine brim – not too broad, but enough to dip over one eye, for mystery.

Did I mention that I love hats?

You have no business buying anything, said Common Sense. Keep your little paws off.

I just want to try it on, I whispered, and so I did, catching a glimpse in a nearby mirror as I tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear. I didn’t recognize the woman who looked back. She was smiling. Beaming.

I pulled the brim just a little lower, over one eye, and continued to gaze. I reluctantly removed the hat, glanced inside for a label, and noted the milliner’s name – George W. Bollman and Company. Then I took a deep breath, and turned over the tag.

My hat, I said aloud. My beautiful black hat, once worn by a stylish woman I will never meet, but whose hat I will cherish. My new treasure was priced at two dollars.

A mother’s news

After installing myself at B&N unmolested (Boomer Boy was nowhere in sight), I worked contentedly for hours, then hurried home. (I admit it. I wanted to play with my hat.) As I was driving, a friend called, her voice hot with excitement and gushing with news.

She’d been dealing with a terrible situation with her teenage son – not of her making or his – and it had suddenly resolved itself. This was no small issue, and no small miracle. We talked for awhile, and when I hung up I couldn’t stop grinning. By then I was home, dressing (for my hat), and I spent the rest of the evening gleeful. Hell, I felt thirty-something again, and as spicy as a petite Penelope Cruz!

That’s what only a slight detour in plan had fostered: one miracle for a friend, and moments of genuine happiness for me. After all, where there’s one miracle there may be others – some as simple as magic in a sparkling hat, or a mother’s joyful news. 

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Angst and addiction. So it goes…

Sublime. That is the only way I can describe yesterday. Life’s delicious (and simple) surprises, sweeping away the worries for an hour here, an hour there. It’s all about a mother. And a magic hat.

I was tapping out the tale just an hour ago, while sipping my favorite (extra bold) Italian roast. But cruel fate! Purveyors of angst and addiction! While typing, I received an email from a friend, a talented tempter of tiny story-spinning shoe-shoppers. Yes, said so-called friend sent me images of shoes! And not just any shoes. (You know already, don’t you.) They were the gold at the end of the rainbow, the Holy Grail of French footwear, the provocative product of the Parisian prince himself. Christian Louboutin.

Cruel, cruel friend who dares to forward not only pictures but links! And so early in the morning when my resistance is low! (Do I hear an emergency flight to Paris in the works to offset the fist-in-gut longing that results from such beauty? Air France is having specials. Any takers to house my son? And perhaps I could linger for a little French sex versus proper parenting? Might that (and croissants and espresso) squelch the angst, the addiction, the burning desire to run – not walk – to my nearby Neiman Marcus just to slip my little feet into these heavenly creations?)

The devil wears Louboutin

Is this devilish do-badder unaware that a round-trip ticket to Paris costs less than the leopard fur booties dangled before my kohl-rimmed eyes? And oui, I dare admit I’ve tried them on previously, and they were divine!

Does this faux-friend not know that these booties would pay for the college visits to two universities with my teen son? What temptation! What folly!

Asking your indulgence

I promise to return to the subject of my serendipitous sojourn to another time and place (yesterday’s happy moments) – the subject of my false-start morning musing. But for now, all I can do is ask your indulgence in my indulgence, as I share these images.

And that brings me to the issue of your input which is a topic of only slightly less monumental significance than global warming and health care reform. Might I ask, what footwear I should don next for my revolving set of blog banners? It’s November after all, with its sharp bite in the air, morning rising crisply, and frost forming on the windows. Isn’t it time to reflect the change in seasons? Time to move away from Spring and Summer’s black patent slides, red stiletto slingbacks, and most recently, the strappy sandal?

Any preferences?

Any requests? The basic black heeled boot? A bootie? (No Louboutins.) The classic black patent close-toed pump (with peek-a-boo toe cleavage), or possibly a fun and funky brown stacked sandal?  Or do I toss the five feet banner bonanza, and seek something else? Suggestions? Do you care? (Likely not.)

But shot, shot, shot is the hope at left and right brain joining together to craft prose of any substance. So I yield, throwing my hands up into the air, admitting that I’d rather play dress-up, and then go out on the town for naughty nightcaps and womanly wining and dining. (Do remember, it’s Saturday – and rare that I get time off for good behavior. I’m the wheels – and the sultry Saturday nights seem to belong to my son!)

As for the inebriating evil email that started this, my mind wanders. Oh for the flashy but pulse-quickening candy and lace patent spike pumps! Imagine sheer black hose, lacy corset underneath (French, naturellement), a fitted black dress… that Louboutin would be a stocking stuffer, indeed.

Angst and addiction

So it goes, my life these past years: angst over money, over children, over jobs; addiction to caffeine to keep plugging, to walking so I may obliterate sorrow, to fledgling optimism because it is my nature, to gazing at art and shoes and shoes as art, and most of all, to words. Because words serve every corner of my being, even if only as haven, my personal place of lost-and-found, to paint a smile on morning’s face: my moments to dream, and feel like a girl again.


© D A Wolf

Baptism by bubble bath (and other acts of love)

I was thinking about my in-laws the other evening. I loved them, and haven’t seen them in nearly 10 years. They are a close knit family, grounded, smart, and unpretentious. We communicated in an amusing mix of languages, and got along well for more than a decade.

I remember how proud my father-in-law was when I produced the first grandsons – one right after the other. Yes – he wanted boys, and boys he got, to carry on the family name which could be traced back to 13th century church records.

Family

The Catholic church that is, and I’m not Catholic (nor are my boys). But that was never an issue; the family wasn’t religious, but they were traditional. We celebrated a careful combination of holidays, honoring a diverse and rich heritage. In fact, we still do so, with relish.

In reminiscing (it happens this time of year), I was recalling family Christmases in Europe, with the noisy gathering of four generations that included children, grandchildren, and even great grandchildren.

Trips

During any visit, there were drives on desolate roads from one tiny rural town to another, to see an uncle or a cousin. There were days and nights of delectable foods, wonderful drink, and lively discussion. There were long breakfasts over piping coffee and honey bread, lunches that were multi-course affairs extending over hours, light suppers of charcuterie and salad, followed by conversation and porto that went until late, and we needed to sleep. Everything was both simpler and richer, moving at a more leisurely pace.

I used to travel overseas on business, and I’d take my wiggling, smiling babes with me whenever I could, entrusting them to my in-laws who were thrilled to see their grandsons. My mother-in-law would make her famous leek soup (delicious), and my father-in-law would teach me more expressions in his regional dialect, laugh at my pronunciation, then drive me to the high-speed train and I’d be off to do the corporate thing, knowing my babies were in good hands.

Baths and babies

Earlier this week I chuckled while reading Black Market Baptism, compliments of a caustic counselor’s random musings. It reminded me of my own boys’ baptism by bubble bath (or so the tale unfolded, years after the fact). It seems, during one or two of those business trips when my sons were in the care of their grandmother, she may have performed an “emergency baptism” on each, in the bath, just in case.

My former in-laws are not religious. In fact, they only attend church for weddings, baptisms, and funerals, even though the lovely edifice with its tolling bells sits in the center of the small town square, barely a block from their home.

So when I heard about the emergency baptism, all I could do was smile. As for the gods of any faith, if they were watching, surely they’re in favor of contingency plans gifted, in secret, by a well-meaning grandmother.

Aftermath

When the marriage ended, my ex’s family cut all ties, with me. That was the beginning of a long series of difficult lessons – the collateral damage when I do becomes I don’t. Divorce is a dismantling of two families; it is more than two people ending a relationship and dividing up assets. It is more than children shuttled between homes or living with one parent and rarely seeing the other. It is a hundred tiny hurts that string themselves out over the years.

I made certain – as I did when they were babies – that my sons knew their European side; my elder son in particular has forged close bonds with the cousins, aunts, and uncles. But for me, missing those I considered family is one of the hurts that resurfaces this time of year. So I cling to memories – sweet memories – of another time, and acts of love.


© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Real men don’t wear pumps

Call me crazy, but every time I see a man in high heels – not lifts, mind you – high heels - ladies high heels - I just want to gag. Do you hear me Real Housewives of Atlanta?

I’m not talking cross-dressing, drag queens, or trannies in pumps. To them, I say go for it, though it’s irritating when your legs are better than mine. In fact, I’m très open-minded on many issues of global import, compared to most on both sides of the Hotlantic. But come on, real men don’t wear pumps!

Speaking of Real Housewives of Atlanta

I scream, you scream, we all scream about the Real Housewives of Atlanta, and I get a kick out of reality TV as much as the next guy. But RHOA offends me on oh-so-many levels – for the women I know of all ethnic backgrounds, for the children being raised to worship the almighty buck, for the nurturing single moms trying to do it all. Hell, for the mistresses (and the misters?) I’ve known, who don’t flaunt and sashay while their playmates live with spouse and kids!

And seriously – I’m mortified, for entire families who could pay bills for a year on one of Kim’s necklaces. And then there are my friends who live in Atlanta – men and women, gay and straight, who’d never be caught dead (even for entertainment) in some of these slick, souped-up scenarios.

All that aside – confession time. It’s the show you love to hate. And with Bravo TV often humming in the background by evening, well, um… OKAY.  I watch. And I hate myself after. But then I feel so normal as the closing credits roll. Who needs Prozac when we have Kim, NeNe, and OMG, Sherée? As for Lisa, I’m holding my tongue, and likewise on Kandi who seems the most genuine – and genuinely talented – of the Hotlanta crew.

But RHOA raises the male footwear issue, and OMG OMG OMG. When I saw Dwight in those booties with 4″ heels (at NeNe’s rowdy run to raise bucks for “Heel the Soul”), I needed smelling salts, and Betty Draper’s fainting couch.

Stilettos, slingbacks, sandals, hooker heels

The one who KILLS me (though he seems like a real sweetheart), is the celebrity-hair-wig-stylist (Derek J), who treats the tresses of Krazy Kim. And according to him, “All men [are] soon to wear high heels.”

Well, Derek J certainly walks tall (in ladies shoes) and carries a big… purse. Puh-lease! And no offense Derek J, but… every time I see you (or any man) arrive in (what appear to be) ladies pumps, I want to SCREAM.

I don’t care about the sexual orientation of any of these fine folks, but I am a shoe maven. A lover of line, design, meticulous craftsmanship. I am a devotee of the art of the chaussure, stiletto as staple of style, bootie as beauty.

To be frank, I’m a fan of Dwight’s pointy-toed Euro footwear, when he indulges, which reminds me of France. So I’m not talking Euro fashionistos or French aristos; I’m talking men in ladies shoes. Men in high heels. Hairy legs. Kankles. Eeeew.

A woman’s high heel on a man’s foot? Ugh. Better yet – UGGS, and give them to the HE’s by hooray. S’il vous plait!

If you ogle via Google, is that Gogling?

I did do a bit of online research on the topic of men and heels, and Derek J is quite right. There was a (short-lived) trend of hetero men in heels, circa 2007.  And who knows, it may be swinging back into style in certain circles. To each his own, I say, but also – and without malice, BARF.

In cruising the net I discovered an article on men and high heels from Examiner.com – offered by a European fashion examiner located in… you guessed it – Hotlanta! Nonetheless, it’s an informative article, and the writer raises some interesting facts. That said, I’m not talking “man heels” à la French Prez Sarkozy or European fashion which has always provided a slightly more dandyish (and quite enjoyable) set of options for men to express their personal panache.

I’m talking men in pumps. I say again – ladies heels on men? Blech!

Planet Fred, oui

On my planet, real men do eat quiche (and a whole lot of other things), but they don’t wear pumps.

Fetishes? No problem. Foot fetish or shoe fetish? Welcome to my planet! But the fetish damn well better be a love of a woman’s foot or her shoes on her!

I’m happy to have a gentleman enamored of my petits pieds and fantasy footwear. But I don’t want him trying any of it on, thank you. And that’s why the universe has many planets, after all. (Might we send the Atlanta housewives to one of their own, while we’re at it? Not just yet? Not until we hear tonight’s semi-live version of Tardy for the Party on the Real Housewives of Atlanta Season 2 Reunion Part Deux?)

I’ll be appropriately attired for the occasion of course. No fuzzy slippers for me; vampy viewing is in store – perhaps perky pink pumps, or oo-la-la leopard spikes?

What about you, ladies and gents? Popcorn and Prada?


© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Techno-rescue (kids kick butt!)

Let’s hear it for teens with techie talents, remote connection software, and loads of patience for their weary and whiny parents, far far away.

A few nights ago, the audio on my laptop stopped working. Bit the dust. Dead. Nada.

D-A-M-N-A-T-I-O-N. I wanted to play my favorite DVD! Yes, a chick flick. I tried control panel, assorted configurations, speaker switching, screaming. Nothing worked. As the night wore on (and I swore on), my frustration was soaring into the red zone. So I finally called Techno-Teen, at college.

Raise ‘em right!

One of the great things about helping your kids is that they may (if you’re very fortunate) reciprocate. If they can. It was late, College Boy had heaps of homework, and Moping Mother interrupted his evening. But he set everything aside, and within minutes was remotely manipulating my computer to diagnose the problem.

The whole time, he was talking me through each step, calmly. Simply. So I might learn a little something, and because he knows how much this sort of thing drives me nuts. As usual, his competence gave me the confidence to relax, knowing he’d figure it out and I’d be watching video clips, listening to French news, and playing DVDs again lickity split.

I also heard his scratchy and tired voice, his cough, and I was doing my mom thing – quizzing him on consumption of orange juice and chicken soup. He ignored those particular remarks, but I heard his roommates laughing in the background.

Lessons

At the end of an hour, my audio drivers were reinstalled, we said goodnight, and I thanked my lucky stars for a kick ass teen-techno-rescue, compliments of my son.

Keep in mind: if you have a techie problem and you can’t solve it, your teenager likely can.

My other lesson? Not only am I here if my son needs me, but if I need him, he’s a speed dial away. And he always takes my calls.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Is college still the brass ring? (Teen stress, college prep, college applications)

Is college still the brass ring? With many parents financially strapped and savings wiped out, it’s only natural that we reconsider college for our sons and daughters. Once, it was a given that those four years meant the education needed to succeed, and essential experiences to test independence.

My 18-year old is now a freshman at a large university, and his 16-year old brother is a high school junior. From a young age, my boys knew what they loved and wanted, which meant college and graduate school in their future. We’re also a family that believes in a liberal arts education – learning to think and see in new ways, to challenge yourself, being exposed to a breadth of subjects and fellow students, whatever your eventual career.

There’s no question that competition to get into schools remains fierce, and money is a concern. But we know that to not try is to fail. We also know that scholarships and loans will figure heavily into our equation, as they must for millions of families..

Pressed and stressed – how much is too much?

My younger son recently attended a costly SAT prep class – more debt for me, more pressure for him, adding to his workload in a challenging academic program. He took the SATs a month ago (we think the class helped), but seeing how tired he was, I mused on competition, SAT scores, and SAT tips. I’d like to know what other parents think about the academic stress their kids are carrying, particularly if they have their hearts set on college.

• How much performance pressure feels right?
• How have you helped them manage activities – sports, arts, academic?
• What kind of discussions have you had about college prep, applications, and financing?

The teen view, compliments of Radical Parenting

One of the teen writers at Radical Parenting took time to share her thoughts about competition, college prep, and college dreams. Note that she writes of dreams. Ours may be a bit tarnished in this tough economy, but our kids’ dreams? They want their shot. I think we owe them that.

Take a look, and then weigh in, would you?

More of a Journey: College

Rachel is a teen writer for Radical Parenting.com, a parenting website written from the kid’s perspective with 82 teen interns! Rachel was born and raised in NYC. She enjoys singing, debating, traveling and writing.  Her favorite subjects are English and Science; she wishes to pursue a career in either of them in the future.

As I think about college and the future, I realize that I planned my whole future out.  “I want to get into a state college for undergrad and then go to Columbia for graduate school for journalism.  I would want to start my journalism career locally and work my way up, occasionally writing a book.  After about 5-10 years of being the best I could be, I would start a program for teens to help them become published authors as well…”  I always thought about the “What”, but I don’t always focus on the “How”.  I am so focused on the outcome that I sometimes lose sight of the path I am on.  Most teens are like that.

Everyone says that college was the best years of their life, though they don’t admit it until after graduation.  I tend to hear that you “find yourself” when you’re in college.  Though I may not be in college yet, I have my high expectations in it.  Most teens who are going to college do as well.

What Teens Want From College:

1.       To Learn – Of course any teen planning to go to college expects academic experience. We learn things better as well.  Since we normally pick our classes in college, we would naturally choose classes that interest us.  Teens learn better when they’re motivated; we would do more and be more enthusiastic if we’re doing something we love or want to do.  It is really exciting learning everything you can about something you love.

2.       To Discover – We want to learn how it is to be out on our own.  It’s not like we don’t want to be babied anymore (okay… maybe it is), but teens wish to be independent.  We want to work, learn, and make our dreams happen on our own.  By doing this, we learn more about ourselves, which is the main reason for our longing for independence.

3.       To Grow – When we discover things about ourselves, we become more independent.  However, if something is too hard, with no one to “handle” it for us, we push ourselves harder.  We work harder when we have to rely on ourselves.  This assists us to become stronger and prepares us for “the real world”.  Yes, some teens actually look forward to hard times because we know it only helps us grow.  If it brings us one step closer to being treated like an adult, we will welcome future struggles.  I don’t mean to use the cliché but it’s true: what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

4.       To Befriend – Many parents I know say, “The friends you make in college are for life.”  Many of my friends believe this to be true. We are excited to meet new people, to mingle with people we weren’t exposed to when in high school.  Different personalities, backgrounds, pasts… it’s a potpourri of diversity!

5.       New Environment – This goes hand-in-hand with new friends.  A new environment is fascinating but, at times, sort of scary.  Teens are scared that, even though they want to be independent, they would fail at their dream.  Don’t forget to always encourage them.  Do not encourage them to the point of smothering, but enough so that they’re reassured that you will always stand by them, just not right next to him/her. However, different teens respond to new places differently.  So if your teen happens to forget to send you a weekly update once or twice, it’s not because they don’t miss you. They are probably still adjusting to college life.

6.       To Prepare – College is a gateway to “real” life.  All teens are looking forward to the “real” world, even those that are unsure about getting a higher education. This is the main reason why college is really exciting for us; we want to grow up and be able to support ourselves. So as you send us off to college in the next few years, remember that though we can’t wait to spread our wings, we will always itch to come home.

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© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy