Regrets Only

Regret is a wasted emotion, I’ve been told. And I agree. Why waste good energy on regret when revenge is so much more productive, right? (I kid, I kid! …Or do I??) Still, enlightened though I am, there are a few things I do regret:

• I regret that I cannot find reruns of Moonlighting on cable.
• I regret that I haven’t flossed since…um, ever. (I realize some of you are gagging and clawing at your throats right now, but it is true. I never floss. I do gargle and swish with a special medicated rinse, however. I know it’s not the same, but jamming my fingers half way down my throat in order to get those back molars makes me want to hurl. Oh, sure, I’ll tell my dentist, "I’ll start flossing this time, I swear!" But I never do. There are two things in my life that I know I ought to do, but I simply refuse: a. give up coffee and, b. floss. Don’t try to change my mind; it can’t be done. Those are my vices. It is what it is.)
• I regret that I didn’t discover raspberry-chocolate crème brulee until my mid-20’s. (Just think of all those wasted years eating bland flan!)
• I regret over-scheduling myself until June.

This last point demands a little explanation. Despite the fact that I know the next six weeks will be amongst the most hectic at work, and my house and yard are desperate for a really good spring cleaning, and my son’s fourth birthday is rapidly approaching (He wants to have friends at this one. Pray for me.), and Mother’s Day is looming large on the horizon (and my mom demands a good present this year after I've "maligned her" in my blog...but--come on!-- she gave my son orange juice after he'd vomited for four days! Did she think I wasn't going to blog about that??), and the baby is at that dangerous just beginning to be mobile stage, and my husband is busy with his job, and I’ve just signed up for classes to finish a second Masters--despite ALL OF THIS I took on assisting with the directing of a local play.

Before you feel the slightest pang of sympathy for me, let me assure you that I am not being completely altruistic—I do get paid (a couple of cents a minute). Still, this means I have less time for doing something I really, really love: blogging. If you’ve noticed that my posts have dwindled over the last two weeks, this is one of the reasons why. AND I’m not going to find any relief until June. (She typed, as she fell back in her chair and threw an arm over her eyes in consternation and despair.) So, I feel like I’m not being a very good blogger and that I am losing touch with all of my cool blog friends, and I regret that. I regret not being able to return emails and having to rush around all the time and feed my family nothing but fast food (Um, actually this is sort of the norm around here, but I’ll pretend this is due to my recent scheduling snafu in order to not look like a completely lazy mom. After all, Mother’s Day IS on the way, and I don’t want to write myself out of a present... especially since Scott is a little miffed about my “Let. There. Be. LIGHT.” post. He says I exaggerated his electricity hoarding mania. As though it is even possible to exaggerate something like that.) [eye roll] (Ooooh, hang on a second. I'm noticing a theme with people around me becoming annoyed about my posts. Could they possibly have a point about public criticism? Naaaaaaaah!).

So, I send my regrets to you along with a warning that my posts will be less frequent until June. Eh. Life happens, right?

But there is always an upside! A silver lining, so to speak. And here it is: we can take this opportunity to commune over our shared regrets. In fact, it is entirely possible that we can grow closer as we air our dismays. Better, we might even be able to leave go of our laments and move on after our ritual airing of the regrets. Who knows? This thing may catch on! It may become an international holiday: "Regret Wednesday!" I mean, if that Scientology silent birth thing was bought into by Katie Holmes, there is no telling how many people will want to participate in "Regret Wednesday!" All it will take is a little marketing. We'll have to make decorations and start some traditions for our special day. I'm thinking some themed food may be in order, too. And no holiday is complete without a few songs commemorating the meaning of the day. I'm thinking no songs scream regret like "Yesterday" (Beatles), "My Way" (Sinatra), "Me and Bobby McGee" (Janis Joplin), "If I Could Turn Back Tiiiiii-iiiiiiime" (Cher), "Margaritaville" (Jimmy Buffet), and "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" (Bill Withers).

Possibly you, too, regret the loss of an 80’s television show (New Hart, perhaps??)? Maybe your regret is even deeper than that. Bad hair cut? Bad relationship? That high school year book photo you should have gotten up earlier and prepared for? That pint of Ben and Jerry’s? Those TWO pints of Ben and Jerry’s? Your first time? Your second time? That time you made out with your friend’s significant other? Maybe you’ve yet to discover crème brulee (gasp!)? Go ahead and air your dirty laundry. What is it that’s holding you back? Dump it here. Extra points for pairing a song with your regret.

Lost in Translation

Due to the way some meetings were scheduled at work, I was able to take a longer lunch than usual on Wednesday. A friend and I scooted off to Panera Bread (That's Saint Louis Bread Company for you Missouri dwellers) for a light repast and girly gab session. Because of our superfluity of work materials (laptops, etc.), we couldn’t do the usual ladies partner lavatory dance; one of us had to stay and guard our stuff. Nicole, who was born with an abnormally tiny bladder but was compensated with insanely high cheekbones as the universe’s form of apology, went first.

Nicole returned from the bathroom looking a little uncomfortable.

Me: What’s the matter?

Nicole: Well, I…nothing.

M: Don’t “nothing.” Tell me. Was it something in the bathroom?

N: Um…yeah.

M: Damn it! I knew I shouldn’t have let you go alone. You’re just a kid. A bathroom visit like this takes at least two: one to do the job and the other to do recon work. I blame myself!

N: Ha ha. Very funny.

M: I can’t help it. The chocolate croissants here make me giddy. Seriously, what happened? I drank a lot of ice tea, and I’m going to have to go any minute now. I need to know what I’m facing when I go in there.

N: (sigh) Okay. So, I’m in the stall—

M: Whoa! You aren’t going to give me all of the details, are you? I mean, you know how I have that phobia about bodily fluids, right? Does this involve bodily fluids??

N: (pause) Can I finish?

M: Sorry. Go on.

N: So, I’m in the stall, and this woman takes the stall next to me. We’re the only two in there. I’m just minding my own business…when she starts... talking.

M: Talking? What? Like in tongues or something? What’s wrong with talking?

N: She starts talking in Spanish. She says, “Hola!”

M: Do you speak Spanish?

N: No, I took high school French. You?

M: German. So what did you do?

N: I say, “Hola!” I mean, I didn’t want to be rude…even though it does seem kind of weird for her to suddenly start talking to me through the stall wall. Then, she starts rattling off all these other things in Spanish.

M: But you can’t understand her, right?

N: Right. To me it sounds like, “Nacho bell grande, burrito burrito, jalapeño chorizo, fish taco, fish taco, fish taco—“

M: That? Right there? Is one thing I’ve never understood! Who would eat a fish taco?? I mean, just the thought of the fishy texture in a tortilla makes the little fleshy thing at the back of my throat clench in disgust!

N: They’re actually pretty good. The fish is fried.

M: I don’t care if the fish is smoked and covered in melted cheese and pico. It still doesn’t belong in my taco! Chicken, sure. Steak, yes. I’ll even pop for the veggie, but fish? That's a deal breaker.

N: (sigh.) Whatever. Anyway, she’s speaking in Spanish, and I can’t understand a word. So, I say, “Um, excuse me, but I don’t speak Spanish.”

M: And?

N: She just keeps going on and on: “Queso, chili con carne, chimichanga, enchilada!” So, I finally get the idea that she’s trying to tell me that she needs some toilet paper, and I start wadding up toilet paper and throwing it over the top of the stall. I mean, I, too, have found myself in the toilet paperless stall after the countdown has begun, and there’s a desperation in that predicament. Know what I mean?

M: Mmm-hmmm. Been there. So, you performed a random act of kindness. That was nice. Why are you flustered?

N: Well, I throw all this paper over the top of the stall--and then I go to leave. That's when the stall door next to me flies open, and this woman covered in toilet paper sticks her head out, holds up her cell phone, and shouts, "Que?!" Then, she slams the door…and goes back to talking on her cell phone.

M: Her cell phone?? Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! She was talking on her cell phone that whole time??

N: Yes.

M: That’s awesome!

N: Yeah, well, she looked kind of pissed. She slammed the door of the stall and said something into her cell that I am sure means “crazy lady” in Spanish.

M: Oh. My. God! You may have just caused an international incident! --Wait. We may be able to fix this. I’ll go in there right now and start throwing toilet paper over the top of the stall, too! Maybe she’ll think it’s an American custom!! Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! (snort. choke. gasp.)

N: (sigh) Tell me again why I am friends with you?

M: Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! I have NO IDEA! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! --Ooh, I better go to the bathroom before I wet myself. Gee, I better take my cell with me. That way, if I run out of toilet paper, I can call you. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!

N: You aren’t going to put this in your blog, are you?

M: Oh no. No, no, no. Your secret is safe with me. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!!

Let.There. Be. LIGHT.

[The irony that today is Earth Day has not been wasted on me. Such is the depths of my frustration, I have gone ahead and posted this missive despite the national recognition of our planet.]

My husband did it again. He messed with our light bulbs.

For the past twelve years, Scott and I have had a recurring marital mêlée concerning our light switches. I like them in the “on” position; he likes them in the “off” position. This usually results in Scott chasing after me every night (not in the good way you might imagine) flipping off switches and grumbling. While I think rooms filled with light look cheery and warm, Scott sees my decorative sconces as equivalent to luminescent-financial-waste-makers. The man doesn’t even use a light to read by. Rather, he uses a handheld digital reading device with an incandescent monitor and downloads texts to it. In fact, now that I think about it, Scott shuns all illumination by drawing blackout blinds over the windows and wearing an eye mask to bed. (In all seriousness, I can envision Scott attempting to persuade the Eloi in The Time Machine that their candles and wood fires are wasteful, and it would be better for them to just huddle in the dark with the cannibalistic Morlocks.) Why a man who routinely wastes food by turning up his nose at leftovers, throws away paper goods rather than recycling, and willingly wastes gas by driving miles out of his way to demo a new computer gadget would criticize my homey lights, I have no idea. But there it is.

The current debacle centers around the bathroom light. The switch is located above a counter, which is why I did not see Scott’s strategic light-switch-chess-move coming. Scott casually mentioned over dinner that the three year old is not tall enough to reach the switch because the counter is in the way. I, like a chump, dumbly nodded as Scott explained that he could install a light switch that reacts to movement. Lord help me, I think I even applauded his resourcefulness.

It is this movement sensoring light switch that is responsible for my sore shoulder and possible tennis elbow.

If there is no movement in the bathroom for more than thirty seconds, the switch cuts the power to the lights. While this may work well for men and boys who pee standing up (and in many cases swing around wildly, spraying the seat, walls, and floor), for a woman who may take longer than thirty seconds to demurely relieve herself while in a seated position, this is a problem. I have to jerk my arm up in the air every twenty-nine seconds in order to see what I’m doing. Otherwise, I will be plunged into darkness part way through doing my business. Compounding this issue is the fact that I am an avid coffee drinker. I mean, there is the very real possibility that I may tear a rotator cuff! And God help me if I want to read while taking a hot bath-- I’ll be twitching and spasming twice a minute as I “relax.”

This isn’t over, Electricity Savings Man. I may be in check, but I’m gunning for your king. I feel a check mate a’ comin’….

Almost Famous

You know, if I were famous, I could say that I was off shooting an artsy indie flick, and you’d all cock an eyebrow and nod politely while secretly thinking I’ve spent the past ten days in a “spa” that either a.)de-toxed/super cleansed my colon in yet another effort to drop these dreaded last few pregnancy pounds (not that I’m bitter…much); b.) specialized in tasteful cosmetic surgery and allowed me to lay low while I fully recovered from any residual swelling before I made my public appearance where everyone would remark on how “well rested” I now look; c.) got off my back whatever the current prescription drug monkey is de rigueur in Hollywood these days while I rubbed elbows with Britney, Lindsay, and Paris.

Sadly, I am not famous. (Though I really should be. And not in that “girls gone wild/fifteen minutes of fame” way. More like the “home town girl bravely discards the baggage of her past and makes good by setting positive goals for herself and, along the way, making the world a better place” kind of way because I’ve really been trying to rekindle some spark of personal passion that I’ve been lacking since my last pregnancy swallowed a lot of my energy. But I digress.) This means that I, as one of the nameless rabble, have to own up to my as-yet-un-famous whereabouts.

I shall now commence my owning up. The past ten days have brought about quite a few vaguely surprising twists in the life of this working mother. My three year old contracted rotavirus, which taught me that the human body is, indeed, over seventy percent water--only not the purified drinking kind one gets in an Evian bottle. I saw liquids of various shades and hues liberated from my son's bodily confines at speeds I thought only space shuttles could attain. This lasted for the first five days, when he appeared to be getting better, only to fall back into a tummy clenching fit of despair after a well-meaning grandmother offered to sit with said child and thought two glasses of orange juice might make a nice addition to his recently drain-o-ed and irritable gastrointestinal tract. (“But I thought vitamin C was good for fighting off illness!”) This landed us in the emergency room where said child was rehydrated, and I was encouraged (in the tones that kindergarten teachers reserve for the students who repeatedly forget to stop playing on the monkey bars to use the potty when the urge to relieve oneself hits) to give said child bland foods, rather than fresh squeezed citrus, as though it was I who needed this reminder. (Thanks, mom.)

Dovetailing the three year old’s bout with unintentional bulimia was my step-father’s heart attack. What appeared to be “trouble breathing” turned out to be a full-fledged heart attack requiring triple bypass surgery—which he flatly refused, against three cardiac doctors’ recommendations, for as yet undisclosed reasons, which probably have more than a little something to do with his fear of having his heart cut into. I can’t blame him for his fear, but the end result is that we all stare at him every time he burps wondering if this is the moment when the 90% blocked artery goes for the full monty. Naturally, my mother, who at the best of times is neurotic, has gone fully phobic. She keeps experiencing sympathy heart palpitations and strange, vague infirmities, which she relates to me over the phone in a wheezing oh-how-will-I-ever-make-it-through-the-day voice. This would not be nearly as big an issue if she were not one of our child care providers (see: “grandmother, orange juice” described above).

(Note: Before you feel too terribly bad for my step-father and mother, let me assure you that this sort of melodrama is fairly typical of them. My step-father will eventually agree to the surgery, but not before my mother fully freaks and takes to her bed, moaning about life’s injustices and her sudden spastic colon. It’s this thing they do. It may have something to do with their Catholic/Jewish backgrounds.)

Anyway, while all this drama was unfolding, I found myself in the middle of applying to grad school for a second masters, because –hey!—why not go for a tension trifecta??

So, what is a puking preschooler/cardiac crisis/moaning mother/grad school guffawing girl to do, you ask?

I’ll tell you what I did. I followed Cheryl’s massage lead (Thank you, Cheryl!) and headed over to a swanky spa for a hair cut to achieve a whole new look. I said a resounding yes to bangs—they’re apparently “in” again-- but not before I got a peppermint hot oil scalp massage and mango-lime moisturizer hand rub down. Then, I did a little shopping-- where I apparently channeled Audry Hepburn because I walked out with a tea length crisp cotton sundress cinched with a wide belt (a la Paris When It Sizzles), a chiffon scarf, and ridiculously oversized sunglasses. I took my new look, my new outfit, and my new book (Good In Bed, generously given to me by dear, dear Saint Karla. Thank you, Karla!) and spent the last two days of my ten day hiatus allowing my messy house to get a shade messier, picnicking in the park with my husband and boys, and gorging myself on Jen Weiner’s novel while snacking on leftover foil wrapped chocolate Easter eggs.

Moral: When life hands you lemons (or perhaps two glasses of orange juice on your son’s dicey digestive system), toss those citrusy fruits in a blender with some ice and make margaritas. Who's with me?? Yee haw!

By the way, a big shout out to all the well wishers who wondered where I snuck off to! And did you see how far the Six Degrees of Un-Seperation Project has taken us?? Universe, you do amaze me!

Freudian Spam

I am fascinated by the intricacies of personalized advertisements on the web. Apparently some software genius developed these programs that track what we web surfers view. As we blissfully troll through the internet, little software spies run around gathering data about what it is we find interesting and begin to cater to our preferences. Within moments, advertisements are pushed out to us that some program somewhere believes we will find appealing. Looking up new recipes for chocolate chip cookies? Ads for Hersey Chocolate Chips are likely to appear. Doing a little research on Caribbean cruises? You may find yourself reading an ad extolling the virtues of bermuda shorts. Wading through the net for information about remodeling your home? Don’t be surprised if ads for granite countertops start popping up on your screen.

This sort of personalized-interest-analysis isn’t all bad. For example, Amazon tracks the genres of books I tend to purchase and alerts me to new titles that I may enjoy. TiVo tracks the genre of television I tend to watch and suggests shows that cater to people like me. Sure, it’s a little Fahrenheit 451/1984-ish, but some of these suggestions have been helpful.

However, I think there is an attribute of these personalized-interest-profiles that is as yet unrealized: the self-analysis feature. I propose that you can save THOUSANDS in therapy trying to figure out what it is that makes you tick if you simply look at the advertisements headed your way. Thus, if you ever want to take a litmus test of the type of person you are becoming, just take a look at the ads the internet is pushing out at you.

Currently, my ads feature Bare Minerals, Prada, and Rejuvex. I also see quite a few plugs for baby gear and parenting advice. (Apparently something about me has led the internet to believe I deeply need assistance from other parents and that my children are in need of counseling. Well...DUH.). Okay, all those make sense. I guess.

However, I became particularly disturbed when my brother called me to chat while he was taking a look at my latest blog entry. While we were both looking at the same site, the ad I saw on the side of my blog was for pacifiers, while the ad my brother saw was for…(wait for it)…faux leopard print covers for non-lethal electronic stun guns.

Yes, you read that right.

So, what exactly is it about my brother that makes the internet think he may benefit from a tazer cozy? And a leopard print one at that? I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking: Is this something I should tell mom about??

My freak meter spiked for a moment, but then I calmed down once I remembered that I have been receiving spam for penile enlargements ever since I attempted to win the HGTV Dream House in 2006. (Hey, you can’t win if you don’t play. That house had to go to SOMEBODY.) That spam is either spot on (because if I DO have a penis, it very, very much needs enhancing), or there are clearly a few bugs in the personalized-interest-spy-programs.

I’m willing to chalk up my brother’s leopard print stun gun ensemble to a random program glitch. For now. But if he does anything to annoy me, you know I’ll whip out the faux animal hide riot gear and go medieval on him.

You may just want to take a look at your own ads and do a little good natured self analysis. What do your ads say about you?

Desperately Seeking Sophia*

(Note: The situation below prevented me from getting back to Katina, who clearly has an artist's eye for finding beauty in every situation. I can't believe I missed that photo opportunity, Katina. I'm learning that I need to be more on the ball with the camera. Yes, Cheryl, I missed yet ANOTHERphoto op! Anyway, here's a shout out to Katina and her photographer's eye. And here's another shout out to the rest of us who are clearly suffering from irritable bowel syndrome, the rare Asiatic "fluffy" strain.)

Picture it: My home. 7 pm last night. The frantic rhythm of the day is mellowing to a slow, steady beat as the family prepares for night-night time. A lithe, nubile young mother with alabaster skin (radiating the ethereal luminescence of well-applied Bare Minerals) and long, flowing auburn tresses sits down to her laptop to send off a few quick emails. She may or may not have been wearing the new baby pink Michael Kors kitten-heeled spring sling-backs with a cashmere short robe and cami pajamas from Neiman Marcus, also in baby pink. (Look, it’s MY story, and I’ll tell it my way.) She also magically lost her extra post-partum pounds overnight. (So THERE.) And grew an inch taller. (It could happen.)

That gorgeous young mother was me.

She presses “send” on an email to Karla with a K (aka Saint Karla) working out the details of a book exchange and assuring Karla that her family was now “germ-free.” The words “no one is actively exploding or oozing anything” may have been mentioned. TEN MINUTES LATER, I KID YOU NOT, the three year old climbs out of bed and says, “Mommy, my tummy hur—“ And that is as far as he got before the exploding and oozing began. Rotavirus. Bad.

For those of you unfamiliar with rotavirus, it is a particularly insidious ailment that rivals the plague, but without all those pesky swollen, discolored lymph nodes to deal with. It is the stomach flu on ‘roids. And my son has it. I spent the night sleeping on the bathroom floor with him. The bathroom has been scrubbed down with bleach numerous times. I smell like a pool. I’ve been doing laundry non-stop since 2 am, piling in load after load of sheets, blankets, towels, and pajamas and washing them on the SCALDINGHOTDISEASEKILLING CYCLE. I can’t even describe to you the violent bursts of fluid emitted by my son—not because I am incapable of doing so, or that mere words cannot paint an adequate picture, but because I am still so scarred by what I saw, cleaned up, and wiped down that I have blocked it from my consciousness. Suffice it to say that this experience was not unlike a fireworks display: it was loud, performed on a grand scale, involved multiple bright colors splashed across a great distance, and inspired a sort of awe while still making me want to cover my ears a little bit.

The poor kid has been lying in bed since about 8 am. Of his own accord. A three year old. He only moves to weakly ask me to carry him to the toilet and back to the bed.

And now, folks, I must shake out my baby pink cashmere Super Mom cape and return once again to the bedroom to minister to my child’s needs. But, you know--in a small way-- it’s kind of nice to be the Super Mom who saves the day. Now, where did I put those Super Mom Michael Kors sling backs….

*To be read ala Sophia Petrillo of The Golden Girls, which happens to be one of the best television series EVER.

Six Degrees Universal Tour Update

We welcome New York. Nice to see you New York, and thanks for playing! Bring it, Universe!

I Think I Was Absent on the Day This Was Discussed in Parenting Class

I never would have expected that I would catch my three year old drizzling oregano on the 7 month old and have to SERIOUSLY EXPLAIN why we COULD NOT put his baby brother in a pot and cook him....

Name Your Neuroses

[UPDATE: The Six Degrees of Un-Separation Project welcomes TEXAS, CALIFORNIA, WISCONSIN, ILLINOIS, IOWA, MISSOURI, CONNECTICUT, NORTH (or maybe SOUTH) CAROLINA, OHIO, PENNSYLVANIA, OREGON, NEW MEXICO, ARIZONA, ALASKA, INDIANA, GEORGIA, CANADA, and AUSTRALIA! You GO, Universe! I believe in you!]

My mother’s neurotic tendency to worry is, apparently, genetic. The same DNA recipe that makes my mother compulsively worry about the potential dangers lurking in my three year old’s bowel movement schedule (Would you believe she frequently calls me from work for a “poop report”? She does.) has been passed down to me.

Turns out, I’m not alone. While waiting at the ASHA Salon for my very first ever highlighting appointment, I read an article in More, a magazine catering to “sophisticated women forty and better.” (I am six years away from 40, but one of my perfectionist/ neurotic tendencies is to over-prepare. Thus, I started preparing for forty when I was thirty. I guess I want to be sure that I will do forty “right” when I get there. At this rate, I’ll be buying my funeral plot and arranging the music at my own funeral by the time I’m 36….) The author explained that she lets her mail pile up on the dining room table. This isn’t because, like me, she simply is too busy racing after her children and answering “poop report” phone calls from her neurotic mother; it is because she is afraid to open the mail. Apparently, years before she and her husband had some financial trouble. Like most people, some unexpected life changes occurred (birth of another child, laid off, moving to a new location). In the midst of all of this, a few bills went unpaid. Some overzealous and downright nasty creditors harassed them, even going so far as to call their new neighbors and tell THEM about their unpaid bills—which is ILLEGAL, by the way. As her financial situation improved, all of the bills were eventually paid. However, the scar this situation left on the author was an overwhelming fear of opening mail-- because it MAY contain a letter announcing a late payment. She had become mail phobic as a result of her financial worries.

I’d started reading the article because I also have a dining room table piled with mail, and I thought this piece may have some tips for organizing the overwhelming mess threatening to take over the entire room. However, even after I realized this piece would not provide organization tips, I couldn’t stop reading. Hey—I’ve had unexpected financial challenges in my life, and I know how frightening they can be. There’ve been plenty of times when I’ve been pressed up against the window of a chic shoe store, drooling on the glass, itching to feel that fourinchheeledsatinstrappynumber firmly secured to my peds but unable to afford them because I’m approaching a zero balance in my checking account and more important things, like food, need to be procured. But I didn’t write an article about it. For some reason, I thought we were supposed to keep issues like that hidden, like financial skeletons in our closets, collecting dust. I respected this woman’s bravery in publishing an article that laid everything out in such a raw, unfettered way. I also respected her naming her phobia.

This may sound a little weird, but I’ve kind of gotten the idea that most phobias are a result of unnamed fears. If we have the vocabulary to NAME the boogie man we are facing, most of its power is eliminated right there. The author of the article named her mail crisis as her "personal financial phobia.” When the mail started piling up, she said, “Oh-oh. There’s my financial phobia, again. I will make myself a cup of tea and get myself some of my favorite cookies and sit down with the mail in a bright, sunny location. I’ll sort the envelopes into piles of most to least scary. Then, I’ll tackle the ones that are least frightening first—build up some confidence. Eventually, I’ll move to the slightly more scary envelopes, and so on, and so on.”

I realized while reading the article that I have a phobia about financial planning. I am afraid that if I look closely at my financial future, I will find that it is dismal or that the only way I will be able to secure a respectable financial future for our family is if I give up my shoe fetish (gulp!) or road to gorgeousness adventure (double gulp!!). In my phobic state, I envision myself just barely able to retire, but forced to wear ugly shoes over my un-pedicured feet and with dull looking, wrinkled skin because I am unable to afford a good exfoliant and moisturizer. Reading this article made me name the phobia: “Ooops! There I go being financially phobic again.” Now, I am going to make an appointment with a financial planner, humorously explain my extreme ignorance where finances are concerned and the phobia that has resulted, and ask for some help. Sure, it will be a learning process, but I don’t think it will be all that difficult. Asking for help isn’t all that hard. Right?

Now, if I could only get my mom to name HER phobia. Gastro-intestinal blockage phobia, perhaps? Then, I could force her to sit down with a gastro-intestinal doctor and get her worries out in the open. I bet she’ll feel a lot better when she realizes my son will not explode on impact if he hasn’t pooped in the past 24 hours.

Care to admit what you are afraid of? If you name it, it may just go away!

The Bottom Line

(UPDATE: The Six Degrees Of Un-Separation Project welcomes ALASKA, NEW MEXICO, INDIANA, and OHIO! A special shout out goes to a new continent: AUSTRALIA! The squeal and subsequent fist pump in the air when I pulled up the cluster map and realized we'd gone multinational drew many stares from my coworkers. We're sending you the love, Australia! Will the Universe bring us Europe, South America, and Asia? Bring it on, Universe, bring it on! )

One of my coworkers discovered an article in a literary journal lauding the value of brevity. The author’s theory was that people today do not have time for details. As a working mom, I have to admit that my brain seems to delete a lot of extraneous information—like where I put my keys, which is why I spent forty frantic minutes at work one evening rummaging in my purse, my desk drawer, the bathroom, my jacket pockets, etc. only to find them locked in my car. (Sadly, I did the exact same thing the VERY NEXT DAY.)

The journal article explained that busy people want information in its purest form. Enter the “Six Word Bio.” The idea is, rather than tell your entire life story, condense your autobiography into six words.

Here are my attempts:
Miscalclated cycle. Now has two kids.
70's child. Can't take life serious.
Eats words. Drinks dreams. Sorta' psychic.

Oooh, how about some six word bios for the rich and famous? (Warning: Snark Alert!)
Oprah: Laugh, but I rule American TV....
Gwyneth Paltrow: What was I thinking with Apple??
Tom Cruise: We know you're gay, little man.
Nicole Ritchie: You HAVE to eat when pregnant??!
Laurie on The Real Housewives of Orange County : Sneezed and my face fell off.
Paris Hilton: Found God in prison. Lost him.
Martha Stewart: Prison got me free advertising, ha!
Donald Trump: Comb-overed homophobe seeks new reality series.
Bill Clinton: Monica! Now I sleep with president?!
Marry Manilow: Oh Mandy! Bo-tox has frozen my faaaaaa- aaace !
Barry Bonds: What's wrong with a little 'roid??
Abe Lincoln: This play is so booooooring.... Whoa!

Care to give it a try?