2015, Post 1, Edition: It's Late and I Can't Think of a Title

Happy New Year, friends!

Do you know this is the third draft I've written of a New Year's post? I wrote one on New Years Day and one last Monday, but never published them.  Maybe the third time will be the charm. (Although, probably not because I'm not even five sentences in and am already using cliche phrases. Not looking good so far.)

We've had a few changes around here of late.  9 moved out.  He told us the week before Christmas that he is moving in with some friends.  We were a little concerned because the friends he's moving in with happen to be a couple.  Mr. C had to have a "When you live with a couple you are IN their relationship." talk.  9 didn't seem concerned, and I didn't want to burst his bubble, so I refrained from telling him of my experience of living with a couple.  My roommate moved her boyfriend in, pretty much without asking me.  They took over the refrigerator and I could hear them having sex ALL THE TIME through the walls. So let's all hope 9's experience is better, because having to look the people you live with in the eye after you've listened to them get down all night long is embarrassing.  I basically felt awkward for months.... and hungry too, because like I said, they took over the fridge.  So yeah, awkward and hungry.

Bringing all this up really makes me happy that I'm through with my twenties.

Where was I going with this? Oh, right.  I'm supposed to be talking about 9.

He moved out last weekend and he's already been back for dinner twice, so that's good.  Before he left, J drew him a picture of them playing soccer.  Across the top he wrote, "SEE YOU ONCE A WEEK!" because that's how often 9 told him he'd come back home.  Then J asked me if I could take the picture into Costco and have it blown up into a poster.  He wanted 9 to have a really big reminder.  The sweetness of it all almost killed me.

One person who was pretty happy to hear that 9 was moving was PG, because it means that she gets his room. (I think PG has lived in every bedroom of this house at one point or another, and now we've  come full circle since that room was originally her nursery.)

Because her birthday is coming up in a few days, we told her she could decorate the whole room.  New bed, new paint, etc. etc.  She chose a pale green color that almost exactly matches the color the room was back when it was her nursery, and today I spent the whole day painting. Is it annoying that I had to repaint the room a color it had once already been, or is it sweet that she likes that color so much she wants it back?  I couldn't decide, but I thought about it the whole time I was working in there. Anyway, you all can give me your feedback with the next post.  I'm planning on a before and after of the makeover to show you guys. (Unless it turns out awful, in which case I'll just leave you all wondering forever, because that's the kind of evil genius I am.)

(I realize that I'm stretching the definition of genius there.  Also, probably the definition of evil. I'm okay with that because it's late, and I want to get this done so I can watch The Golden Globes on my DVR.)

That's mostly it.  I'm still working on the design for the new blog URL I have.  I have a feeling I'm going to give up on all my hoity-toity design ideas and do something simple and plain for the sake of just getting it done, but I'm not there yet.  I still want to keep trying.  So that'll be coming up.  And guess what? I started writing a book. Don't get excited, it absolutely sucks.  Every time I read it back to myself, I want to hack off my hands for writing such atrocious garbage.  But I don't, because I remember what Anne Lamott says about letting yourself write a crappy first draft.  She says you have to suffer through the stink to get the bones out there.  So that's what I'm doing.  I'm getting the bones out, and maybe one day I'll work on putting some meat on them.

Or maybe not.

But hey, it is looking like I'm going to hit "Publish" on this one, so that's a win.  The official first post of 2015.  Thanks for reading, guys.

Have a good night!

Christmas Bloopers

Hello, friends.  How is everyone surviving?  Actually, what I mean is, how is everyone doing? I’ve recently read a few posts from other bloggers complaining about the holidays- how they feel overwhelmed with their “to do” list and how that to do list makes them just want to get this holiday over with.  They feel the holidays are something to survive. Do you feel that way?  To be honest, I’ve gotten pretty good at having a laid-back attitude towards Christmas.  Whatever gets done, get done.  Only half of our outdoor lights are working, I never finished decorating the garlands over my living room windows, and while Santa is going to be pretty good to the kids this year, the stockings being hung by the chimney with care will be on the light side. That’s okay.  I’m still enjoying the holidays.  I suppose I'm surviving just fine.  

However, that’s not to say that the season hasn't had it’s moments with me.  It has.  Thought I’d share a few here:  

Let’s start with the elf.  Our elf’s name is Bucky.  Bucky.  I named him. I should know his name.  Yet, one morning the kids woke up and found a message written to them in red lipstick on a mirror, and that message was mysteriously signed, “Buddy.”  This sparked a huge controversy in our home.  Who is Buddy? An imposter? A friend? A foe?  

From across the room, Mr. C silently shot me an amused look and I sent a look right back that said, “Bucky, Buddy, WHATEVER.  I REMEMBERED TO MOVE THE STUPID ELF, ISN’T THAT ENOUGH?”

Listen, parents.  Can we all agree on something?  I’m sure more than one of you have forgotten to move your elf once or twice this year.  We all know that these elves wear out their welcome pretty early in December.  Can we all understand that if one is coherent enough after a full day to not only remember to move the dumb elf, but to set him up in an amusing situation for the kids to discover the next morning, then that is enough? Let’s not expect more than that.  We don’t need to get their names correct.  WE GET POINTS FOR REMEMBERING TO MOVE THE ELF. 

Then there is the baking.  I first want to brag about the awesome wardrobe choices I make on days in which I plan to work extensively with flour:

 Black cotton capri leggings.  Fantastic.

Next, I’m going to show you a picture of two iced cookies.  One, I decorated.  The other, my ten year old daughter decorated.  If you remember me writing about how my Kindergarten teacher thought I belonged in Special Education because of my poor hand-eye coordination, then you’ll be able to guess who decorated which cookie:

Yep. PG’s is on top. Mine is on the bottom.  

Can I tell you a secret?  It bothers me that I am bad at decorating cookies.  I know that it’s stupid to be bothered by such a simple, inconsequential thing, but I feel like I should be able to do a better job. I always give it my best shot, and I always suck.  Meanwhile, PG is a machine, decorating them all beautifully. While I watch her, there is this weird jealous-yet-proud commentary going on in my head: “Oh, my gosh.  Crisscrossing diagonal stripes on the trees!  Why didn’t I think of that? And mixing the stripes with dots? Genius!”

Last thing:  Yesterday I made Tiramisu Balls, Spice Cutout Cookies, Pineapple Upside-Down Cookies, and Candy Cane Fudge.  Today, I made Chipotle Roasted Almonds, Cranberry Cheesecake Bars, and Pretzel Toffee Bark.   I got to the very last item I was going to bake, Rachael Ray’s Peppermint Yule Log Cookies, and it turned out to be one of those stupid recipes where they leave out important information- like, to expect the dough to be crumbly so you don’t end up frantically Googling “how to save crumbly dough” with your floury fingers and make a mess on your keyboard. Anyway, I was tired.  And my back hurt.  And I was sick of baking.  And I was mentally cussing out Rachael Ray.  So I took passive-aggressive action against the faulty dough.  

I turned it into a poop emoji.  

Oddly, that made me feel better and gave me energy to finish my insane cookie marathon. 

As you can see, most of my least desirable holiday moments revolve around baking.  Please remind me next year that I don’t like to do it.  I won’t believe you, because by then, the stressed out, mess-making, back-aching lunatic that I turn into while making cookies will be a distant memory. But for those of you who love me, you should really make a concerted effort to stop me.  Truly.  It’s best for all involved. 

And, I know this sounds nuts, but tomorrow I am hosting the third annual Craftapoolooza at my house.  My friend Jennifer and I get our kids together and craft homemade Christmas gifts all day long.   I’m about as good at crafts as I am at baking, but Jenn is good at it and we have fun.  The kids have fun.  And at the end, there is wine.  

(That’s a lie.  The wine is there long before the end.  It shows up right in the midst of making glitter bulbs and homemade bath bombs, and that is because it is necessary.  For survival.  Of all the crafts.)

Here’s to surviving, everyone! 

 Merry Christmas, Happy Channukah, Happy Holidays- take your pick of whichever you like.  May love surround each and every one of you, on Christmas and everyday thereafter!  Thanks for reading.

The Most Difficult Children In The World

One of the nice things about writing this blog is when one of you comment that I make you feel normal, because really, when I write this stuff, that's exactly what I'm looking for: a connection with all of you, a validation that what I'm feeling is what other people are feeling.  Let's face it: most of the time, I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'm okay with that, as long as none of you know what you're doing either.  We're all in this together.

Except for today.  Today I need to believe that I have THE MOST DIFFICULT CHILDREN IN THE WORLD.  I don't want to anyone to relate, because if they related or told me I was normal, I wouldn't be able to martyr myself and sigh and feel sorry about the fact that I have THE MOST DIFFICULT CHILDREN IN THE WORLD.

Here are the things that the Most Difficult Children do that qualifies them for the title:

The Most Difficult Children tell me that they've brushed their teeth and when I clarify by asking "With toothpaste?" they said "Oh." and turn around to head back to the bathroom.

The Most Difficult Children also put on clothes that they wore yesterday and hope that I won't notice.  Then, when I do, the most difficult children will wail and cry and get mad at me because I won't let them out of the house looking like homeless people.  This happens repeatedly, several times a week, and they are always surprised at the fact that I won't let them wear dirty clothes.  I don't understand.

The Most Difficult Children in the World will not be able to share space in the bathroom without fighting with their siblings in the bathroom about stupid stuff that has nothing to do with getting ready for the day.".....  The most ironic thing about this is that one of these children have no less than three cherished shirts that say "Make Peace Happen", and she WILL BE WEARING SAID SHIRTS WHILE INSTIGATING FIGHTS OVER NOTHING.  When I point this out, she says "My shirt is talking about world peace mom, not here."  To which I ask, why not here?  We obviously need peace to happen here, in this little, crowded bathroom more than the world needs it. We need it.  I need it. So much needing of it.

The Most Difficult Children In The World listen to me lecture and yell and beg and gnash my teeth all the way to school, and then when we get there, I say "Have a good day.  I hope you listen to your teachers better than you listen to me."  And they exit the car and give me dirty looks that say they think I am the Meanest Mom In The World.  And that makes sense, because what other kind of mom would The Most Difficult Children In The World have other than The Meanest Mom In The World?  

Yes, I could have handled the morning better.  I could have held my frustration in check.  I could have  left out the mean, martyred, guilt-trippy goodbye in the car.  However, today, I'm doing away with introspection and mom-guilt.  I am well-practiced in both, but I'm choosing right now to let it go.  The kids hold responsibility for their behavior too, for behavior they know is not okay, that they've been told is not okay.... multiple, hundred, a million times. I am not a saint.

Except today.  Today, I am saint-like.  I'm going to be kind to myself and think of me in exactly that way.   It's hard being the meanest mom when your kids choose to be the most difficult, and I'm still here.  Still doing my job.  Yay, me.

You can all be thankful that today, I own the title to Meanest Mom of the Most Difficult Children.  Tomorrow I have a clean slate, so the title is up for grabs.  And if this unlucky title falls to you, my friend, I will admire you and give you mad respect, because any given day that a child decides to be the Most Difficult Child, is a day that a mom needs to know that she's doing holy work.  She may not be doing it perfectly, just as a lot of our saints didn't do it perfectly, but she's doing it.  And that makes us saints.

When Your Kids Discover Photo Booth While You're Not Looking

I have a new computer.  I received it as a consolation prize for turning forty.  My family is not supposed to use it because they know I did my time sharing a keyboard with grubby, nasty, little-kid fingers.  They are aware of their unsanitary affliction and usually respect my computer.

However.

This morning, I left my laptop sitting on the couch while I went to sort laundry.  While I was sorting, a good song came on my iPod, and what followed was reminiscent of the "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie" series.  I danced, and while looking in the mirror, realized I should tweeze my eyebrows, which led to trying some new eye shadow tricks which led to me organizing my makeup drawer- and the only reason I'm telling you this is so that the record reflects I was gone a while. 

When I came back to my laptop, it was open to Photo Booth.  

And there was this:

 

And then this:

 Followed by a few selfies:

Hmmm.  

Then J must've got bored and left, because the next few were of just the girls.

"Hey!  What does this button do?"

"Oh, cool! Contortions!"

"La,la,la.  Friendsies."

And then they discovered the frog lens.

They really liked this effect. 

They even made a video.

Movie on 11-24-14 at 7.51 AM from Tacy Cauthron on Vimeo.

The above is proof that Matt+ Me= Doubly Weird Kids

They weren't done yet.

Chipmunk cheeks

One more video.  I think what I like about this, besides PG being a goof, is the way Roo giggles through it. 

Movie on 11-24-14 at 7.55 AM from Tacy Cauthron on Vimeo.

Yep.  Weird kids for sure.

After that, PG must've left because this was the last pic on the photo booth reel:

"Quick! Mom's coming!"

Sticky keyboard aside, I don't think I can get mad at them for this.... do you? 

Short Shorts

To Mothers of Daughters Everywhere:

One day, maybe on a weekday evening, you will be sitting in a fold-up chair at the park during sunset, watching your ten year old daughter’s soccer practice.  You will be watching her run and kick amongst your friends, and suddenly you will wonder to yourself, “When did her legs get so long?” And then your next thought will be “Or… is it that her shorts are too short?”

Closer scrutiny will reveal that it is a bit of both, actually.  You’ll realize that she’s wearing the same practice shorts that had brushed the top of her knees last year.  Last summer she grew three shoe sizes and four inches taller, but her waist remained the same size.  

You’ll pause in reverence for the feats performed by a young metabolism. 

The momentary awe will dissipate quickly however, and be replaced by slight dread.  You’ll sigh, because the time has come.  You have to have “the modesty talk” with her. 

The bad thing about the modesty talk is not the bottom line (no pun intended).  The bottom line is easy.  Don’t wear revealing clothes.  Don’t show so much skin. Cover up.  In other words, your shorts need to be longer. 

See? That’s all. Easy.  What is difficult is everything that is not said.

Don’t wear revealing clothes, because boys will look. (Wait. She’s not wearing her shorts so that boys will look. You have to imply that boys will look? She’s not there yet, but you have to make her go there?)

Don’t show so much skin, because people will make assumptions about you. (But you’ve always taught her that what other people think of her isn’t as important as what she thinks of herself.)

Cover up, because men are visual creatures and you want to make sure they don’t get the wrong idea. (This one rankles the most- the idea that it falls on a girl to make sure that boys don’t think of her “in the wrong way”… but not too much so, right?  We still want to want to catch their attention, just not too much attention.  Nice tightrope we’re on.)

The truth is, you don’t care if she wears shorts that are considered too short.  She has long, beautiful, strong legs.  If you had her legs, you’d be wearing short-shorts on ALL the days. You would be celebrating those legs; running with them, jumping with them, do crazy yoga poses with them and thinking the whole time "Man, I LOVE these leg!"  And you know that when she wears shorts, she is not trying to be alluring.  She wears them with t-shirts and converse. She’s not trying to make anyone look…she’s just being her ten year old self. 

However.  

You still go ahead and talk with her.  Not because you think it’s important, but because the rest of the society thinks it is important. You've heard moms talk in disproving whispers about the ways they see the middle-school girls dress.  They describe them as slutty.  Middle school is next year for your girl.  You don’t want anyone to think she’s a slut based on her clothing choices. 

Nor do you want boys- or worse- older boys approaching her and putting her in any kind of situation that she doesn’t know how to handle.  

You don’t want pervy old men to look at her.  

You don’t want pervy young men to look at her.

Then you wonder how much of this you’re putting on her yourself.  Are you overthinking this? Are these all of your hang ups that you’re projecting onto her? You try to think….no, you were her age when the mechanics at the auto body shop on the corner starting cat-calling to you.  Song lyrics from today’s popular music still objectify women.  The Disney stars that are on many of the shows she watches are dressed like their twenty instead of twelve.  It’s pretty clear that girls are still prey to the world around them.   

Also, you realize that you don’t have control over much of this.   The world has sexualized your daughter, and she’s not aware of it, or even knows what that is.  

But you do have control over the short-shorts.

So you go to Target to buy longer shorts.  Neither of you are happy.  In the dressing room, she turns up the attitude to full adolescent volume.  “These are the ones I hate the least.”, she sasses, opening the door to show you the third pair she’s tried on.  You snap back at her.  The ride home together is silent.  She’s stares out the window, full of resentment.  You stare ahead, full of equal resentment, and you realize that you are both angry because you’re being forced to do something that doesn’t sit right with you. 

You think about how confused your own adolescence left you.  You realize that you’ve spent many of your adult years untangling the misconceptions about being a girl that were constructed while you were a teenager.  That was a lot of BS to sift through, and some of it you are still working on.   Yet- even as you’re still struggling with this pile of crap- you’ve still turned around and spoon fed it right back to your daughter.  

And you don’t know how to stop it.

What are your thoughts? 

*Disclaimer- Okay, guys.  This post isn't just about short-shorts, (in case some of you of thinking of commenting that your daughter wears short-shorts and you are okay with it.  Short shorts are in style, and I'm okay with it too, although the school dress code says otherwise).  What I'm trying to convey here is that fact that girls do have to deal with a lot of stigmas, many that are based on their appearance.  I'm having a hard time navigating around it.  How do you address this topic with your kids? 

Soccer Mom

*So, the blog format.  It's not permanent.  Remember when I told you that I was going to "conquer my beast" and try to expand this blog and/or write a book? Part of that is changing my blog design, which means doing all kinds of tech-y things that I don't really understand but am trying to learn. In doing all this, I accidentally uploaded this template to my blog instead of to a test blog, and my old template has disappeared, (because the Internet and all computers evidently hate me). So this is temporary, and by temporary I mean indefinite because I am slow with change.  And really, if you've been a reader for any amount of time, you should know that by now and not be surprised by it. Thanks for putting up with me.  Now, here's my post:

Somehow, I've become a soccer mom.  I can bristle against the label, but I'm afraid there is just too much evidence to sustain doubt: the crate full of cleats and shin guards that is kept by the door, the fact that we are at the soccer park five out of seven days of the week.... the minivan.

Ugh.  Short story about the minivan:

The night after Matt and I were married, we met up with some of his friends at a bar in Tahoe. I distinctly remember having a conversation with Matt's best friend's wife about minivans.  She and I both swore that we'd never drive one.  We told our young husbands that we would sooner drive a station wagon than a minivan.  As far as I know she's kept her word, but I caved way back in '09.  I think most moms who are carting around three kids under the age of five will hastily adjust their principals of what constitutes "cool" transportation....especially if you lure them with the promise of an automatic sliding door.  I did, at least. And I don't even really feel bad about it.  I like my minivan.

There. I said it.

Anyway, now that I'm a soccer mom, I've been paying a lot of attention to how other parents are involved in their children's sports lives. At one of G's games a few years ago, there was a mom from the opposing team whom I'll never forget.  She wasn't a coach, but she spent the whole game stomping up and down the sidelines in her strapless sundress shouting at the kids.  At one point, our girls were up by a goal and-I kid you not- she screamed "Crrrruuuushhhhhh them!" to her team.    She sounded all guttural and vicious- like the Braveheart of soccer moms, if Braveheart was totally batshit.

I try not to be like her, but I am pretty loud.  I never criticize or yell mean things, but I do get pretty involved in the games.  I tend to shout things like "That's you, G! Thats your ball, baby! GO!"  or "Don't let them take it!  Get it out of there! Hustle, girls! Hustle!"

So, basically, I embarrass my kids to no end, but I'm never mean or critical (except for once and a while under my breath).  However, there are times when I don't handle the pressure well.  One of these times was at J's first game.  His coaches had put him in as goalie, which is like, the worst thing they could have done to me.  Yes, you read that right.  Me.  It was the worst thing they could have done to me.

You may be saying to yourself, "But, this isn't about her." and you would be right.  It was not all about me, but I forgot that.  I made it all about me, and this is what happened:

The ball got past our defense, and J was left to face off against a few players on the other team.  The ball was in the goal box, and J wasn't picking it up.  I don't know why- I don't think he knew that he could.  The other players were moving in to make their goal.  I was shouting, everyone was shouting,  "Get it!  Pick it up!" It was only a few seconds, but things were going in slow motion.  The noise level got louder and louder, and then.... I just couldn't handle it.  I dropped my head and covered my eyes.  I didn't want to watch him miss it.

They took their shot..... and he did miss it.  The other team scored.  And when I uncovered my eyes, he was looking at me.

"It's okay!" I told him.  But I felt terrible.  I hated that he saw me covering my eyes. Moms are supposed to be there-win or lose- and there I was closing my eyes because I couldn't take the pressure and didn't want to see him fail. I worried that he thought I was ashamed of him, but fortunately for me, J isn't one to analyze his feelings much, so we were okay for the rest of the day.   I promised myself that from then on, I would always keep my eyes open and watch.

The next few games he was put back in the goalie box again.  I got better.  I watched.  Although my attitude about it didn't change much, judging from this text I sent to Matt.

Still making it about me, and reveling in parental revenge  at the same time.  Meanwhile, my husband is the voice of reason, as always.

J started getting better at goalie, and pretty soon, it was exciting to watch him play. I got better at keeping my stress level off of my face.  One day, the ref turned around and asked if I was Jake's mom.  I said yes, and he said "He's doing great!  He looks so small out there, but he's really not afraid of the ball.  It's impressive!"  I beamed.

On the way home from the game (in the soccer mom minivan), I asked Jake if he had fun.  He said yes.  I told him that I get nervous for him when he's goalie.  He asked me why.  And I said, "Because I'm afraid that you're not going to be able to block the ball."  And he said "It's just a game, mom."

Schooled by the eight year old.

I mean, I've always known that it was "just a game".  But honestly, I don't know what happens to me when I step onto that soccer field.  I get carried away.  I want my kids to perform and be aggressive and win,win,win! Some people say that parents relive their childhood vicariously through their children's sports, but I never even played sports.  Seriously, my sport was reading, and lets face it, there's no getting all worked up and crazy about that (although, I admit that if there ever was a competitive reading team, I'd join it because that is one sport I would dominate the crap out of).

I thought about J's positive attitude towards his playing, and I tried to reconcile the way I felt with the way he feels: I feel pressure for him as goalie, he feels like he's doing a good job.  I feel stressed, he feels like he's having fun.

It's pretty clear who holds the better attitude towards all this, and it's not the first time I've learned a thing or two about perspective from J.

Youth sports isn't just an opportunity for kids to learn a sport, it's an opportunity for parents to learn how to be supportive for their child. And maybe you'll snort at what I'm about to say, but I think that J playing goalie was an act of divine intervention. I think God was like, "Girl, you have some serious practicing to do when it comes to supporting your kids, even when they're failing.  You need grace.  Let's start with soccer, since it's safe for them to fail there."

And I have been practicing.  I haven't been perfect.  My brain still wants to explode every time the ball makes it past the defensive line into J's territory.  But then I remember to breath, and watch. Sometimes I watch it fly past him into the net, and sometimes I watch him dive and make an incredible block.   Both ways, I remember J's words, coming from the back of the minivan, "It's just a game, mom."

.....and I feel so proud.

The Clampets Meet Mr. Bridgewater

Well, I'm sure you've been holding your breath for this, so it's my pleasure to let you know that our couch fiasco is over.  There is no longer a hole in our living room where a couch should be.

I know.  It's a relief for us, too.

The place that had been holding on to our previous sectional was gracious enough to cancel our order and cut us a refund check reasonably fast, so at least that part of our customer service experience was pleasant.  And get this, guys..... they actually asked me to "stay on the line to answer a quick customer survey."  I thought to myself, "Wow.  Really? I just cancelled an order and asked for a refund because I was so disgusted with your company, but...okay."  So,  I stayed on the line and punched in numbers rating my experience on a scale of 1-5, and when the automated voice asked me if I had anything to add, I waited for the beep and told them that the only thing I didn't like was the part where they took our money and then never delivered our furniture.

I think they should work on that.

Anyway, we found a new place with great inventory and prices.  When we told the salesperson about our experience with the other place out in Rancho Cucamonga, he said, "Oh wow!  You drove past three of our stores on the way out there." Hearing that,  Mr. C and I felt really stupid because between our two smart phones and ability to access the internet, we should've been able to find this place sooner.  Just call us the Beverly Hillbilly Clampets.

No, really.  Call us the Clampets, because this was Matt's truck driving across town with our new sectional in back.  The ottoman is balanced on top with nothing but twine and (I'd like to think) the many, many prayers I offered up to The Lord and anyone else who was listening as I followed along behind.

So, that was our morning.  We had to go to a cocktail party that evening, which was an extremely weird contrast to our morning.  Just to be clear, Matt and I are not normally the cocktail party type, but someone from the school district decided that it'd help the school's program if he met some people from the museum.... and since they were all going to be en masse at this party, an invitation was secured, and off we went.

The event was located in a beautiful mid-century modern home that was built right up against the mountain in the old Movie Colony section of Palm Springs. We purposely got there an hour late, so we had to park down the hill and walk up.  Halfway there, as we were walking past lines of Maseratis and Audis, Matt and I started exchanging "What are we getting into?" glances.  Clearly, these people were not our people- meaning, there was a good chance none of them had driven down Highway 111 with living room furniture piled in the back of their vehicles in the last 6 hours.

Once inside, however, I began to feel less intimidated because it became clear that no one was going to look down their noses at us.  Everyone was much too busy smiling huge, toothy smiles and working the room.  There was an open bar and some good people watching to do, so my glass of wine and I found a corner while Matt was whisked away to do a round of schmooze.

Just a little heads up here: If you feel that observations of fashion at a bourgeoisie party may bore you, then feel free to skip this paragraph.  For everyone else, you may interested to know that socks, or the lack of them, are used to make fashion statements among the upper-class. I came to this conclusion after noticing that the host was wearing a snakeskin jacket with skinny trousers and loafers with no socks, while another man was wearing sockless topsiders with shorts.  Yet another man, a father, apparently because he brought a baby with him (unless that was just an accessory, it was a little hard to tell at this party), sat down and I noticed he was wearing socks as pink as Pepto-Bismol.

So, socks.  Yeah.  That's a thing among the elite.  Now you know.

Anyway, the whole evening might have been pretty dull had I not met Mr. Bridgewater.

Mr. Bridgewater cornered me as Matt and I were making our way towards the door to leave.  An elderly British man, he was a vision of beige, from his head to toes: faded beige-ish blond hair combed back across a partly bald head, beige skin, yellowish beige teeth, and a beige jacket (tweed, of course!).

He was drunk.

"Oh, hello dear." he said to me in his very clipped English accent.  "Do tell me your name."

I introduced myself as Tacy Cauthron, and held out my hand for him to shake.  He took it and didn't let go.  Instead he said, "I didn't quite catch that.  One more time please." He leaned in closer so that I could speak directly into his ear, which was still hard to do because he was swaying so badly.

"Tacy Cauthron."

"Oh, no!"  He was very emphatic and demurring at the same time. "That won't do!  Tell me, please,what is your maiden name?"

Matt is tugging on my arm, his friend is looking on disgustedly, but I decide I can't be rude to poor, wasted Mr. Bridgewater.  I'd spent the past hour on the outside watching the show, and suddenly here he was, pulling me right into the madness.  I was a tiny bit delighted.

"Um, Herrington."

"Herrington, you say?" He tries to place a hand on my shoulder, but he's too drunk, and it brushes my left boob instead. I step back, but he still has my hand in a firm grip, and we sway awkwardly together.

"Yes, that's right.  Herrington."

"Well, THAT is much better, dear.  You should hyphenate!" He seems very relieved and proud of himself for solving a problem that I never knew I had.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Bridgewater.  I"ll consider it.  Nice meeting you." And I left before he could accidentally feel me up again.

So, friends, from this experience I learned that one fancy-schmancy up-scale cocktail party is enough for this girl.  I'm happy to stick with my people from now on.

Sincerely,
Tacy Herrington-Cauthron-Clampet (per Mr. Bridgewater)