Stepford Wife Chronicles

One Straight Jacket, Size Small

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 14:01:00 +0000

More than once recently, I have thought that the world has gone fucking mad. There are too many examples to cite from our collective cultural crap hole so I'll spare you. But you live on this planet, you know what I am talking about don't you?

I am not sure if it is the madness that has kept me away from blogging for a year or if it has brought me back. But I can say one thing for certain: living in a house with two children four years old and nearly two years old combine with my live-in nanny who is a raging born again Christian, and the fact that I still don't have any friends here, my desire to cruse, be rude, irreverent, and an all around heathen during the 9 to 5 work day was starting to drive me to distraction. Where else but over here at the SWC Headquarters can I be all of these things and more?

In addition to wanting to say "Oh Fuck!" every once in awhile, I also came back because we had the occasional good times over here, haven't we?

Like this

and this

And speaking of "over here," I forgot to mention that I was transfered from the gated community on the hill to a mini-mansion on a private cove over-looking a bay. I know, sounds exciting but really, this place is just one big padded cell.

And hey, I am about to become a mother of three so y'all know I am a bit "touched" as the polite ladies in the American South used to say.

If there is anyone out there, throw me a bone. What has been driving you nuts since you last graced the halls the SWC visiting room?

Image by Annalucylle/flickr

Hear Ye, Hear Ye!

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 08:52:00 +0000

I'm back and I might add that it is about fucking time. I'll be honest. I haven't missed blogging. It is too much work and plus Facebook is easier but not nearly as fun (everyone is so damned earnest on FB, what gives?).

I have from time to time visited this blog, hoping that my password would come back to me and after many failed attempts here I am, whatever that is worth.

What Would Angelina Do?

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 12:33:00 +0000

Life is happening over in these parts. Let's just say that a series of unfortunate events has resulted in a not so brief stint in solitary confinement at the Chinese equivalent of the Betty Ford Center. And who knew that Burberry had an exclusive line of clothing for female detainees?

Anyway, I am turning to you all out there in the ether for a little seriously needed advice.

It seems that my application for a position at the car wash is under consideration. I am being asked to drag my rump to the other side of the world to meet the manager and perform a wax job or two.

Though there are many potential problems with all of this, including the damage to my artistic soul as I face yet another reminder that a woman can not eat on her words alone, the biggest worry is what to do with my brand spanking new nine month old baby who is still nursing, esp. at night and loves him his mamma.

Do I take him and subject him to the 16 hour flight in (gasp!) coach? Live through the pain of killer jet lag and then a random baby sitter for a few hours (through a trustworthy service)and hope that I never have to tell the folks at the car wash that my son is holed up in the hotel waiting for me to come back so they shouldn't ask me do any additional buffing or help park the cars or see if I can work the computer in the front office?

If I leave him home he will be in the care of his father and much loved nanny. He will also be with his brother. But away from the boob. And he gets really, really cranky without me. And I am none to keen to wean him or be away from him either. We are talking 4 nights and 5 long days away from each other. Plus, I will also be with out my eldest child which is already causing me some major anxiety.

Angelina Jolie never has to think about these things, I know. But I cannot get the US embassy to give my nanny a short term visa. However, I did manage to use some miles that I didn't know I had to get myself a buisness class seat for the return flight. Of course, the flight to the soul crushing interview is fully booked and I am on a very long waiting list for an upgrade.

The mere thought of jetlag and long haul flights and blitz travel is making my head spin.

So I'm getting all woman on the street about this.

What would you do?

Writing On The Wall

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 08:44:00 +0000

It has been a long time since my last post. I would like to blame my absence on the late night parties, the after hours clubs, the exclusive backstage passes to Paris Fashion week, and the champagne brunches on the yacht of my new best friend. I would also like to blame my disappearance on account of my volunteering at the Hong Kong International Literary Festival, but I can’t even do that.

A few weeks ago, in my quest to make some friends, I responded to a call for volunteers. Now mind you, I was aware that Interpol (division of fugitive international volunteers) had put me on their most wanted watch list about ten years ago, but I thought that time served plus my obvious remorse might have expunged my record. It’s a new day people. I am older now, wiser, and perhaps even shorter than my last altercation as a volunteer. The chances are very, very small that I will ever again attack another volunteer in the middle of an African Rainforest. Nor will I run off with a hot director of an orphanage in Southern Italy, and even if I did, which I wouldn’t, this time I would be suspicious about his sources of income. I will not be fooled a second time. And like wise, I really doubt that I would ever again consider leaving my post as a witness for peace to take up with armed rebels in the jungles of South America. And really, this time, I promise, if there is a flyer to be handed out, I will not take the stack to the nearest recycling bin nor will I crank call the people on the phone list or have Bugs Bunny “sign” a petition.

Since my wayward days are over, I didn’t think twice when I offered body, heart, and soul to those “people” who run the festival. I mean I am not a volunteer to sneeze at because, A: I got loads of time on my hands. And B: I have experience. I know how to work a mic, seat people, chat up an author, pour a glass of water, stuff an envelope, discreetly pick my ass and look self important while doing it.

Anyway, I am over the rejection. Because after seeing the below clip, I am reminded of my life’s higher purpose.

And in other SWC news, my book sold. And before you vomit in your mouth, note that the book is not based on the blog.

A Love Connection

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 01:55:00 +0000

Dear SWC:

I am writing to apply for the position of Friend as listed on blogger
SWC.

I have been wiping my own ass for over 35 years and have not
encountered any complaints about my work in that time. Nations have
formed and dissolved, wars have been waged, the environment has been
thrashed, the sea level has risen, the global economy has inhaled and
exhaled, and still my ass wiping has endured with steadfast tenacity
and unwavering dedication. But my missive runs amiss, I am not one
to ever discuss the color, texture or frequency of anyone's poop
(save for one funny story which happened about 38 years ago which I
may only share with you at the right time and place). This is the
extent of what I have to say on the subject, whether or not you find
my other qualifications acceptable.

Though I reside on a very different kind of island, perhaps the one
you'd like to reside on, I seem to have shed my close friends
somewhere along the way. They have either morphed into occasional
pals or slipped off somewhere; perhaps through my neglect or
otherwise. I do not have leprosy, though feel I have been
blacklisted. I have not been to Thailand. I do not wear workout
clothing as haute couture. I have no interest in 5-star hotels
(except occasionally from an architectural or design perspective) and
I do not have a maid, underpaid or otherwise.

I do like books, magazines, newspapers and the internet (a little too
much). Recently I have even embraced podcasts and blogs. I find the
Bible grossly overrated and very poorly edited. I share with you
three articles I have recently enjoyed, not for the quality of the
writing but for, well, call it a bit of titillation:

for the shock of it

for laughs

for the way I was drawn into wanting to believe some "scientific" study of questionable validity but learned about the history of racism in drug policy instead

I welcome the opportunity to meet with you at your convenience. My resume, references and writing samples are available on request. I am available for long lunches, binge drinking, word games, random acts of kindness, snide remarks, and any and every form of revelation, aha's and hhhmm's especially. Please note that without an appointment, I may be caught in my workout clothes, though I promise there will be nothing haute about them.

Many thanks for your consideration.

Sincerely,

IZA

*photo by Porgunnur Porsdottir

The Impotence of Being Ernest

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 07:58:00 +0000

I have been living in a dry spell over here, a real desert oasis. It’s been at times painful, numbing, crazy making, lonely and down right tragic. Yeah, I am married. And I know what you are thinking. My husband, when he doesn’t have a headache or isn’t going blind from his Blackberry, is a dream, a lovely guy and all, but I have to admit that I am seeking a bit more variety.

I suffer from a condition far worse than leprosy, though that is exactly the disease that I feel that I have these days.

I need to be titillated.

I need some friends.

I have lived here for a while now and though I have tried, really, really tried, I cannot seem to make any friends. Sure I have met people. But I have not met anyone that I liked.

Don’t get me wrong; I am not a friend snob. I mean yes, I have standards but in addition to my “shit happens” philosophy, I also take to heart the nugget of truth that is the foundation of Scientology: We are all way fucked up but it is nothing that a new set of fake boobs and a set of false teeth can’t help you over come.

So yeah, I am tired of not having friends. But I am also tired of trying to make friends with women who wear workout clothes as haute couture and who do nothing but complain about their underpaid live-in maids, and talk about 5 star hotels and discount toy shopping in Shenzhen.

So I decided that I am going to place an ad. I am thinking that it will read something like this:

DESPERATELY SEEKING SOMEONE

Married women seeks platonic friendship with similar or single female or male for irreverent drunken cackling at the absurdities of life. Please share my interest in anything other the your last trip to Thailand, unless you were arrested for smuggling drugs—because that makes for a really funny story. But please know that stories that are not funny include anything having to do with the color, size, smell or texture of your child’s bowel movements or any story that involves the phrase “I think my husband is cheating on me, what should I do?” more than 50 times in a fifteen minute conversation. Must like books and I don't mean the Bible. Also, please know how to wipe your own ass.

Recession Era Rags

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 08:56:00 +0000

Once upon a time, when I lived in New York, I thought of myself as something of a fashion maven. No, I did not follow the trends. With a closet like mine, I didn’t have to. You see, I am into fine fabrics, clean lines, exquisite details and neutral colors. My style was my own: man-eater meets librarian meets label whore meets punk rocker, or something like that. The over all affect was spectacular, as I am sure anyone who knows me can tell you.

But these days my closet is nothing to blog about. I mean let’s face it, is any garment truly timeless? Okay, perhaps crotchless panties. But never having owned a pair myself, I wouldn’t know.

Usually, when I ask myself these kinds of questions I turn to style guru Imogen Lamport over at Inside Out Style. As we say in the Rastafarian community, Big Up, Imogen! That lady is a super star. And she has got the best hair on the interwebs. Tell her I sent you.

Anyway, with all of the "Bankrupt. Everything Must Go" sales, I have been toying around with the idea of updating my wardrobe for the first time since the 1990’s. But something happened on my way to the shops. I saw a woman wearing a coat trimmed in fur. Though fur is not my thing, the coat was beautiful. Every detail screamed expensive and the woman herself looked filthy rich. Normally, I would have admired the coat and moved on. Instead I was disgusted. For some reason, I thought that her display of wealth, real or fake, was in bad taste. Further, I had to push back the urge to knock her over the head, take her handbag, and run like hell. Lucky for her, I am still on parole.

Anyway, this me thinking. What am I going to wear during the depression? If we are entering an age where class warfare will be de rigueur, what outfit would honor the times we are living in and reflect my personal style?

The cashmere robe as outerwear?
The bathing suit top as bra?
Hospital Gown as Inauguration couture?
Shopping bags from high end stores as purse?

The choices are overwhelming.

So let me ask you, what are you planning on wearing to the recession?

What Doesn't Kill You

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 12:42:00 +0000

Not long ago, wild monkeys in a Malaysian rainforest attacked me. That happened a few months before the wild rat attack that I survived while in Thailand. There was the harrowing escape from 50 angry bulls while hiking in Ecuador, the nearly fatal run-in with a pack of feral dogs in the mean valleys of Canyon Lake, California and the killer cockroaches in Morocco.

Of course there was my being held hostage by two different armed groups in the same week during a trip to Colombia. And while no guns were involved, I cannot forget the fistfights in Ghana, Holland, Italy and Coney Island. These were followed-- years later-- by some brutal verbal fisticuffs in, naturally, Finland, Norway and Denmark.

I have lived to tell about my unpleasant case of trichinosis that I caught while in Guatemala, the malaria that I caught while in Liberia, the strange three day “someone must of drugged my drink” illness that had me laid out flat for three days in a mysterious Parisian apartment. Oh, I must not my six month pregnant belly in a way too small bathing suit in Anguilla-- who knew that embarrassment could be a critical condition?

But what nearly did me in was the salmonella poisoning that I got this weekend. Never eat Indian food at an Irish restaurant cooked by a Chinese chef.

Photo by Andrew Carter

An Open Letter To The Hoes At The Club

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 09:37:00 +0000

Listen bitches, you all have been messin' with my Esther Williams flow for long enough. I know, I know, if I had started my New Year's resolution when I normally do in mid-April instead of January 2nd like the rest of you losers, I recognize that I would not have this problem. But this is not about my timing. This is about your bad behavior, your sick habits, and let's face it, your mental illness.

And since I have committed to this swimming thing by laying out cash for the club fees and the new bag to carry my towel, pool shoes, and new swimsuit-- we need to come to an arrangement right here, right now.

In addition to abiding by the rules posted at the club, such as, no spitting, coughing or entering the pool while knowingly suffering from Tuberculosis or Bird Flu. Me, myself personally expect you to abide by the following:

1. Do not under any, any circumstances talk to me. I find talking to people in bathing suits discomforting. I never wanted to picture you naked and now with very little imagination I can and it makes me gag.

2. Stop kicking water in my face dumb ass. I don't want to get my weave wet, okay bitch? And no, I will not put my head underwater so stop asking your aged husband because I can hear you.

3. Stay away from me. I am not swimming in a lane because I am doing something called "aqua aerobics". Yes jackass, I know that they don't have this in the Ukraine. You don't seem to mind your snail pace crawl across the pool and the extra 85 pounds. But me? I am trying to rid my body of some baby phat. Also, I am trying to become one with the water.

4. Do not swim so close to me or snort water out of your nose next to me. And if you can help it, don't cross inches in front of me as I am coming down the pool. It is just rude.

5. In the dressing room, don't smile at me, especially if I am naked. Likewise, don't try to catch my eye and for god's sake, can you not walk behind me just as I am bending over?

6. I'll admit that I am duly impressed by your new limited edition Yves Saint Laurent bag, the killer boots, and this season's best Gucci coat, but you are just going to the pool. And since you are just going to the pool, do you think you could leave your maid and nanny at home for a change? Ditto for your prepubescent son, who by the way, is getting too old to go into the women's changing room. I caught him trying to sneak a peek and frankly, I will not rest easy at night knowing that a sighting of my postpartum body will lead to years of psycho-therapy for him. And your maid was also checking me out. In truth, it sent shivers down my spine because getting naked in front of a complete fully clothed stranger reminded me of the Clinton era. And I am a new woman now.

My rules are simple and not in any way a request. If you choose to ignore my them, you will get my new kick board up your ass.

And finally, the pool is for everyone to enjoy, so let's have some fun. Besides, it is only a matter of time before one of us quits anyway.

Dope

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 10:07:00 +0000

All this uncertainty has me wanting to drink the snake oil. Like everyone, I hate not knowing if I am going to wake up to the 2009 Great Great Depression or the 2009 Descent into Global Anarchy or the 2009, WTF! How The Hell Did I End Up On This Iceberg?

To calm my nerves and to keep my pledge to lay off the prescription drugs, I decided to tap into the higher forces and get the dope with my free horoscope on line. But on my way to the computer, I passed the promotional bottle of bubbly that I received two years ago from my local Park n' Shop and after knocking it back, the world got real clear. A woozy feeling came up from my toes and suddenly, I could just make out what the future will bring. I have to warn you, alot of what was revealed to me looked like a very grainy low tech amateur porn but here are some of the highlights:

Prince Charles will be caught on tape trying to hire a hit man to finally off the Queen Mother so that he can be King before the family has to sell off their property due to bad investments.

In Italy, my 1996 “stolen” passport will be found in the personal effects of Berlusconi’s wife, sparking rumors that the Prime Minister is running an underground sex ring. This scandal will serve as a distraction against record unemployment rates and calls for the dissolution of the EU.

Meanwhile, in the United States, this week, George Bush will lose his wallet while out for a walk on White House grounds. It will be found by a secret service agent who will only take the compromising photos of Bush and Bin Laden enjoying a round of beers and a couple of hookers in pre-Katrina New Orleans. Sometime in mid-February the wallet and the rest of its contents will be sent to Bush’s ranch in Crawford, Texas. It is unclear what happens to the Bin Laden/Bush pics.

Donald Trump decides to save his recession era real estate empire by investing in homes that promote green living: recycled glass igloo houses for people residing in the Northern Hemisphere and cardboard tents for people who live in the Southern Hemisphere.

And to the shock of every American, China and the Middle East ask the US to payback loans made to Walmart, Cosco, Best Buy, Exxon, Visa and Mastercard.

Heroin returns as the party drug of choice for the under 60 set. The over 60's turn to the cheaper alternative, methadone.

And at the end of 2009, just in time to ring in another new year, Mao suits come back into fashion by government decree.

It Takes All Kinds

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 09:50:00 +0000

Usually the hump days between Christmas and New Year’s are really difficult for me. It is a time of reflection, a time to stare deep into that pit where my soul should be and a time question the clarity of my psychic’s crystal ball. Often, this time of year can be one of longing, regret, self-pity binge eating, binge drinking, binge buying, and binge binge-ing.

Thankfully though, it has been a banner year over here at SWC.

There were the obvious joys of 2008: the birth of my second son, my husband’s promotion, my first level 8 typhoon, the offer of a book contract, watching my first son grow from a baby to a toddler, my trips to Bali, Cambodia, and India, Obama winning the election, and discovering that I can wear the color red.

However, behind these blessed events where the low points of the year: the hospital error that caused my second son to stay in the NICU for a week for invasive testing, the flooding from the typhoon, my unemployment after I, in my infinite wisdom, rejected the offer on my book, the global market meltdown, losing my ipod, and discovering that a Christian charity had acutioned off my soul on ebay for 49 cents.

But what has turned out to be a real boon this year has been my 3 ½ months tooling around the blogosphere. Contrary to what my husband thinks, the people who read this blog (or at least look at the photos) are only occasionally my evil twin sister and my mother and while I extend my thanks to them there are a few others, complete strangers, who I would like to say thanks to. So here is a big fat smooch from me to you. Thanks for stopping by SWC to comment, advise and in the case for some of you, giving it your all with some very nasty pool dancing.

Because of you all I shall continue to remain friendless, pale, and bleary-eyed.
I will blame my extra 10 pounds and cellulite on poor genes.

The Unbearable Likeness of Being

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 07:00:00 +0000

Before heading to India some people warned me that the country was unlike any other I had been to. They claimed that India would surely test the “shit happens” stoner credo that guides my life. Supposedly, my first 24 hours in India was to have me lunging at the sight of any air-conditioned tour bus and begging for mercy at the feet of the elderly tourist that ride in them.

But that didn’t happen.

Instead, the whole time we were there I kept waiting to step over a dead body as one of my friends cautioned me. I had hoped to be flabbergasted by the crawling masses of humanity, the traffic jams, the cows, the slums. I had expected to be assaulted by smells so powerful and so fragrant that I would fall to my knees.

But let’s be real. In today’s economy India is one of the few places in the world where people still have jobs. Like any nation, India has its poverty, some of it staggering. It also has its nouveau riche, its krump hoppers (as they call it) and its terrorist attacks. You might say that India is a complete country-- it has the highest highs and the lowest lows.

What I learned when I was in India was that the world is shrinking. To take from Thomas Friedman, we are indeed living in a world that is hot, flat, and crowded.

I also learned that in my older age, there are just some things I can no longer do. Such as ride on an elephant or sit on a back of a rickshaw while attempting to discreetly nurse a crying baby. And I cannot, with any dignity, gingerly walk barefoot in a filthy mosque compound trying to avoid stepping in pile after pile of bird feces, rat droppings, and other dubious looking substances while trying to stop my two year old son from sticking his hands in it.

And while in the desert town of Jaisalmer I discovered that it was high time for me to stop living my life like I was a collector of unique cultural experiences. For example, at my age I don’t need to live through an “authentic” Ayurveda massage by Dyna, the local practitioner of ancient Indian healing arts, Vedic scholar, and over all sorceress.

I’ll confess that when I first heard of Dyna, I pictured a gorgeous Indian woman in a flowing Sari of saffron orange or some other color that signifies mystic qualities. As I was led down the narrow streets in the old fort city, dodging cows and dog fights and really old women carrying loads of laundry on their heads, I am not sure why I imaged that the location of my massage would be a place that rivaled the beauty and hygiene of a spa at the Four Seasons.

My heart did sink a little when I walked up the tiny steps of an old sandstone building that opened up on to a one room flat (if you will) that had a sheet separating the waiting room from the, uhm, treatment room.

Thankfully Dyna, when she greeted me at the door, did not disappoint. She was beautiful and wore a bright blue Sari (which I was certain held some magical properties). But she did wear an ugly brown sweater over it and it was sort of hard for me to look directly at her face as I would have to stare at the wide crocheted rainbow headband that she wore an inch off her brow. Perhaps, I thought, this sweatband had some magical significance too.

However, all the magic flew out the door when Dyna pulled back the sheet to her treatment room and told me to strip. She pointed to a dirt and oil soaked mat on the floor, the likes of which resembled a mattresses used in an extremely busy crack den.

It is true that what doesn’t kill you, doesn’t kill you, but what doesn’t kill you can give you lice, flea bites, scabies, conjunctivitis, a nasty cold, and a very strong urge to scrub your skin clean off your bones.

But the biggest lesson I learned from my trip to India came from traveling with two kids under the age of three. With both boys still in nappies, I now know that it is essential to always, always take more diapers than you think you’ll need. Because after several days of travelers constipation, shit happens.

Oh, in case you were wondering, we had a great time. Rajasthan is beautiful.

Are We There Yet?

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 09:43:00 +0000

The first time my husband and I traveled together it was pure romance. Early in our relationship he had plan to spend a better part of three months traveling through much of Eastern Europe and I, back home in New York, had tickets to visit a war zone for a month of R and R. But after a few weeks away from each other we had to finally admit that, well, we kinda missed each other. Being the fearless heart first type of gal that I am, I broke my piggy bank, counted my pennies, lied about my age and bought a student ticket to Vienna via Zurich, Stockholm, Nice, Amsterdam and London.

When I finally arrived in Vienna few days later, Hub was standing at the airport looking around like he lost his wallet. In honor of my arrival, he had booked into a much better hotel and ditched the dive that he had been staying in. There was no need, but I didn’t protest too much. I liked that in his mind, I was a traveler of high standards, a bon vivant, a woman of substance, even perhaps dear reader, a trophy wife in the making. Who was I to crush him with the truth of my less than dignified travel history of roach motels and youth hostels that looked more like over crowded Russian prisons? Since I began my stint as a world traveler somewhat early in life, I had applied the Barbizon philosophy. I may not have been a war correspondent, but I was going to look and travel like one.

Spending a few weeks with my then future husband in Central and Eastern Europe I began to get a glimpse of how the other half travels. The other half goes to all the museums. They see every recommended site listed in their Blue Guide. They may actually have a private guide. They go antique hunting. They care about eating in the best restaurants, and pack the proper shoes to do so. The other half does not, for example, strike up conversations with the locals in a bar. They don’t accept invitations to attend tribal weddings (or funerals), they do not eat snake brains just for the hell of it nor do they think a little case of dysentery is like another stamp in the old passport—it proves that you had been somewhere.

My husband may never know or perhaps he may never care to admit that though we travel very well together, we really do approach the whole endeavor differently. Because ever the adventurous one, I have learned to let go of all of my former travel habits (and I’ll admit that it was not difficult to trade bed bugs for a 5 star hotel, sight seeing, and museums).

So now, several years after our first trip together and with many trips under my belt with husband and kid in tow, I am a fully indoctrinated 5 star hotel ho who demands on all the fixin's.

But as my husband and I age, it seems that our approach to traveling has changed. As an expert in Art History, Archeology, mountaineering, and an antique road show know-it-all and gastronome extraordinaire, my husband needs to see every last sight, climb every mountain, shop for the rarest of all old beauties (but not too old). Usually he wants to do this in the shortest amount of time possible, which means that the whole family has to keep up. I, on the other hand being the mom that I am, want to dump the kids off with the complimentary hotel baby sitter and hit the spa. I never do but I have been known to fantasize about it the entire trip. I mean can't my old man just sit on a beach for a few days?

No.

So this week, we are going on a trip that is sure to dazzle the senses. It won’t be a drug trip but I am sure it will have its moments where I wish, with an almost 5 month old and a 2 ½ years old kid that drugs, in heavy doses where involved. That's right, the whole SWC household is packing up and heading to India. Rajasthan, baby with a quick jaunt into Uttar Pradesh (Agra) to see the Taj Mahal, of course.

Am I fucking nuts?

Well there are a few planned 5 and half hours car rides on unpaved roads, the chaos of New Delhi, the I’m-not-sure-how safe-it-is air travel and the threat of the thousands of years old microbes that could do me in.

And there is our 8-hour flight from Hong Kong to Delhi. Thankfully, I have managed to get us upgraded to Business class.

We are leaving this Friday.

10,000 Maniacs

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 10:18:00 +0000

Once there was a man named Jim. And Bert and a guy named Harry, who thankfully I did not kiss. There was a Karl, yes, with a “K” though he was nothing like Karl Marx. There were also men with more exotic names: Rumaldo, Mario, Roberto, Maurizio, Costas, Vasilius, Adjin, and Hassan.

Before I dated and married the man of my dreams I met regular guys in the likely places.

At the grocery store, a boy named Trevor. After one date—dinner at the Olive Garden—I caught him lurking in the parking lot of my apartment building enough times to call the cops and get a restraining order.

The bar guy was called Alex. Another bar rat named Mike although he spoke with a thick accent that told me he was from a place much further away than Texas. Which reminds me of Jacob from Texas, who I also met at a bar. And then there was Ben, the bar tender.

My personal favorite was meeting a guy at the library—Michael. We shared the love of books but he dressed so poorly on our first date (who wears long gym socks and shorts at the age of 30?) and then he got all huffy with the Indian waitress at the Indian restaurant we went to because he, as a Swede, knew the difference between the her fake chapatti and the real thing.

Which reminds me of the waiter that I knew from my favorite Indian restaurant. He hounded me for weeks for a date. In a gorgeous act of fate, my evil twin was visiting me in NYC and he took her out instead. And this brings to mind Tucker who I met in a restaurant and whose real name turned out to be Raj because his white American hippy parents gave birth to him in India.

And I will always remember Moe from a Fashion Week party in Soho. Moe turned out to be my next-door neighbor’s best friend, which turned out to be really awkward because he knew where I lived.

And speaking of knowing where I live, I have met a couple of delivery guys in my days (okay, so sometimes the UPS guy is really cute) there was Rudy who delivered a new bed and then came back an hour later to ask me out on a date and then there was David who delivered office supplies at my work-study job in college.

Then there were a series of now faceless guys I never called or who never called me in my college years.And then there were guys who always called or asked for your number and you wished they hadn't-- like those peter pan types—the balding, aging gents who, when I was 20, didn’t remind me of what my husband would look like in 15 years.

Of the memorable Peter’s was Gary who demanded that I take his phone number after he nearly ran me over in front of my dorm. I thought he was stalking me because I saw him all the time. It turns out that he lived next door.

Also from my college years were guys I met when I was an undergrad and they were in graduate school. There was a guy named Jon who was really cute and smart but I didn’t know what to say to him because he actually read Karl Marx and I only dated a Karl. Then there was this German grad student who I went to a party with. Sadly he got weepy and drunk and professed “erotic love” for me. I can’t remember his name but that phrase will stay with me forever. Then there was the Dutch grad student (oh the joys of going to college in NYC) who I shamelessly turned into my straight guy friend (every girl needs a male ear to lean on) even though I knew he liked me.

And since we are talking about guys from other parts of the world there were a couple of guys I met at the same party in New York --Rory from Ireland who is an unforgettable hottie. Thankfully I lost his number because he had “this will end badly” written all over him. You know the type. And from this same gathering was Philip from Israel. And on separate occasions Mikhail was also from Israel, Wahid from Morocco, a couple of guys named Roberto from Italy and Ecuador, and a beautiful Robert from New Zealand and another lad from the common wealth, Tobias. Rafael was a dreamy guy from Brazil and randomly there have been more than a few Greek men, including Yanis who, I’ll admit, I asked him for his number. And there was Jean-Pierre who I met on the Metro in Paris.

And less you think me fussy or not willing to hand my digits over to blokes born in the US, there has also been a Rodney, a Bill and a Eugene.

Don’t be alarmed. Yes, my list is long. But it is merely a record of all or most of my relatively harmless fully clothed brief encounters with the weaker sex.

Okay, so I am a recovering international man-eater.

And now that I have confessed, tell me, who is in your closet?

Working at the Car Wash

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 05:57:00 +0000

Growing up, I wanted to be a prima ballerina and a marine biologist. Then I wanted to be a lawyer for about two minutes. Then came the long period of wanting to be a Duran Duran roadie followed by an even longer stint wanting to be an archaeologist. And then I thought about revoking my citizenship to become a Greek philosopher. Finally, I settled on being a journalist. I carried the dream of being a reporter all the way across country to college where I landed some very juicy internships that only proved to me that I didn’t have the stomach for “getting a story” at any cost, i.e. my dignity. So I thought, maybe I would become a writer. A writer like Virginia Woolf, a writer like George Eliot, Kate Chopin, or even better, I would become a writer like Judy Blume. Maybe not. Or maybe I would do something grand.

And then came the defining moment of my life, the moment when the earth opened up and a hand dragged me into the underworld, transforming my destiny and making me the woman that I am today.

I remember it all so clearly. I was at the end of my junior year in college having coffee with a professor who I idolized, feeling like a student at Aristotle’s knee, except, we were women sitting in some West Village pseudo intellectual haunt and it was still the Clinton era.

Anyway, this young professor asked me what I was planning on doing with my life and I said that I wanted to travel around the world looking to join a worthy cause that came with some really hot rebel soldiers and fight a great historic battle against the powers that be from some remote jungle location. I would fall in love with the tragically romantic populist leader (think Che as played by Gael Garcia Bernal) and together we would win over hearts and minds across his developing nation. He would rule his country with me at his side. A bloodless coup would oust him and all our comrades. The people would be in tears. Fabulously wealthy leftist Europeans would take up our struggle and my rebel lover and me would live in exile in Paris. We would become celebrities among young idealists everywhere. From our country house in Aix en Provence, Gael and I would charm them with stories from our combat years. Our children, precocious and beautiful, would play at our feet. The birds would sing.

A relatively easy and achievable dream, one would think.

But the professor lacked my faith. Playing the part of mentor in an Oscar winning performance, she started messing with my plan. She planted the seeds of doubt. She corrupted my soul. She showed me the dark side. Basically, she murdered my spirit. And years later, I would come to find out that it is just like her to do that. Of course, my evil twin sister was so on to her, but did I listen? No. Anyway, being young, impressionable and on that day, most likely suffering from a hangover, I took a big bite from her carrot.

Without going into the painful details, I followed a career path that the professor laid out for me with all the aimlessness of a Zombie looking for dinner. Truly, I was never happy doing what I did for many years with middling success. And yes, every once in a while, I would look up from my desk and in the reflection of my computer screen I would see a hint of the woman that I could have been.

And why am I thinking about all of this now, many, many miles away and several years after the fact? Obviously, this is a symptom of having too much time on my hands. So what I am saying here people is that I think I may need an actual J-O-B. I don’t mean this phantom job that I call myself having as I slog away on the computer day after day. I mean an actual get dressed in the morning (or at night should I decide that I could peddle my wares on the street) grab a cup of coffee and head out the door kind of job. I need a job that pays. But with 10 million Americans out of work, I figure I may have some competition. What can a girl do with skills that include: public speaking, surfing the web, in-line skating, master spin artist, expert pillow tester and chocolate taster?

I am racking my brain trying to figure out which jobs I might be qualified for so I thought I would open it up to you— my one loyal reader. You keep me blogging for better, for worse. Thank you.

Anyway, go for broke. The person with the top three suggestions will win a pretty tin of almond cookies—sent directly from Hong Kong.

**I decided to stop offering the can of tainted milk and toxic toys as no one seemed eager get in on that action.

And the cookies will be store bought, don't worry!

We're the Save'ums

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 14:37:00 +0000

Cool fall weather has arrived in Hong Kong at long last. Of course, I write this knowing that in a matter of minutes the weather will change to a damp chilled-to-the-bones days of pollution and fog that characterizes winter in these parts.

But anyway….

This morning, in commemoration of the changing seasons and in the effort of turning back time, I broke out all of my face creams, lotions, oils and started applying them in earnest. But that is when I noticed that most of my creams had turned to water or worse: some gloppy form of way beyond its shelf life mess. It seems that while I have spent the past couple of years aggressively evading the care of my skin that my beauty products shriveled up and died.

I took it all in stride until I decided to open my closet that has become a tomb over the past year and blew off the dust from the boxes of shoes that I have hardly worn and dresses that were purchased for special occasions that never arrived. And it hit me.

I have a problem.

Though I live for today, I have a habit of spending for tomorrow.

Don’t get me wrong I don’t spend beyond my means. I am not a shopaholic. I hate shopping actually, but when I do, I make sure that I purchase exactly what I want, regardless of the price.

Thankfully, I have a natural predilection for being cheap. However, over the years I have accumulated some costly kick ass gear. But oddly, from clothes to cosmetics to shoes to purses to jewelry I have bought more than a few things that rarely see the light of day. It seems that the more expensive the item, the less I wear it out in public.

But no more. From here on out, everyday is going to be worthy of my most luscious ensembles. I am going to be the belle of my own ball, damn it. I’ll admit that it is about time, as most of my stuff is at least fifteen years old anyway.

And I’ll tell you what, I will look so good that no one will ask me why I am dressing like Milli of Milli Vanilli.

Who thought those guys were actually singing these songs?

Day Dream Believer

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 08:12:00 +0000

I am, like loads of people, spending much of my day thinking about Barack Obama. I mean really, it takes a lot of talent and cajones to rise to the top of the political heap in four years. And then I got to thinking… talent is one thing, but to achieve your dreams you need something else: passion, commitment, intelligence and a nice rack doesn’t hurt either. But that’s just me.

Seriously, just thinking about President-elect Obama encourages me to ask myself the important questions of “Who am I?” and “Why the hell am I eating so much ice cream lately?”

So I am announcing right now, that as of today, I am going to tap into my inner Obama, a man that has inspired millions both at home and abroad, and try and be my very, very best. I am going to fight hard to achieve my dreams (even if the dream is just a one nightstand with George Clooney). I am not going to waste any more time on meaningless pursuits (except I may still blog) because, damn it people, I have work to do.

And there is a two-fold bonus in all of this. I will get to tell my children how in some small way, I, like millions of others not only help shift the public debate, re-energized politics, and made what seemed to be impossible, possible by electing a President that knows the U.S. Consitution. I can tell my kids that it was also the day inspired Mommy to get serious and finally put that call in to Clooney’s people.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Occupational Hazard

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 07:58:00 +0000

After the excitement of Tuesday’s election, I have been forced to settle down to more practical matters.

Today I had to go to the doctor. The problem, it seems, is a growth. For months now I have had growth on my wrist. I know, I know it would have been much more intriguing if I had a growth somewhere else and then later discovered that it was the unbirthed head of an evil triplet. Anyway, this growth is called a ganglion cyst. Apparently, the cyst has formed on the tendon of my middle finger. It seems as though my frequent past time of flipping people off comes with a side effect.

And speaking of side effects, after the visit to my doctor I went next door to another doctor’s office to see about my other growth—the one that I euphemistically call my "belly."

Like flipping people off, pregnancy and birth has some side effects too. Some are more common than others. And I just when thought that I had bounced back from forty extra pounds, loose joints, sore boobs, nausea and exhaustion followed by months of insomnia, I am hit with some new information.

PRSMD.

What is this PRSMD you say? According to my doctor I suffer from “postnatal rectus sheath muscle diasthesis.” Funny, I thought it was called (and spelled) diastasis, but what do I know? I am only allowed to practice medicine in Ukrainian prisons.
Basically, it means that my stomach muscles have separated. No biggie you may think to yourself, all pregnant women experience some of this. And you would be correct. But few women have their muscles separate so much that they are faced with the horrifying reality of fitting into their low waist skinny jeans but having to wear maternity tops for the rest of their lives.

This can only be summarized in one word: Yuck.

My doctor, a smartly dressed woman who has an accent that sounds a lot like Nigella Lawson, which I used to find quaint until she told me that surgery is inevitable. Actually she said this:

“Sure you could workout, but there are only a few exercises you can do and your separation is so wide that you really are going to need surgery. So you better hurry up and decide if you are going to have more children. And if another child is in the offing, I would recommend that you start trying in about two months.”

No, you wouldn’t be wrong to scream (along with me) WTF?!

But the Mister has always been geeked for three kids and is now campaigning hard for the next installment. He is, of course, less interested in adopting.

But me? I am not so sure.

Is three really the new two?

Should I drink the Kool Aid?

Who Shot JR?

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 05:13:00 +0000

Being in Hong Kong means that I am one whole day ahead of folks in the US and a little over half a day ahead of people living in Europe.

What I am trying to say is that, it is afternoon here on Nov. 4th and it feels like I am sitting by the phone, waiting, just waiting for that guy (who promised it would be a one nightstand) to call. Or since I am talking about waiting for election results maybe I should liken my current feelings of trepidation/anticipation to waiting for the plus sign to appear after I peed on the stick.

Screw it.

I'm off to get a manicure and pedicure.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 12:12:00 +0000

I can’t put a finger on it but I am feeling pretty fucking pissed off right now. For the past several days, I have just been buried in the shittiest possible mood ever. It could be a number of things, like oh, the state of the world, my missed deadline, my sex life, my sometimes annoying babysitter, or my inability to fit into anything that doesn’t scream “fourth trimester.”

Yeah, maybe.

But I doubt it.

Because I am feeling all the symptoms of something far more sinister, you know kind of like coming off a three day meth bender where you find yourself laying in a pool of your own vomit and somebody else’s feces.

Ah, how I miss the 1990's.

Anyway, I have the strangest feeling that the persona known to you in the blogosphere as “SWC” or the “Stepford Wife Chronicles” is taking over my life. No, I don’t mean that blogging has taken over my life. I mean that the cranky bitch—the one who carries a gun and smokes a pack a day is unloading her arsenal of rage in my mind.

I know, I know. What I am describing has all the fixin’s of a psychotic break. And I say BRING IT ON, muther fucker.

Anyone else feeling pissed off?

Daily Bread

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 14:53:00 +0000

Yesterday, in another act to be filed under “Royal Waste of My Time,” I had lunch with someone who I thought could be my one and only in the flesh friend here in the gilded penal colony.

When I first laid eyes on this woman a few months ago I thought, "Wow, she is neither tall nor blonde." Later I found out that she had a bona fide job and actually read books. She was an artist, liked a good glass of wife and didn’t cook. She was Bobbie Markowe (Paula Prentiss) to my Joanna Eberhart (Katharine Ross) from the 1975 original The Stepford Wives.

And just like the movie they got her.

I should have known something was wrong from the outset because she seemed too giddy, but I thought maybe she was high or something. Nothing wrong with that, the woman does have four kids after all. But then she randomly threw out the word “scripture” as in, “I’ll have the cob salad. With a side of scripture.”

Okay, scripture in and of itself is not a bad thing—in fact, it should be known that I have a few of my own favorite scriptures, like Leviticus 18-23: “Neither shalt thou lie with any beast to defile thyself therewith: neither shall any woman stand before a beast to lie down thereto: it is confusion.” Righteous.

Anyway after that painful lunch and public prayer, I went home to my sometimes-annoying babysitter who informed me that my kids shouldn’t celebrate Halloween because it glorifies Satan. And that is when I knew that I had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

I mean, Stepford Connecticut seemed scary enough, with the threat of becoming a complacent robo vixen housewife but in reality, it is not a stretch.

But to have to live on a small island with people who actually believe that Halloween--the only time of year when parents can openly send their children out to rustle up the year’s supply of candy—is wrong, well then they are just plum fucking nuts.

Character Assassination

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 09:33:00 +0000

I am but a mere rookie in this game of blogging, but I have been "tagged." After a quick investigation, I discovered that tagging in the blogosphere is not like "tagging that ass" as they say in America, but rather something a bit more refined. I should have known because Mariecel who keeps it real over at Cosmopolite-Kaffeeklatsch is very discerning.

I gather that the rules are as follows: list 7 things about yourself and then get 7 other bloggers to do the same. You know, like good old fashion chainmail. I always sucked at this in elementary school so I am leery about trying to beat my personal bet now.

But sure, I'll play. Though I am feeling mighty evil today so I am changing the rules a bit. I am going to tell you fourteen things that you may not know about me. Then I am going to tag the seven blogs that come up in Blogger under "Next Blog" (look up, to the tool bar, to the left.... that's it).

1. I am not true Blonde.
2. Despite appearance, my boobs are real.
3. I do not believe in wearing workout gear outside of the gym, as in no workout gear as casual wear. And in my universe, wearing a sweatsuit after twelve noon is gauche. So is wearing sneakers with dresses. But, I think tennis skirts are cute and can be worn at anytime of day.
4. I was once held hostage by a rebel group in Latin America.
5. I also have connections in the world of organized crime.
7. I am a people person.
8. I am over big label bags.
9. I grew up in California, moved to New York City, then back to California, then to Italy, then back to New York, followed by brief stints in Ohio, Texas, California again and then back to New York City. Now I live in Hong Kong.
10. I am a Doctor.
11. This blog is an outlet for my evil twin sister who takes possession of my body at random moments.
12. I have a flesh and blood twin sister who is occasionally evil.
13. I hate rules and when people tell me what to do and fashion mandates and acting my age (which by the way, according to the Mayan calendar is either 28 or 163).
14. I have the exterior of a cranky irreverent blowhard but really, I'm just a kitten.

Above, there is one statement that is not true. If you figure it out and tell me the correct answer, I will send you an authentic can of tainted milk or a bucket full of toxic toys sent directly from the manufacturer in China.

And here comes the fun part. These are the random folks that I tagged.

Raili R-K

TreeProject

Marnil

Shubidubibulala

Zurich

Portfolio

dwell.urban

And I also hit up American Girl in the UK and JB over at Gathered Tribe

Note to Self

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 00:12:00 +0000

Today is my birthday.

To commemorate this day and my various accomplishments over the past few years (had two babies, became an insomniac, ended a long career, gave up a monthly paycheck, moved out of the city and an apartment that I loved, got married, became seriously unemployed, moved to the other side of the world, started eating my way through Asia, acquired a golf cart, lost all my friends, was late for an important deadline, and took up blogging) I am going to eat a pint of Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream and leave you with these immortal words:

"I'm not perfect, I'm not an angel, but I try to live a certain way because it brings honour and respect to my mother. I tell people that when they look at me, they're looking at nothing but a big, overgrown, tough mama's boy. That's who I am."

We are the Champions

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 12:44:00 +0000

Lately, I have been sitting around thinking about all the times in my life when I have won something. You know, like being the tenth caller and scoring tickets to see some unknown band (what do you expect, it was public radio). Or, winning, as in drop your business card in a glass bowel and hope that they draw your name to win that free night at the Banyan Tree Villas in Phuket, Thailand (actually it was my husband who won, but rumor has it that I get to go). Or my favorite kind of winning the-- I am going to stay up all night for days to write the best 1,000 words on what life is like for a chicken (got honorable mention and $75 smackers). Then there is the winning with strings attached, what I call "winning in the capitalist age" also known as the the retail win.

The retail win is always a good kind of win if you go in with steel clad balls. It is the time share win, the no purchase necessary win, the 30 day free trial win. As long as you don't buy, you win.

So today, I made good on a retail win. I cashed in on a "Face lifting and contouring facial" from The Organic Pharmacy's Hong Kong Spa called, The Farm. And no, The Farm is not on a farm, but on the fifth floor of one of the many, many high rises in HK, only this fifth floor has a balcony that looks out on to some other buildings and some trees.

So I made my way in the building chanting the retail win mantra: get in, get out , which as I rode the slowest elevator in the world, started to sound a lot like the Missy Elliott song that was playing one drunken night many, many years ago at a bar in Key West where I danced on top of a table and someone slipped me a dollar (I count this as another kind of winning by the way). Later, she asked for a lap dance, but I had to explain that though I was single, I was straight and destined to become a suburban mom.

Back at the Farm, they finally opened the door after realizing that I wasn't the Fed Ex guy but a non-paying customer who was going use up all of their spa goodies (get in) and then, after firmly telling the sales girl that I was not going to fork over USD $ 6,543.82 for a bunch of spa treatments, I would leave them with a fake smile and generous tip (get out).

Perfect. Until I saw the pretty little jar of anti-aging serum that only works with the anti-aging gel which only works with the never grow old cleansing cream that works wonders with the, you-can-take-it-with-you toner. And because it is all organic, you need the special organic cloth to gently apply all of this eternal youth.

Okay, yes, I know that a hot date with Dracula is cheaper (he pays when blood is involved, right?). And if you happen to find a twenty on the floor of the bathroom on said date it is also a form of winning.

And there is that winning grey area. The "it-can't-be-stealing" win because you were already home from your "free" facial and when you notice that the sales girl put a jar of their signature cellulite cream in your bag (retail value:$386.99).

Won anything lately?

At the Weekend

noreply@blogger.com (SWC) — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 23:00:00 +0000

Don’t you just love when British people say “at the weekend” when we Americans know that it is “on the weekend?” I mean, come on! As if we need to have any further confirmation that the lilypad of a landmass called England is better than the U.S. of A.

You Brits already have the higher currency, universal health care and politicians who have not had lobotomies. I've watched CSPAN. Ya’ll can throw down in Parliament.

Anyway, this weekend I have decided to take a bit of a blogging break. Let’s see if I can cure myself of this most strange addiction and actually focus on my “serious” writing.

Plus Hub recently said to me, “It is pathetic that the most exciting thing going on in your life is a blog.”

Just how do you Brits say “ouch" in fancy English?