I-Pod Therefore I Am

The great Western philosopher Descartes wrote that “there is a deceiver of supreme power and cunning who is deliberately and constantly deceiving me.”

I think it might be Steve Jobs.

I simply could not exist without my iPod. And truthfully I’d like to think the iPod can’t live without me either, as our histories are intrinsically synced. You see, I hit the market as a single chicken right about the same time the iPod hit the mainstream. There we were, both launching ourselves into uncharted territory, wondering what fate had in store for us. A suburban mom and an MP3 player, repackaged and ready to change the world. The iPod and I were partners in crime, armed with nothing more than a 99-cent song in our hearts and big dreams for the future.

Except the iPod actually had a multi-million dollar advertising budget while I just had match.com and some hand-me-down self help books. But nonetheless! We were all charged up and ready to play.

I received my first iPod as a cheer-up-during-the-divorce present. It was a great influence right from the start. I stopped stealing music from Napster and Limewire and started paying for it fair and square. I stopped smoking (eventually) and obsessively started making custom playlists. I stopped crying and started creating a new soundtrack for the happy new life that was just beyond my reach. The new tunes tricked me into feeling happy until I actually became happy, sort of a chicken and the egg thing. I loved my iPod. It was as if I’d hit the clickwheel of fortune.

Slowly but surely my family has joined the cult as well, each for very separate reasons. Two years ago Little Chick got a Nano for Christmas so she could collect the colored iPod cases and little clothes for her iDog. Last year my mom got an iPod so she could order some fancy red speakers from Switzerland that matched the new décor in her house. But she wouldn’t touch her new little Nano for several weeks as if she had some sort of iPod postpartum depression. So I had to teach my dad how to use it so he would in turn teach her. Up until then my dad vociferously doubted the merit of an iPod, but once he realized you could find the most obscure western tunes and versions of jazz songs no one else had, he was a believer. For a man who’s never stepped foot in a mall, he now goes regularly to check on the latest accessories at the Apple store.

This past weekend we gave my grandmother an iPod for Christmas. As she opened it, Little Chick said, “Mimi, you’re going to love it. It’s like a whole way of life.” Mimi was just flattered we thought she could figure it out. And she caught on remarkably fast. But really, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried to teach your grandmother how to navigate iTunes with your mother and your daughter sitting on either side correcting everything you say. Four generations of iPods in one room – now that’s a lot to download.

I’ve been through several versions of the iPod -- the original classic, a shuffle, and a Nano. Apple keeps dropping new product designs on my head, and much like the force of gravity, I simply can’t resist. This weekend my family surprised me with the new iPod Touch and I am over the moon. Forget a fancy technology review on the capabilities of the device – I am going to look like a badass in public! Yesterday morning I loaded up Little Chick so we would arrive at her school early. I rationalized that we needed to go into the Starbucks across the street to get a latte for her teacher, but really I just wanted to be seen in there during the morning rush with my new iPod Touch. Now granted there was a 12-year old little girl at the table next to me with her new iPod Touch and she was kind of stealing my thunder, but hey, I still had the magic Touch. And in the spirit of the great Southern philosopher Forrest Gump…Cool Is As Cool Does.

I’m sure self-help authors around the world would cry out in horror at my materialistic version of self-worth, but the syllogistic argument simply holds up: The iPod Touch is cool, and I have an iPod Touch, ergo I am cool.
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Fowled Out

Every year I approach Thanksgiving with the same goal: do not succumb to the pressures of holiday gluttony. Enjoy within reason. Exercise twice a day. Emerge on the other side victorious and svelte. I went into this year's battle armed with the usual gameplan. I would fill my plate with turkey and green beans. Avoid the rolls and stuffing. A dot of gravy and just a dollop of sweet potatoes for some color on my plate.

The first play in my playbook worked well, I loaded up on turkey. Nice move, this was going well. Hmm, but look at that gravy. Our good friend had ceremoniously made it just before we served the meal. It looked awfully rich and creamy. Just a touch -- whoops! Ok, so perhaps I was a little heavy handed. No more showboating, or gravyboating as the case may be. But adding too much gravy on my fowl was merely the first of many fouls to come.

Someone was serving the dressing and offered to put a heaping portion on my plate. I couldn't be rude, of course. And then I had to get extra sweet potatoes because I really wanted two marshmallows (marshmallows just seem so light and harmless) and they were spaced kinda far apart. Then came the rolls. Another good friend brought the rolls which were nothing short of luscious. She owns a bakery for heavens sake. They were plump and tall, slightly browned on top with a dusting of flour. Completely soft and doughy on the inside. By the time I found the green beans there was simply no room. I could only fit about three or four little green beans on the edge.

I looked at my plate. YELLOW FLAG! Piling on...definitely a 5-pound penalty.

Then came dessert. My daughter was terribly proud of her shoo-fly pie recipe so I had to have a little slice. And since a guest brought the pumpkin pie, I would have been a bad hostess not to try it. My mother made apple pie and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Of course everything needed whipped cream.

YELLOW FLAG! Excessive celebration. Another 5-pound penalty.

I rolled myself to bed Thursday night feeling completely stuffed and defeated. How did that happen? I started with turkey and pretty much fowled-out from there. And this was only halftime. I still had to face The Leftovers. Part of me was confident and somewhat idealistic. I knew I could avoid the Leftovers. The food was a nice treat but no longer necessary. I would just eat lean, carb-free foods and enjoy my family and friends for the rest of this game - I mean holiday. That's what it's all about, right?

And then there was the other part of me...the part that was wondering if we had enough apple pie leftover for breakfast. This part of me was backed-up against my own end zone about to throw an interception. The consequences would be harsh. I would have to regroup the minute I get home...New Offense: Stricter Diet....New Defense: Join a Gym....Special Teams: The Master Cleanse. Two-a-days would start on Monday. No, we travel home Monday. Start on Tuesday.

I held my own against the Leftovers for awhile but when the football games started, the grazing began. Ultimately I blame the Texas Longhorns for my downfall. The Aggies beat them like a drum for four straight quarters and I nervously nibbled my way through the entire game. With a little over two minutes to go I gave my daughter this big speech about not giving up on your team, a good fan stays until the end, keep hoping for a miracle. It was a tough loss. And to top it off I got completely wrapped up in the Arkansas-LSU game. Unbelievable! Unranked Arkansas beat #1 LSU in the third overtime. Just goes to show anything is possible. At the first overtime I was still rooting for LSU to win it. But by the third overtime and my third helping of coffee cake I had starting cheering for Arkansas. What a great victory for the underdog.

I suppose hoping against hope is in my blood. My great-grandfather played in 'The Game of the Century' in 1916 when Georgia Tech beat Cumberland 222 to zero. It remains the greatest win (or loss, depending on your point of view) in college football history. And I say, with great pride, my great-grandfather played for Cumberland. I think he was even the quarterback for a few plays. He stills holds the college record for most kick-off returns received. I really cannot imagine what compelled the Cumberland players to press on for all four quarters. In the face of certain defeat how did they pick themselves off the bench and persevere? Perhaps it was a combination of hope, sheer drive and a relentless commitment to their fellow teammates. And maybe just a touch of insanity?

I need a little dose of that Cumberland never-say-die spirit. I need to lose this defeatist attitude. So I overate on Thanksgiving? So I plowed through the Leftovers yesterday? I think my gameplan was flawed. Today is a new day, so I'm calling an audible. I am going to put on my snow boots and take a leisurely walk on the county road, with these beautiful mountains as my backdrop. Maybe I will head into town with my dad for the Carroll College football game. And then help my mom plan Christmas. After a super-traditional Thanksgiving she likes to do a wintry Italian meal for Christmas day. She's thinking Osso Bucco this year...

...hmmmm. Hey Coach, put me in. I'm ready.
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Ring My Belle

Pop culture has always had a love affair with the Southern Woman. From Scarlett O’ Hara to the Sugarbaker sisters, Thelma & Louise to those Steel Magnolias, we drink them up time and time again. Like an absinthe, these characters are elusive, intoxicating, bittersweet, steeped in ritual…and sometimes just a tad hard to swallow. In fact, the word ‘absinthe’ actually derives from absinthium, which in Greek means “undrinkable.” Admittedly, these characters are inflated for entertainment value and sometimes pander to archaic southern stereotypes. But if you strip away the outdated trappings, if you look past the hoop skirts and the sweet tea, these silver screen belles reveal some delicious personality traits that continue to course through the veins of modern southern women.

I’m not really sure I fit the prefect southern girl profile. Early on I sensed brains and brass would take me on a slightly different track. I was probably even a bit smug in the fact that I operated outside the stereotype. Or did I? I wasn't a very good Junior Leaguer but I was Rush Chair for my sorority. I was never a husband-hunter, but I did marry quite young. I’ve never played down my smarts around a man, but I am an awfully good flirt. Any way you slice it, the dixie in me has been coming out more and more. Blame it on age, divorce, motherhood, who knows? I will be plodding along, handling the business of my day, and DING! …something rings a Belle buried deep in my southern psyche.

A few years ago I bought a fabulous new pair of smoking-hot designer jeans. I raced to the alterations shop first thing Friday morning to have them hemmed in time for my birthday party that night. I threw myself at the mercy of the alterations Maven. I cooed and apologized and begged and sweet-talked. I explained how I was recently divorced and this was my first birthday celebration as a single girl again and I just had to look fabulous at the party. Finally she agreed to have them ready for me later that afternoon.

Five o’clock arrived before I knew it and I jumped in the car to retrieve my jeans without a thought about what I looked like, which was pretty gamey. Black leggings with dried paint on them. A ratty oversized t-shirt that I grabbed from the pile of unwanted clothes my ex-husband left behind. I figured I would shower after I ran errands.

The alterations shop was utter chaos. A team of bridesmaids was wreaking havoc. Businessmen were impatiently flicking their claim tickets. One particularly handsome guy was being fitted for a tuxedo. The alterations Maven was nowhere in sight and her Worker Bee was not on top of things. I waited and waited and waited. Suddenly from across the room, Worker Bee barked directly at me, asking what I needed. I answered over everyone’s heads that I was picking up jeans that were a same-day rush. She pointed at me and replied loudly, “Oh yeah! The maternity jeans?”

What? Maternity jeans! Horror of all horrors. I know I look grungy but do I look fat? Time stopped. Chatter ceased. The air sucked out of the room. Everyone was staring at me to see how I might react, sizing me up to see if I was pregnant or if Worker Bee had just offended me. Truthfully I think she just made an honest mistake but Lord knows in my giant t-shirt I wasn’t looking too svelte. The awkward boom was lingering over all of us. I could see how uncomfortable it was going to be when I said I wasn’t there for the maternity jeans. Even Hot Tuxedo Guy was staring at me with a tinge of pity.

DING!

I smiled as sweetly as I could and said, “Yes!! I’m here for the maternity jeans! Are they ready?”

And just like that Worker Bee bagged up some absentee woman’s maternity jeans. I wrote a check and carried them out the door as fast as I could -- without endangering my fake baby of course.

What can I say? It was a southern girl moment that really rang my Hostess Belle. You see, we are great at playing hostess. Experts at flexing and bending and absorbing all negative energy to ensure our guests feel warm and shiny and wholly at ease. I guess sometimes it’s a skill that’s hard to turn off. It just seemed easier not to embarrass Worker Bee and make all those people uncomfortable.

So like a lunatic I drove the maternity pants around the neighborhood for about twenty minutes until there was a turnover in clientele. I went back to the alterations shop and promptly returned them for my own.

More and more daily experiences seem to strike a chord with a Belle inside me. If I see a woman walking and smoking, DING! There goes my Snobby Belle. Who knew? I myself will cuss like a sailor but I think it is beyond tacky for a woman to walk and smoke. Ladies please, for me, sit down if you’re going to have a cigarette. And when did it become ok for children to look so sloppy on an airplane? Remember the days when we got all dressed-up to travel?

When my daughter was invited to participate in Cotillion….DING! Nostalgia Belle. I had no idea I would be so excited. I’ve already bought her 3 pairs of white gloves with a little pearl closure at the wrist. I’m trying to find other places for her to wear them – which believe me is hard to do in Austin Texas in 2007.

One of the strangest side effects after my divorce?...DING! The Funeral Belle. Southerners love a funeral. And with no husband to plot my service I have become obsessed with documenting my funeral plans. The trumpets, the choir, gobs of white flowers. And afterwards a raucous gathering with my ‘Funeral’ playlist I keep on itunes.

Not long ago I was having a blusey Sunday. My daughter was with her dad. I had so much to do, yet somehow I was bored at the same time. I tricked myself into feeling under-the-weather, took to my bed for the day and found myself watching ‘Gone With the Wind’. Seeing Scarlett roll up her sleeves and save Tara really rang my Survivor Belle. I realize other women and men deal with much more than I do on a regular basis, but sometimes I get so worn down having to manage everything in this house on my own. The bills, the yard, the dog, the trash, the air-conditioning filter, the opossum in my attic. It’s draining. It’s depressing. Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. But I really do give a damn, and frankly Scarlett’s grit was pretty damn inspiring.

So what does it for you? North, south, east, west. Set geography aside. Do you have a steel magnolia in you? Maggie from ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof’? What about Leslie Benedict from ‘Giant’? If you were a Designing Woman would you be Suzanne or Julia? Maybe a little of both?

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One Plucky Chicken

Welcome to the inaugural post of my very first blog. My name is Christine and I am a divorced mother (Divorce Class of 2004) in Austin, Texas, raising an eight-year old daughter. And I have to say, things are going shockingly well. Finally.

It has been a hell of a ride.

I don’t like to reflect on the year right before my divorce, much less the year right afterwards. I have never felt or acted less like myself. I remember trying to explain to a girlfriend that I was being such a chicken, terrified of the very things I used to do without effort. Scared to write. To eat at a restaurant by myself. To go to PTA meetings. To speak to clients. To be alone for an entire weekend. And not just any chicken...I felt like a chicken being choked around the neck, while having my feathers plucked out one by one. Naked and exposed and certain that the stifling grip was ironically the only thing keeping me from sliding into a pot of boiling water.

I’m sure a trained therapist would say I was likely suffering from some social anxiety disorder and temporary paranoia brought on by the stress of my marriage ending. But I didn’t give my therapist enough couch time to hear all the gory details. And I stopped sharing with friends too. If you’ve been through a divorce you know how that goes. As wonderful and supportive as they are, our friends can literally only hear so much. And my friends did not like seeing me as the scared little chicken. Not one bit. It just didn’t compute. So each day I would either feign mental health or hide out in solitary confinement. I did most of my grocery shopping at 7-11 in those days.

At this time I actually had a kickass executive job at a consulting firm where former Texas Governor Ann Richards was a senior advisor. I had the good fortune to work on a few client projects with her which was a treasure in its own right. But one day, I got a gift I could have never expected.

Her assistant rang my office and said that Ann wanted to see me. Truthfully I was hoping to spend a meeting-free day behind closed doors doing some actual work. Ruffled by this unexpected call I madly grabbed the client folder I assumed she wanted to discuss and scurried down the hall to her office. Bluntly she said, “Rumor has it you’re going through a divorce.” Rattled, I barely maintained my executive polish a bit longer, politely confirming that ‘yes’, in fact, I was going through a divorce.

Well she stripped me of that lovely veneer as fast as she could talk. She’d been there and wanted to know exactly how I was doing. How many girlfriends did I have who had been through it. That wasn’t many. She gave me a reading list of novels and told me to come back and talk with her about them for fun. Asked if I’d like to go to a movie sometime. What restaurants did I like. Not to worry about any friends that would ditch me. Find better, more interesting friends. Stay busy. She finished as bluntly as she began, “Listen Christine, you are in the fight of your life. Just remember how brave you are. And for heavens sake, don’t hang out in your house alone. If you need something to do, call me.”

Well I was blown away! Besides being a little bit scared of her directness, I was really very touched. Governor Ann Richards took the time to check in on me. Me? ME?? I mean, just the day before I had been eating Cheetos in bed while on a client conference call. Her tough words were inspiration enough to rise to the challenge. That was it. I was going to be FINE. Enough of being a depressing ninny. I wanted to be the courageous woman Ann Richards thought I could be. I was going to wake up the next day and toss out the Hostess Cupcake wrappers on my nightstand, eat whole grains, fruits and vegetables, host interesting dinner parties and be an all around fabulous divorcée.

Well, of course that didn’t happen, at least not the next day. I wallowed for months to come. Quit my job. Got a little more lost before I was found. There were more Hostess Cupcakes. My countless trips around the Whataburger drive-through became like the scene in ‘Alice in Wonderland’ where the fantasy creatures race round and round an island in circles without a clear start or finish line.

And then a funny thing happened.

I was at my daughter’s elementary school last year and another mom was telling me about the divorce she was going through. As if channeling Ann Richards, I went into caretaker action mode. I asked if she had plans for Mothers Day, and with a air of upperclassman confidence and experience I outlined her Mothers Day plans and explained how critical it was for her to be prepared for such a tough day post divorce.

And that’s when it hit me. Life goes on. There is a whole a new freshman class of divorced moms coming up the ranks, and my pain is old news. Thank heavens. How liberating. And suddenly I realized I had long since graduated from being a scared little plucked chicken, into a bold, plucky chicken. Life is ok. My daughter cracks me up daily. I love being a homeroom mom. Dating life is no longer treacherous – now it’s just hysterical and fun. I am so busy with friends that I relish time alone. And lo and behold here I am writing again.

Governor Richards died last year so we never made it to the movies. They have renamed a bridge in downtown Austin in her honor, and I can’t think of a better metaphor for the role she served in my life. She was my bridge. Her advice helped me get to the other side of a really painful era, and I get farther from it each time I pass along her advice to someone else. So for me, the question isn’t “Why did the chicken cross the road?” but “Why did the chicken cross the bridge?”

My answer is simple: “Because Governor Ann Richards Kicked My Butt To Get Over It.”

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