A Slight Pause In My Midlife Crisis For Some Awards

If you’re one of the many bloggers who’ve been on break or one of the handful of unique visitors landing here because you typed “psycho woman pussy good” into Google, or one of my loyal skimmers, or if you just dropped by to get another look at Muskrat’s snuggie, let me get you up to speed:

I am a Hippie. 

Yes, as determined by my readers (because I once got arrested for skinny dipping) and also by my Teen (because I make him walk to school) it’s now official.

And this Hippie's been writing recently about her Card Carrying Gay Buddhist Buddy (Medical Marijuana Card, that is) whom she is learning many things from.

Except Buddhist Buddy can’t seem to help her cut through the cycle of midlife crises—which reared its graying head last week with the double whammy of taking a career-diving job and discovering her supervisor was a former student.

But that didn’t stop Britain’s most distinguished undistinguished writer, Chris Wood from awarding this double-whammy post. For the long, sad, Sarandon-saturated story, scroll down. OMG! This alliteration thing is contagious.

It should be noted that I am only the second recipent of this award, after the wicked funny Bee, and the fact that Chris is on my list of top ten bloggy crushes in no way influenced his decision.

Thanks Chris. I feel so very honored. You now have a reserved VIP spot on my couch for the tour across the pond to promote your book:

which can be purchased here on Amazon.


And if that award wasn’t enough to temporarily relieve this migraine of a midlife crisis, Cat from My Name is Cat has given me another great, but less grammatically-correct award:

Thanks so much Cat!   And on top of that Bossy stopped by to express her sympathy.  In short, being a failure never felt so good.


NOTE TO NON-BLOGGY WRITERS AND GOGGLING PERVERTS FROM DUBAI: I apologize, but it’s a Blog-Award-Blog world out here. This is all part of the gig. So in order not to bore the bloggness out of you, here is a video rap on correct grammar that I ripped off from Dan at The Art of Panic.

It's Sistersalad's  Yo Comments Are Whack  And it's good.  I mean, well.  No, I mean, ah, excellent. 

Now, the Butterfly award comes with rules that state I'm to pass it on to five others. If they choose not to pass it on, that's cool. I do it in order to give my fellow bloggers a shout out.

They are the wickedly funny:

The Self Deprechaun

Just Because You Don't Need It

Heinous at Irregularly Periodic Ruminations

Vodka Mom at I Need a Martini Mom

Unfinished Dude's wife. Tradition has it that I award The Dude. But this Hippie has decided it's his wife's turn. She writes a damn funny story about Himself funky-white-boy-ing it up with his bros and one h-e-double-hockey sticks of good blog Herself.  She's:

Shieldmaiden96  at Dispatches From the Northern Outpost

Now Chris' Nobel Prize for Awesomeness also comes with stipulations for me:

1. This weekend, thy shall drink much beer. Beer is the fruit of wisdom, and killer of brain cells that don't pull their weight (I can prove this here).
2. Teachers don't get much credit. Remember your value: You change the world for people.
3. You must be at the Cavern of the Crescent Sausage at sunrise on Winter Solstice, wearing a Viking helmet and Neil Young t-shirt, holding a bowl full of lasagna.

I think this Hippie can handle that.

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For these and other wicked bloggers, visit Humor-Blogs.

For another peek at The Snuggie, scroll down.

STAY TUNED: More Tuesdays With Buddhist Buddy--The Straight One

Just One More Damn Thing To Make Me Feel Old

As some of you know, I'm prone to midlife crises. Being told I looked like the wonderful, yet older Susan Sarandon last summer put me into a tizzy.

I suppose some people have a crisis, buy the Boxster or botox--whatever the gender may be--and that's it. Finito.

Yet each time I think I'm coming to terms with my age, something like noticing the start of a double chin or mustache sets me off again. And so it happened once again the other day while being interviewed for a job.

When I was younger, more like the Damn-It-Janet Susan Sarandon,

I taught public high school.  Within a few years, I'd upgraded to teaching at Temple University Japan. Much as Susan upgraded to:

Afterwards, like Susan who took a small step downwards when she made:




I taught at the not-quite-as-prestigious, but still accredited institution of higher learning (whose Rockets football team beat the blue and gold off of the U of M Wolverines last fall) The University of Toledo.  


Once I had babies,  I began freelancing. In not much time I went from local publications to national ones such as Ladies' Home Journal and Woman's Day. And my pay jumped to new levels much like Susan's did with the success of this film:



Four years ago I took a gig doing narrative non-fiction on small school reform for KnowledgeWorks Foundation, with generous support from The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. And like Susan with this movie:



my career reached a new high. Not only was I wined and dined during the gig (thanks Bill) but, along with my colleagues, won two national awards for writing!!!!  Yes, I am entitled to use exclamations marks here.


But according to Doug, Nietzsche says, "That which doesn't kill me, makes me take a nose dive." A few months ago the grant was finito and I started looking for work again.

The other day I had an interview to be a tutor for kids in the projects. (The black supervisor's words, not mine)  Yes, a tutor--not that there's anything wrong with that.

You look really familiar, I told the supervisor.

A lot of people say that, she replied.

But I didn't mean it in that way. She really did look familiar. So we talked about schools she'd attended and discovered she went to a junior high in which I taught, but a few years before I was there.

Still, this plagued me.

I remembered a girl in that junior high who was really enthusiastic about a poetry unit I presented. She was a good writer and we bonded immediately. The more I thought about it, I realized I taught the unit when I was an education student doing field experience, which would put me there at the time she attended.

I searched through my old files and found sample poems from the students. Her poem, signed, was on the first page.

Yep. I was being interviewed by a former student. 

Yep I was offered the job, took the job and am now I'm being supervised by a former student!!!!!  More exclamation entitlement.

Is there anything more...ah, let's see...the word humiliating comes to mind...than working for a former student?

Like the award winning actress Susan Sarandon who signed a deal with Revlon, my career took an age-dive:



I mean, what was next for this Grown-Up-But-Groupie-Like Aging Hippie Wilco-Stalking Couch Surfer prone to midlife crises?

I can only hope it isn't becoming one of these:






Anyway, the following day during orientation I showed the supervisor the poetry, and she lit up like her then 13-year old self.

I remember you!!  (The Black supervisor's exclamation marks, not mine)

You were that teacher!!--the one who did the poetry!!  You were really positive and supportive of my work!! You even gave me a present for being so interested in the poetry!! 

Wow. I don't recall that, I responded.

You know, she said, I began to love writing.  I continued doing it and went on to major in journalism in college.

It was then that I put my current midlife crisis on hold for a moment and beamed just a bit myself.

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A special shout out for my buds who gave me stellar recommendations.

More beaming guaranteed at Humor-Blogs.

In Which I Blog About Bangs and Not Beer

Day one of not blogging about beer: I've heard from a faithful reader that I blog about beer too often. And with you all as my witness I will stop. Here and now. Cold turkey. I’m all about pleasing my public, for why else would I click that 'publish post' button instead of restricting my dysfunctional life to notes on pub coasters.

Of course I also click that 'publish post' button so you all can click that Humor-Blogs button so I get beat the crust off of Honey Pie--which just ain't happening. (BTW, I recently voted for my own post not because I think I'm funny, but because Hamell is funny. It seems some of you missed his video clip called Ann Coulter's Snatch. Folks, please, even if you don't like the C word, even if you disagree with Hamell's politics, this is one clever guy. Scroll down and be prepared to laugh. And if Ann Coulter doesn't amuse you, try one of Hamell's songs about fast food or drug use or beer...Oops. Sorry. Must not blog about beer).

Anyway, I'm also backing off on blogging about my 3 Handfuls, who drive me to drink. Of course I say that tongue and cheek. I don’t need an excuse to drink. Rather, I mean, I like to drink. I mean, not to to drown my sorrows or to get drunk and dance on the tables at Mickey Finn's (this is a purely made-up example). No, I drink micro-brewed IPAs for that bitter, hoppy flavor which…Oops beer again. Sorry. This is really hard.

Anyway, today I am blogging about my bangs. A few weeks ago while on vacation in CA, I was told by the Tonight show crew that I looked like this woman:



Thanks to all who said it was a compliment. But Susan Sarandon is like, old. And even though she has Tim Robbins who is a buddy of John Cusack, I used to be told that I look like Meg Ryan who’s actually had John Cusack, if you know what I mean.

So I’m on a mission to look younger.

I go into a hip music store and ask Hot Clerk With Sideburns to help me find a youthful shirt.

Who’s it for?

For me, I say, admiring his high tops.

OK. How’s this? He holds up a shirt with anime characters on it. It was youthful all right--12-year old teenie bopper youthful.

No, that’s not quite right.

Hot Clerk With Sideburns And High Tops leads me to a different table. How’s this one? he says.

This one’s 19-year old cardboard guerilla death metal youthful. At least we’re heading in the right direction.

I shake my head.

Who is this for, really? Hot Young Clerk w/SAHT asks.

Dude, it’s for me.

He walks to a rack under a poster of My Morning Jacket and pulls out a gray shirt.

This one is perfect for you. It has a message on it.

Now I am reduced to Ms Clichéd Customer who’ll wear a shirt with a message. I look it over. I quickly consider the anime. But I don't want to disappoint Hot Young Clerk, so I take the message. And it is a pretty cool message:



It features guns turning into musical instruments and says 'Weapons of Choice.'

One problem. I consumed so much beer, I mean, barbeque on vacation that the shirt is too small for me. So what do I do? I cut my bangs—not unlike a 12-year old teenie bopper’s.

Did it work? Do I still look like Susan Sarandon?

Dang. I forgot to take a photo of myself with my new bangs—kind of like sending an email and forgetting the attachment.

OK. Well. Stayed tuned for the next post in which I reveal my bangs (and not how much I love Stone Brewery's Ruination. Sorry. More beer. I guess I suck at this).

p.s. Is there an age cut off for high tops?

HELP!!! My ratings are sinking and it's enough for me to crack open a b.... never mind. Just please click here.

Stalking in Malibu

is not easy with loudmouth kids.

"There! In the sunglasses!" my son shrieks. "Is that John Cusack?"
"Not unless he's gained 80 pounds," I try to shish him.
"That woman, there..." my daughter points, "is that Britney and her kids."
"How many times do I have tell you," I push her finger down. "If you see Britney, she won't be with her kids."
"That Corvette. Five 'o clock. Is that Will Smith?" my teen yells.
"Will Smith is black," I whisper. "And not a senior citizen."

We go to Nobu's. Nobu's is closed. We go to Starbucks. Starbucks is empty. The closest we get to any movies stars is the waitress at Paradise Cove who has personally waited on Brad and Angelina before they opened their orphanage.

And as we drive one of the canyon roads, we're pretty sure we see Mel Gibson's garbage cans and John Cusack's gardener. Or John Cusack's garbage cans and Mel Gibson's gardener. Or maybe it was Britney's gardener. Or maybe her new boyfriend. We're not sure.

Anyway....a few days earlier I am told I look like a movie star.

Coming down the escalator at Universal Studios, I am filmed by the Tonight Show crew. I sign a release that my five seconds can be used for a segment on people who look like famous people (or their gardeners).

"Who do I look like?" I prod the young producers.
"Oh, we don't decide. The writers will decide."
"When I was younger," I tell them. "People thought I looked like Meg Ryan."
"No not Meg," a hot guy says. "More like Susan Sarandon."
"Susan Sarandon!" I protest. "You're aging me."
"Dude," a young woman tries to console me. "She's got Tim Robbins."

Tim Robbins? Ummm. OK.



But I'm pretty sure Susan Sarandon doesn't tape her sunglasses together. What do you think?

For more people who look like people, check out Humor-Blogs.