So first of all, thank you for all your well-wishes and crossed fingers/toes/internal organs regarding the job situation. It feels so nice to know that people all over the world (mostly the Mid-West US, but with a smattering of dedicated Russian subscribers who I suspect read solely for vodka references) are rooting for me. I will let you know how it goes. In fact, you will know if I get the job because I will probably write up some subtle post titled ” OMIGOD I GOT THE JOB WHHHHHHEEEEEEE!”, and if I don’t get the job, you won’t hear from me until next week when I awake from my self medicated depression reducing tequila haze.

The one thing that’s never really bothered me about the job search is the interview process. I get nervous thinking about what to wear (what looks like I’m trying to hard? And what’s wrong with trying hard anyway? I mean, isn’t that a good message to send to a possible boss? I’m working hard here, even in the shoes department because I want this job so badly?) but as to what to say? Not so much. This is mostly because I’ve inherited my mom’s gene that allows me to talk confidently at length on any subject. Especially those I know nothing about.

Although tomorrow, the topic will be one that I know something about- Me. Specifically, what makes me the person for the job. This is where I run into a bit of a problem. I might have a self esteem issue- meaning… I think sometimes my self esteem might be too high.  As in-  I worry that when asked

“Why are you the right person for this job?”

I may reply, ” I’m the only person who is really capable for this job. I mean, look at my resume, it’s outstanding and perfectly tailored for this. If you pick someone else, it will be a big mistake. Huge.”

This will be followed by an awkward silence where I count paper clips on his desk and wonder if he notices I pulled out some Pretty Woman talk (because quoting a hooker is always a good way to get the job), while he stares at me and ponders how such a big ego can fit into such a short person.

This is where things are tricky- though I’m not nervous to speak in interviews (in fact, I enjoy them because where else do you just get to talk about yourself and your accomplishments for long periods of time?), I worry about those other things that might spill out. The hooker quotes. My love for tequila and afternoon naps. What I want to do with David Duchovony. You see? Dangerous.  So I’m going to tell you instead.

Here’s a list of 10 other things I may say during the interview that I’d rather not. (aka. My list of shameful confessions that I’m going to release to the internet similar to those who release a white dove on a wedding day. Except I’m not getting married and these confessions are not birds who probably have better things to do)

1. I read Oprah magazine. Regularly. And I enjoy it. Speaking of, Tea Leoni is in this months issue (p.228 ) and discusses how David came thisclose to finishing his PhD in English literature.

2. The news about David and his love of English literature made me actually swoon out loud. And clutch my heart (which, had momentarily stopped because David= amazing, David+the idea of his educated hands caressing the spine of fine works of literature= cardiac arrest of the best kind). I’m not kidding. I will think of this for the rest of my life and be forever changed.

3. I’ve given this much thought and I believe that the world would be a far happier place (ie. no war/starvation/need for “Intervention” the scary television show) if everyone got laid on regular basis.

4. I watch the Morgan Freeman commercials everyday on Youtube and everyday I cry. (I don’t even have the time to explain what the hell is wrong with this…)

5. Sometimes, I will lick potato chips but not eat them. And then, I throw all the soggy chips into the garbage. I don’t do this because I have a weird food fetish, sometimes I just don’t want the chip.

6. I brush my teeth in the shower.

7. I lose my phone so often it’s embarrassing. Not “oh, that’s cute and you’re so silly!”, but in a “holy shit, let’s velcro it to your body because no one can ever get a hold of you” way that’s not endearing  but annoying as hell. (Just ask Brookem)

8. As much as I’m trying to control this, I get really irrationally level 10 annoyed/angry when I hear women who are going to vote for McCain. I can’t even really articulate the anger I feel about it, and I’m sure if I attempted it here, my hate mail would at least double and hate mail is lame enough as it is. For real.

9. I don’t like cats. (And saying this here makes me nervous. Like I’m saying ” I beat children” or “I support the making of high-waisted, tapered, pleated, acid wash jeans”.)

10. I’m just putting this photo up again so I can use the tag I made when I put it up the first time. And because, let’s face it. The picture does it for me in ways I suspect no other image found on the computer can.

I get love drunk off his humps smoldering gaze.

And for the record, the above sentence is definitely #11 on the list of things I plan on not saying.

I’m walking the fine line between being 27 years old and feeling like I’m 7 years old.

It’s my 27th birthday on Friday and it’s circled on my calendar= 27 years old

- with pink crayon= 7 years old

I’m finding it hard to get excited for my birthday this year= 27 years old

- but I keep telling people about it= 7 years old

I’ve asked for an old school pink bike, complete with basket = 7 years old

I’m thinking of getting warranty for it= 27 years old

I jumped up and down when I overheard my mom ordering it= 7 years old

I’ve already (partially) celebrated my birthday last week with sangria and gambling= 27 years old

- and sack races= 7 years old

I think I want to celebrate with a sleepover= 7 years old

- with someone completely inappropriate= 27 years old

I got a birthday card in the mail from my grandfather= 27 years old

- that had stickers on it= 7 years old

I don’t care about birthday cake= 27 years old

- but I still need to want to blow out candles = 7 years old

This might be the only birthday post I write this year if the tides of 27 don’t change. Which is a HUGE difference from last year in which I wrote out my birthday wish list almost a month before my birthday and then had roughly 4.7 billion posts leading up and then later describing my birthday fun. Perhaps I swallowed a boring pill this year?

Are you all “hooray it’s my birthday, let’s play white Russian roulette!!” person or a “let’s draw the curtains and spend the day watching *THE HILLS instead of partying” person?

* Speaking of The Hills (yes, I have to go there), Lo and Spencer should just get married. Then they can be miserable together and Spencer can spend his days attempting to grow facial hair and Lo can continue to practice disguising her meanness in that annoying baby talk complete with doe-eyed stare. The sickening thought is I would probably watch that show. And eat it up like candy. Candy laced with crack. Sigh. I have a reality television problem.

When I was in the seventh grade, my friends mom chased me around the house with an electric shock brush.

My friend (let’s call her Victoria), came from a very new- age family. Their house was home to crystals that stood taller than me, dream catchers, a hypnosis room, prayer beads, meditation mats and enough books on new age healing and psychology that I could have paper mached the Empire State building with them. In short, it was 100% different from my home in every way. And some days I loved it (when Victoria’s mom introduced me to reiki), and some days it scared me (the day I was chased with the electric shock brush that apparently would cure my headache).

One of my most memorable days with Victoria’s mom (other than the time she lectured us on stealing her cooking wine and drinking it on a trampoline) was the day she showed me the power of “putting it out there”. She was always talking to Victoria and I, encouraging us to make lists of what we wanted, to draw pictures, tell people, say it before going to sleep. (We usually scoffed because the last thing I thought about before going to sleep wasn’t going to be a wish to the universe for a better science mark- it was going to involve a personal fantasy that included Johnathan Taylor Thomas). One day she told us she was going to put it out there for the universe and we would see how powerful the world was. She told us she had been actively thinking about what she wanted that day and she wrote down what she wanted on a piece of paper. Then she folded it up, gave it to Victoria and told Victoria she could only open it when she told her she could. We rolled our eyes and went back to eating an entire box of cereal.

The day progressed and Victoria’s mom announced she wanted to go the mall. Specifically, she needed to go the pharmacy in the mall to pick up a prescription for Victoria’s brother.  It was a few days before Christmas and Victoria and I agreed to go with her to finish our Christmas shopping (this is when I was still young enough that I enjoyed holiday shopping and didn’t hate people). While we were driving into the city, Victoria and I complained about how we had wore the wrong shoes and how wet our feet were going to get from snow trudging in the parking lot to the main doors. We knew it was going to be impossible to find a great parking spot and moaned about the fact that there was no cool winter boots for Canadian girls (there still isn’t by the way).

What I remember from the trip is Victoria’s mom not speaking. She would smile if we said something funny, but she stayed quiet the entire trip. We got to the mall and Victoria’s mom didn’t even glance at any of the last remaining parking spots near the rear of the mall parking lot- though Victoria and I screamed them to her, but drove straight towards the main entrance, that was right beside the pharmacy. And there was a perfect spot. Not only was it perfect because there was no car in it, but all the snow around it was gone. As though the snow had fallen everywhere but in that spot. Victoria and I cheered at the idea of not having to trudge through 800 miles of parking lot or get our feet wet. Victoria’s mom turned to Victoria and told her ” Okay, now you can open the paper”.

Victoria unfolded the piece of paper we had forgotten about to read her mom’s writing: “Today I will park at the closest entrance possible at the mall and there will be no snow”.

In hindsight, it should have been a bigger deal. Her mom had wrote down hours before what she wanted, and it had come true. Victoria and I both were quiet, proclaimed her mom magic and then went in to shop. But I think back on that day and realize that her mom was showing me something bigger than I could grasp, but I could thankfully remember. Who knows, maybe it was luck or chance or fate- or any of the other words we use when we can’t prove what we’ve seen. Or maybe it wasn’t- maybe it was an answer to what her mom had asked.

I thought of this today as I (once again!) applied for a teaching job. It’s at a dream school- two blocks from where I live. I had wrote down what I wanted, thought about what I wanted and proceeded to tell everyone what I wanted. I told a friend what I wanted and she told me that she was actually great friends with the principal, -of the school I applied to.  She’s made a call and I’m supposed to call the principal on Wednesday, but apparently ‘things look good’.

Maybe I won’t get the job, maybe Victoria’s mom just got lucky, - or maybe not. It may be silly or flighty but today I’d rather believe that it’s possible to get exactly what you ask for, if you have the guts and clarity to ask for it. Today I put out into the universe what I wanted and Wednesday I will know if the universe heard me.

Cross your fingers.

It’s after midnight and I’m exhausted. Watching 4 hours straight of Olympics is the most taxing thing I’ve done in recent days and I’m paying the price. I scream, I cheer, I stand on my couch. I cry, I sniffle, I count Chinese hair clips. I marvel at Phelps (did anyone else see the special they did on how his body is the perfect body for swimming? Fascinating- and I don’t mean that just in a sexual, hey, I-want-my-tongue-to-touch-your-abs way, I really mean it in the educational, I learned something way), giggle at Costas and have decided I would go clubbing with Usain Bolt.

The Olympics just make me feel like I swallowed a rainbow. I blame it on Morgan Freeman, athletes crying during the anthem playing and the wine I drink when I watch male swimmers with zero body fat or hair. They have the prettiest armpits I’ve ever seen.

What’s been your favorite moment so far?

(And if you want to be entertained, join twitter and follow the commentary by these girls. Their thoughts on the Olympics put Bob to shame).

Today I yelled at an elderly saleswoman who looked as though if she could have clubbed me and hidden the body, she would have.

It started out simply enough. I wanted to return a book. Two days ago, my brother bought me “Obama Nation” by Jerome Corsi. I hadn’t really heard anything about it, but did a little research and found that he’s the same author who started the “swiftboat” movement against John Kerry. I also found that the book is filled with half truths and misrepresentations- including the idea that Obama might be doing cocaine as a senator, when he’s went on the record (in his memoirs and in newspaper reporting) to say that he stopped doing drugs when he was in his 20’s. The author has come out publicly saying that he does not want Obama in office and will do whatever he can to prevent it from happening- including writing a book based on total fabrications. Both Democrats and level-headed Republicans have dismissed the book for it’s outrageous spin. In short, it’s a book not worth the money my brother had spent or the time it would take to read it.

Before I share with you what happened, let me say two things- 1. I’m ashamed of my behavior. I’m not sharing this because I’m proud of my actions, I’m doing it because I need to share my behavior to fully reach the levels of embarrassment I deserve. 2. I’m not against reading books that differ politically from my own views. I’ve often found it a great way to learn more, I’ve even reached the levels of Anne Coulter (I did this after drinking heavily one day, I found it made the whole thing more bearable.) What I am against is spending money on any book (regardless of political views) that is drenched in lies and looks to profit from destroying the character of someone.

So, I went to the bookstore today, (with the receipt) hoping for a return.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi, I’m here to return this book. I have my receipt right here.

Saleslady: Okay very good. What’s the reason for the return?

Me: I just don’t want it.

Saleslady: Not really a political fan hey?

Me: Actually I am, but this book is not accurate.

Saleslady: Oh, so you are American. (This is said as though she’s suddenly smelled something decaying in the bookstore)

Me: Oh no, I’m Canadian.

Saleslady: Then why make all the fuss?

Me: I don’t think being Canadian should make me more likely to accept lies or give my money to someone to profit from telling them.

Saleslady: Well that seems pretty silly. It’s just a book. You young people today get so worked up all the time, heavens just read it! It can’t all be wrong. People thought he wasn’t a Muslim and know it turns out he is. Filthy. (Current anger level: 3. I mean, she’s an elderly lady in a cardigan. She’s clearly misinformed - and what the hell is with the ‘filthy’ comment??, but getting more angry at her doesn’t seem polite. In fact, it seems like a good way to pave my way to Hell)

Me: What? Obama’s not a Muslim though.

Saleslady: That’s just what they want you to believe. All you silly girls just love the speeches and don’t listen to the truth. He’s a Muslim.
(Current Anger level 6. It’s one thing to be misinformed, elderly and cardigan wearing, but now she’s being condescending and implying that I like him only for his speeches. And she’s STILL wrong on the Muslim thing, and acting as though being Muslim is like saying he likes to steal wheelchairs from the disabled. And she’s not even attempting to return my book, but just keeps petting it like it’s a kitten who’s lost it’s way).

Me: No… it’s an actual fact. This is why I don’t want this book, it just perpetuates what isn’t true. I just want my money back please.

Saleslady: If you don’t want to believe he’s Muslim, that’s fine. I’m just saying that he’s pulled the wool over your silly eyes. He’s not going to win because the truth will come out.

Me: Well, I guess I just disagree. (Current Anger level: 7. I’m really trying to stop talking about it because I can feel my ears turning scarlet and my hands have slowly balled into fists. I’m suddenly too hot and my head hurts. My brain has a hard time grasping the idea that people like this woman actually exist)

Saleslady: Listen. Trust me. I’m just saying this book looks like it has some of the right ideas. This Obama reminds me of Hitler, he’s just got too many followers- I get the chills when I see him just thinking of what kind of evil things he would do if he ever won. It’s like a cult really for all you young kids.

(Current Anger level: 9. Not only does she refuse to let it go, she’s now comparing Obama to Hitler. And she’s still refusing to just give me a damn exchange. And the continual reference to ‘you, young kids’ said in a way to imply that young people are an unsightly gang of uneducated thugs is getting old)

Me: That’s completely ridiculous! The people who are blind- who have the wool over their eyes are the people who buy into this shit. (At this point I grab the book and hold it up because now I’m officially crazy with rage and feel like I need to do something with my hands that don’t involve giving people the finger). Who are too lazy to actually go out and look for themselves at a candidate and who instead readily eat up whatever lies come wrapped up in a pretty book- AND WORSE, go and spread it around like it’s the truth.  Here’s an idea- take responsibility for yourself! Become educated! Or keep your mouth shut. Seriously.  The whole thing is shameful.

Silence. The kind that’s so thick with awkwardness, you could actually slice up all the awkwardness and serve it on toast.

Saleslady: Do you want cash or exchange?

I hate to say this, but I’m afraid sometimes my gender is insane.

During my 7 day trip, I did not meet a single friendly female. NONE. I met many nice men, but not a single nice woman. The girls I did meet-all fell into distinct and unfortunate categories.

I met the insecure, mean girls. The girls who spent 5 minutes at the bar with us smiling and then walked away to talk about my friend and I to other people- other insecure, mean girls. They only stopped talking about us when I walked over to them and was greeted with a dirty looks. Which was nice, I love a big bowl of awkward silence on day one of my holiday. I didn’t realize my plane flew me back to middle school girl drama.

I met the girl who refused to talk to anyone but her friends. The girl I waited at the airport with, who I saw on the plane, who stood in front of me at check-in. The girl I saw everyday, who couldn’t even crack a smile in return to the one I gave her. Who acted as though everyone but her friends were invisible, most likely because no one else put on eyeliner to sit on the beach.

I met the overly sexual to the point it’s embarrassing, girls. The girls who threw themselves at men who did not want them, who went all Fatal Attraction stalker style on guys, to the point it was shameful sad to watch. Who took pictures of guys who didn’t want their photo taken, who called guys who didn’t want to be called, who shared cabs with guys who wanted to ride alone. Girls who didn’t mind knowing they were a guys second, third and in one case- fourth choice for the evening when everyone else turned him down.

I met the girls who put everyone down to push themselves up. Who were rude and inconsiderate and so condescending you could almost see it oozing out their pores. Who could take any piece of information and turn it into a topic they (of course) knew more about.

I met the girls who were so uncomfortable in their own skin it left me exhausted. Girls who were constantly pushing down their swim top, or pulling on the towel. Girls who refused to lift their arms because they didn’t like the job the waxer did, girls who said “please don’t look at me”, in a panicked voice when they showed up in their bathing suit. Who missed out on doing things they wanted to do because they were scared they would get laughed at. These are the same girls who were quick to judge anyone else for what they were or were not wearing.

I met the needy girls. The girls who started calling our hotel room at 8:30am to ask what we were doing for breakfast and (by day 7) when we refused to answer, kept calling. As in, 5 calls before 11am. And when the calls went unanswered, they showed up at the door and started knocking. And then tried the door. And then chased us through the lobby to ask us where we were going.

See? I told you. Crazy.

The part that gets me is that I met a lot of nice guys. Young, old, single, not single- guys who spoke English, French or Spanish. Guys who talked about teaching and politics and jellyfish. Who held their own in conversation, who were interesting- who talked about ideas and ideals, not other people. Guys who said ‘hi!’ when they ran into you in the lobby, who wanted to get their picture with you. Men I never worried would begin talking about me poorly the second I left my chair.

Maybe it was just a bad mix of girls, but the whole experience left me a little disappointed. Women are often thought of as the more sensitive, thoughtful gender but this trip left me believing whoever believes that is sadly mistaken. Because by the last day, I would have rather taken my chances starting a conversation with a table of knife holding men in wrestling masks than face a table of girls I spent the last seven days with.

So I ask you readers, when did women get so crazy?

I ate breakfast while watching the tide. I had lazy sleeps under a hut. I got over my life long fear of swimming and swam every night in the ocean while counting stars and satellites. I drank tequila and clapped along to the mariachi band. I walked down broken streets in a silk dress while it rained. I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. More than once.

I discovered that girls are their own worst enemy. That too many women will allow judgment to ruin their holiday, insecurity to ruin their night. I burnt my nose so bad I’m convinced people think I have a serious skin disorder. I found that I’m the worlds worst packer and my hair has a mind of it’s own. I learned that the worst words in the world are: suitcase weight restrictions.

I got bumped to first class and discovered how amazing airline food can be when it’s served on china. I realized how much satisfaction I get out of french fries, 4am movies and clean sheets. I found that when you are with the right friend, anything can be fun (even a tour that’s 99.99% composed of engaged or newlywed couples). I discovered that some things are universal- cab drivers are crazy, food makes people happy and everybody loves Batman.

You should have come.

It’s funny how this blogging thing can connect us to others in a way that we never really imagined. The people we meet, the friends we make, from all over the freaking world, it’s kind of amazing, right? I mean you go into blogging probably because you have an affinity for writing, you have something to say, you want to get your words out of your mind and out there, and something else happens as a really good side benny, if you’re lucky. Someone from somewhere far away (like Canada!) stumbles across your blog or you fall upon her’s first, (it’s hard to remember those small details) and you make a connection. You find someone that digs a man that layers as much as you do. Someone whose favorite character on the Hills is also Whitney (who else would it be?). You realize that you’ve both dated the same guy (I dated the Boston version of her Canada ex). You both find that you’d pick, out of 100 shoes, the same heels to wear as you sip margaritas on a patio in the summertime (both of your most favorite things to do). You realize that you’ve both been in love, and you’ve both been hurt, and in very similar ways. You both give your heart in the same way to your friends and family and lovers, wholeheartedly and you both love with full abandon. You find that you both have written pretty much dead ringers of the same exact post, only at different times and you both think the other person said it better than you. You make these connections, with certain people, when you’re very lucky, out of this whole blogging thing. You make friends on these here interwebs that you can damn straight picture being buddies with in your real life. In fact, you make plans for that exact thing to happen. You both email about flights and possible train rides and car rentals and anywhichway to get to spend maybe a good several few days on a beach in Mexico together (damn my lack of vacay time or I would have been there in a minute), you, she, and all your friends. And if that doesn’t work out? You will still find emails in your inbox from each other in between 2 for 1 margaritas that she’s downing where you’ll continue on discussing each other’s lives and your latest news and holy hell, who should the next HOH be?

Phew. That was one long intro as a guest poster at Brandy’s digs here. And I didn’t even really introduce myself appropriately yet.  I’m Brookem, I have an affinity for men with good hair, I’m obsessed with shoes and reality tv (and Joel McHale).  Fall is my favorite season, I love milk and a damn good martini or a Sam Summer , and I am an avid Sox fan. And if some you might be ready to barf from all the cheese I laid on pretty thick up there? I do not blame you one bit. But when Brandy asked me to guest post whilst she’s on her little vacay here, I kept wondering what I should bust out here. Wanting to write something that would reflect both her and what she’d write about here on the regular, but also reflect a little bit of me, so you’d know who you’re dealing with here, and I just couldn’t help but pay her a little tribute.

(I think she’s great, in case you couldn’t tell already?)

Anywhoots- rest assured that Miss Brandy is living it up in Mexico at this very moment. She’ll be back sometime next week and I’m sure she’ll have heaps of stories for us from her whirlwind adventure (she’s already been mistaken for Hillary Duff and hit on by “the Younger Men”). Oh and? Her birthday is coming up in five days! A George Clooney serenade, cupcakes, and tequila on me!

***Oops!  I must have hit the tequila too early when writing this post, because I totally screwed up the date of Miss Brandy’s bday!  It’s not in fact tomorrow, and actually the 22nd! ***

This is my second attempt at this post.

My first one was long winded and filled with deep thoughts on traveling and exploring and (wait for it… ) finding yourself. I swear. It had so many mentions of the word “journey” it could have been a script for a reality television show. There may have even been some Mark Twain action going on (see? I told you. Long-winded. I have it on good authority that it’s impossible to write a post that involves Twain and have it NOT be long winded), but I had to delete it.

Why?

Because you know, I’m leaving on my trip (to Mexico after all! Hooray for families who support vacations and let their daughters blow off significant birthday celebrations!) and I may die by some random shark attack or alcohol poisoning due to the two-one margarita deal I always succumb to (why must I see that as a deal that I have to get in on? My liver always hates me the next day. I’m pretty sure it’s thisclose to putting itself up for adoption). And the idea that my last blog post would be some boring post that didn’t make me giggle writing it just wouldn’t do. In fact, dying and having my last post be anything but random would be poor form. It’s not that I think I’m going to explode to death after entering myself in an all you can eat pico de gallo contest, I just want to be prepared in case it happens.

Speaking of consuming in excess, I almost sent this card to my travel buddy today:

Sure it was created for St. Patrick’s day, but I pretty sure it will fit perfectly into this trip where it is the duty of men in white starched uniforms to keep my inebriated hydrated on the beach where my biggest annoyance will be sand on my chair.

Do you hate me after that last sentence? I don’t blame you if you do.

Have an excellent week without me. Brookem shall keep you entertained when I’m away and I promise to come back with many stories and pictures. And possibly the seed of a love child from my new Mexican boyfriend.

Ohhh and now because I just saw it, I have to put this one in too. Some people may think I take politics too seriously, but this made me laugh:

Hmm. Now I’m just copying and pasting random things into my post. In this instant I’ve realized I’ve managed to become long winded without Twain.

Back to packing.

*e-cards are from www.someecards.com the greatest site in the world, after this one.

So as some of you may remember, my mother and I recently got into a debate about ‘who was beautiful‘. I was more of a Natalie Portman/Angelina Jolie fan and my mom was more of a fan of Pamela Anderson.

We’ve since continued the debate. But before I bring you the latest installment, let me just show you what sort of judgment my mom has.

This picture here:

that’s me on the first day of kindergarten. You can’t see it, but I’m actually wearing lace tights- to match my lace and yellow coat (also sadly, not featured). I went to school that day with a black patent purse filled with tinkerbell perfume and $50 in Monopoly money. Please note that even at the tender age of 5, I had already mastered a look of disgust. Please also notice the need for more lace (other than my coat and tights)- a piece of lace tied into my hair. Because as a child, I could never wear enough lace.

Which brings me to this photo:

I’ve posted it before, but bears showing again. This was considered a play outfit. If you look closely you can see that along with a lace hair ribbon and lace dress, I’m also wearing lace tights. If my mom could fashion a lunchbox out of lace, I’m pretty sure she would have. I don’t entirely blame her- it was the 80’s (at least that’s what I tell myself now).

Which brings me back to the current debate. I was feeling that I held the upper hand in this debate (using the above photos as evidence of my mom’s sometimes lack of good sense). If you recall the last talk, my mom was quick to scoff my choices and imply that Natalie Portman must be suffering some fatal disease since she’s not almost burnt to death from tanning beds but the other day she said something that ended the debate. It started out like this…

Me: Mom, it really bothers me that you consider Pamela Anderson the epitome of beauty. I mean….she’s just all fake. Besides, all mothers are supposed to think their daughters are the most beautiful and I look nothing like Pam. (And hook the line, because I’m officially searching for compliments from my mom)

Mom: I’m not falling for that (damn!), you know I think you are beautiful (score!). But can I ask you something? You love those commercials … what’s the name.. Dove? Yes, the Dove commercials that teach us that as long as someone is happy, they are beautiful. So, if Pamela Anderson is happy, isn’t she beautiful?

Silence as I attempt to outwit the person who brought me into the Earth (who usually outwits me)

Me: I guess.. it just feels wrong.

Mom: Because she’s not your idea of beautiful. But the thing to remember buttercup-is that just because she’s not your cup of tea doesn’t mean she’s not beautiful at all. I think that’s the whole point behind those soap commercials.

I could have kept arguing but it would have been hard since I did think my mom had a point. I realized as fast as she was to judge Natalie Portman, I even faster to judge Pamela Anderson. And that’s the trouble with beauty- we are so quick to determine if something is beautiful, so quick to judge it, to look at it- that we often forget to really see it. For what it is, regardless of what we what or don’t want it to be. What we do or don’t deem beautiful.

So I’ve learned that I may not list Pamela Anderson in my list of top ten beautiful women, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t beautiful to someone else. And in the words of someone smarter than me ” beauty comes in every shape and size, and sometimes color only found in a tanning booth”.

I’ll let you guess who said that.