The Outside Lane

For the love of Pete!  Since this blog is linked through my website, I can’t do a darned thing with it.  Can’t open it outside of the website.  Can’t access the admin part of the website on my mobile.  Half the time, can’t navigate through to the blog from the office.

Please, please, please forgive me for yet another change.  BUT, it isn’t really a change.  Same name.  Same blog content.  Same blog provider.  Just a wee little link change so that I can access the blog and post more often.

http://theoutsidelane.wordpress.com/

If you forget the address, just search for theoutsidelane.

http://theoutsidelane.wordpress.com/

By the way, I am also rolling my LJ into this.  Now that I like my job, I never post there anymore.  LOL

I am useless at blogging these days.  I used to have more to say.  Either I’m tired, or just tired of my own opinions lately.  Besides, I’m writing a weekly fashion piece for TV Management.  That requires me to actually think.

But in my world, last you knew, I was planning on having a spray tan.  I have since had one.  I am almost back to normal, having been gorgeously tan for exactly one day. 

Over the course of the first day, my “Medium” color developed into a very dark brown.  After a shower, I was a glorious sunkissed brown, and spent day two admiring my legs.  However, it turns out that skin sheds differently in different places, meaning that spray tans wear off faster in high sloughing/shedding areas.  As of today, except for where it settled into some dry places, my face and legs are pale again, as are my arms, back and belly.  My neck, my armpits, ears, and chest are still the color of toast.

I think I will give it one more try on the “Light” setting, just to see.  Meanwhile, I bought some self tanner to put on my legs.  That way, I can continue to admire those without having to worry about all the patches in between.

I am pale.  By pale, I mean that strangers have wrinkled their noses at me and said, “Damn, girl!  Get some sun!”  Doctors have asked if I would like a prescription for PABA.  Manicurists and Pedicurists frequently exclaim over my coloring, not in admiration.  Small children have pointed out that I am unusually white, and that you can see an unusual number of my veins through my skin.  I sunburn, but don’t tan.  If I blister, when I peel, I am whiter where the skin is new.  I do freckle, but even my freckles are a golden blonde.  There is nothing dark on my body.

Growing up in a family of tan (or at least tanner than I) people, with cousins who turned the most beautiful rosy brown in the summer, and having friends who were generally glowing dark and golden, and dealing with the aforementioned commentary has made me very self conscious.  Where I take solace in Nicole Kidman, and Julianne Moore, and Dita Von Teese, I also recognize that I am no wispy thing like these ladies.  And let’s face it, cooked meat always looks better than raw.

But what to do?  I don’t want to be orange.  I don’t want to be sunburned.

Tomorrow morning I have an appointment for sunless tanning that is supposed to be natural looking and lovely.  We shall see.

I’ll keep you posted.

I am asking myself a question lately:  If the miracles aren’t true…  If none of the supernatural is true…  If the book is wrong…  If it is all made up, is the philosophy of Christ still worth following?  My answer is yes.

Lately, I have been shaking off some of the more illogical of my religion’s stories, and I have been taking a hard look at the bare bones of Jesus’ teachings.  I can’t find any flaw with his edicts.  I find plenty with the rest.

Just when I decided to be okay with my weight again, I discovered that in order to reap the benefits of paying the lowest premium for my health insurance, I’m going to have to lose weight.  Crap.  But, no, I’m not going back to fad diets or the like, I’m just doing the old faithful.  I guess I’ll have to actually stick with it.  Frankly, I would rather pay the extra money and get to eat what I want.  I look good in my clothes, so who else cares?

I have been listening to the book, Under the Banner of Heaven (still haven’t figured out how to underline), and learning more about the origins of Mormon.  As someone taught to believe in virgin births, resurrections, and other miracles, I have a really hard time knocking the unbelievable tenets of other people’s faiths.  If you want to believe that Hermes carries your prayers up to Zeus, that’s fine by me.  I’ve got no stones to throw when it comes to believing in things that seem ridiculous.

It is good and healthy to know about more than just your faith.  As the old saying goes, even a broken clock is right twice a day.  There is some truth in everything, and I believe there is some good in everything.  You know, unless the idea of the religion is to abuse and hurt, then it’s just criminal.

Lobster introduced me to Esoteric Astrology recently, and that has been an eye opening hilarity of its own.  While I don’t believe in horoscopes guiding your days, I do find some truth and interest in natal charts as indicators of personality, strengths and weaknesses.  Esoteric Astrology has more to do with your spiritual disposition and purpose.  Of course, because it is true any time I am MBTI’d, sorted, or typed, I appear to be an outlier of the norm, a sole dispositor.  Lobster is, too.  I am in good company.

A sole dispositor in a horoscope is the sign of the self-made person: one who stands apart from family and social milieu and has achieved something quite different from what you might expect from knowing his or her background and upbringing.

A sole dispositor occurs in a horoscope when one – and only one – planet lies in its ruling sign; and all the other planets lie in signs which, by a series of removes in rulership (disposition), work back to that ruling planet.  For example, in the horoscope of Charlie Chaplin, we have the following planetary positions:  Sun/Aries; Moon/Scorpio; Mercury/Aries; Venus/Taurus; Mars/Taurus; Jupiter/Capricorn; Saturn/Leo; Uranus/Libra;
Neptune/Gemini; Pluto/Gemini.

I don’t know that I have achieved anything out of the norm of my upbringing, other than having made it into adulthood, and having made it here mostly sane, but I still have a lot of living before I am finished striving to achieve, so who knows where I’ll end up?  The rest of the description at the link is embarrassingly on the nose.

I find myself, often, in a position of choosing either my way of doing things, or people.  And most of the time, I choose my way of doing things.  I’ve been told by enough people that I am narrow and bullheaded to have any delusions that I am anything else.

Eh.  It’s something to consider, even if it isn’t very flattering.

Have you seen Debbie Harry lately?  No?  Google her.  She looks fantastic.  She and Cyndi Lauper look amazing.  I chose well in my childhood female rock icons.  Terri Nunn’s not looking too shabby either. 

Growing up, I either wanted to be Terri or Debbie, but also had a great love for Cyndi.  I think it was the wrestling thing that kept me from jumping fully on board that crazy train.  I shy away from wrestling in the same way I do clowns.  There’s something not quite right about roided up grown men, who have fake tans and look slicker than a newborn.  I just…can’t.  No.

There is a Blondie song playing on the office Muzak, and that reminded me.

But I came here to write about my recent opportunities to act like a complete brat.  Not specifically, of course, but in general.  I took one opportunity and ran with it all the way down the dirt road until my feet were filthy.  Another, I did not take. 

Some relationships are like bumper cars.  They are amazing fun, but you can end up with a busted lip or whiplash.  As much fun as it is to drive bumper cars, too, I am always just a little surprised when I am bumped.  I mean, it’s bumper cars.  I know the object of the game is to crash into other cars, so why would I be at all surprised to be rear-ended, or side-swiped?  And, if you’re already bruised, just a tap can feel like a full body slam.

Still, it’s just bumper cars, and you know that once the juice shuts down, you’re going to hop off the ride and be perfectly fine.  You’ll laugh, rub your neck, and run on to the next amusement.

I am learning that there is a fine line between telling myself, “You know, it’s not all about you,” and “Even if it isn’t about you, you’re still in it, so it’s okay to have XYZ feelings.”  Especially when you get rear-ended at someone else’s 6 Flags birthday party.

I am currently immersed in three books.  Escape*, by Carolyn Jessop became a minor obsession until last night, when I spent my sleeping hours arguing with Warren Jeffs about how he was mistreating his wives.  Man, the last thing I need is to argue with wacko polygamists in my sleep.

I put Carolyn’s tale down and switched back to the Marine Corps, with Helmet for my Pillow*,  Robert Leckie’s story of enlisting in 1941, and his subsequent tour of the Pacific during WWII.  My father is a Marine, who enlisted some 20 years after Leckie.  Makes the book more interesting to me.

I’ve always liked military history, but have generally been caught up in the more romantic wars like the American and French Revolutions, and the Civil War.  WWII’s romance plays out in Europe, with the Allies rescuing the victims of Hitler’s death and work camps.  The European theater has always been of much more interest to me, largely because my grandfather spent his wartime there.

I’ve never wanted to spend much time on the Pacific.  D-Day makes me sad.  Yes, I get the sads when I think about the Pacific.  I am trying to expand my knowledge, though, and this seemed a decent starting place.  I guess Tom Hanks thinks so, too, since he’s producing another HBO war project based on the book.  Let’s hope I don’t start dreaming that I am arguing with Nakagawa over the way he treated his soldiers.

* I know I am supposed to underline these, but I can’t figure out how!  Sheesh.

My husband and I were watching a re-run of How I Met Your Mother the other night.  It was the episode where Marshall discovers that in every relationship, there is a Reacher (the part of the couple who went outside his/her league for a mate) and a Settler (the part of the couple who married down.)  As we watched, my husband patted my leg and said, “I reached.”

=)

I have two types of work nightmare, and one always ends up involving a toilet.

The first comes from the time I spent working for a major, international religious organization.  When I left there the first time (after my ex-fiancee and his wife came to work there), I was told that I was in sin, that I was running out of God’s will for my life, and I was running straight into certain destruction.  After the ex was fired for sexual harassment, I returned to the organization.  When I left the last time it was because I had seen corruption, abuse, and some of the most unchristian behavior I had ever witnessed.  They were not as sorry to see me go that time.

I have nightmares that I am forced to go back to work there, and those usually entail me having to stand before the congregation, denouncing myself and prostrating myself to beg forgiveness.  In the dreams, I know that I am not sincere, but it is the only way to make money to feed The Boy, so I am doing it.

Truthfully, I think I’d hook it before I went back there.  At least then I would feel like I was doing honest work.  I say who, I say when, I say how much.

The other nightmares come from having worked for the BiPolar Express, a manager whose moods swung so far from left to right, it was unreal.  If you’ve seen The Devil Wears Prada, you’ve seen the caricature of that boss.  My lungs constricted with panic the first time I sat watching that film.  It was bad enough looking up that haughty nose, into those laconically lidded eyes and raised brows in person.  Seeing it larger than life? 

I was laid off from that job, and I slunk away as though I had been fired.

I have frequent nightmares reliving that.  Or reliving the fear I used to feel every morning.  But in these nightmares, I always have to use the restroom and when I go, realize that there are no walls and I am out in the open doing my business while people watch. 

I’m sure it means something.

I am four days into my No-Buy zone and am already feeling it.  Of course I would be confronted with catalog after catalog full of glorious dresses for Spring.  Of course my coworker would come in wearing the most incredible saffron colored bolero jacket, modeled after 80s favorite Members Only, and then tell me it was on sale.  Of course I would start seeing shoes that need to come home with me.

I’ve been good, though.  I have been working through my wardrobe and prepping it for another paring down.  The only thing I might do is replace the silk blouse my son ruined with the contents of his upset stomach.  It is a work blouse, very unusual, and goes with four different suits, so I feel like that is a decent purchase to make.

I feel like I am finally hitting my stride as a human being.  I’ve finally got this life thing under enough control, that I can navigate the bicycle of it out of the neighborhood and into the park to explore.  The training wheels have been off for a while, but I’ve still been learning the balance and how to managed the differences in the sidewalk.  I’m not careening blithely, and I am wearing a safety helmet, no matter how dorky I look.  Just finally, really and truly enjoying things.