Crazy Virgo

I'm the May Queen, bitches

In 8th Grade I told the best lie I've ever told. I was in Catholic school at the time, and May Day was approaching - a very important religious holiday. On May Day in Catholic School you don't just give flowers to someone you like, or dance around a maypole. No no, that's for pagans. In Catholic school you crown a statue of the virgin Mary with flowers. May is her month. She gets the entire freaking month! It's ridiculous, yes, but it's doctrine, and she did carry and birth the Lord, and at that point in my life, that's all I knew. As a female in 8th Grade, placing the crown on Mary's head is a coveted honor. The chosen lady wears an amazing pastel colored dress, gets to lead the rosary (the ritual where you pray and count beads on a necklace), and forever be remembered in the annals of the yearbook as the May Queen. This was our Miss America pageant.  In order to get this position, all the 8th grade ladies had to write an essay. I never won or win anything. I wasn't athletically gifted. I wasn't artistic. But, I could write. Especially in fiction. This is where I was going shine. I had to win this contest. Not just because I wanted to be CrazyVirgo, May Queen, but because I knew my best friend thought she had it in the bag. She was one of those people that are natural winners. She won everything. MVP in basketball. Girlfriend of the cutest boy in 8th Grade. Most pull-ups in gym class. I loved her and hated her for this. It was awesome being best friends with a winner, until you wanted to win. Remember that scene in "Talledega Nights" when Cal Naughton, Jr. asks RIcky Bobby if he could win just this one time, and Ricky laughs? That's what I felt like most of the time. That's just how it was - she won, I congratulated her, and if I was lucky, I came in second. Well,Not. This. Time. 

I put so much thought into what would win this essay, my brain hurt. What would the judges - my 8th grade teachers - want to hear? What was going to beat the unbeatable opponent? My devotion to prayer? Nah. My lifetime commitment to Catholicism? Nah. And then, I had it - family tradition. This is Catholicism after all. Nothing matters more than family. Hmm.... my family... what could I write about? Nothing came to mind.... that was true. But, a little story started formulating in my brain. What if my Mom was May Queen, and her mother was May Queen, and her mother was May Queen? And my older sister? What if all the females in my family had been May Queens and it was my duty to keep the tradition alive?! That wasn't the case at all. But, damnit, it was going to be. What Catholic school teacher alive would keep a young, blossoming Catholic away from completing her role in her family and crowning Mary?

So, I did it. I wrote my essay about the female tradition of being May Queen in my family. I wrote about how I wanted to make my sister, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother proud. I wrote how I thought Mary would appreciate my desire to honor her and my mothers. I lied and lied and lied. The words flowed onto the paper like a Pulitzer Prize winning novella. Fiction came to me so naturally. And, guess what? I WON! I BEAT HER. The impossible became possible. The teachers panel commended me on my devotion to family, females and the Mother Mary. I wore an awfully heinous pastel pink dress, put on my most pious face, placed the crown of flowers on Marys head, lead that rosary like a pro and enjoyed my 30 minutes as Queen. I was smiling and laughing an evil laugh inside the whole time. "Ha ha you idiots! You believed me? A 14 year-old? Serves you right for letting me have this win.

I've evnjoyed that victory almost every day since. Did my lie hurt anyone? No. Do I lie everytime I want something that I think is unattainable? No. But I knew what it would take to win, and I went for it.

Happy May Day mofos.

My name is CrazyVirgo, and I'm a Mom.

Yes, I know I never wanted this to be a mommy blog, and I still promise to write about more than motherhood. But, I realized this week, much like an addict realizes they have a problem, that somewhere in the last year, I became a Mom. I was never trying to fight it, but I guess I also wasn't truly comfortable with it. So, when did my "moment of clarity" happen? When did I stand up at my Mothers Anonymous meeting and confess? It was Thursday, March 1, at precisely 8:35 a.m.

It was LittleVirgo's first day in her new room at school. She recently graduated from a room full of babies - her being the eldest - to a room of toddlers. I was so excited for her, and had been really talking this transition up like a used car salesman. "There's a fish tank in this room." "You can see the chickens in the backyard from this room," (it's Boulder, it's a Montessori school, there are chickens that lay eggs the school sells to parents). "No more babies!" I walked her into her room, and to her excitement, she saw two of her buddies that had also recently graduated to the new room. Reunited and it feels so gooooood. Like the virgo she is, she surveyed the room, deciding if she would stay the day. Her new teacher "invited" her (Montessori schools never "tell" children to do anything, they invite. It's mildly hilarious when it comes to things like going to the bathroom.) to look at the new frogs in the aquarium. LIttleVirgo considered it, and looked at me, "Mama?" Of course I enouraged her, but she wasn't buying yet. Her pal, Ryan, offered her some paper and his water glass. "Mama?" Sure, I said. Then, her teacher pulled out the big guns - the musical instrument box. Oh hellz yeah. LittleVirgo was IN. Off came the coat. Off came the hat. She ran head first, arms out, to the box of noisemakers. I looked on with pride, but nothing would prepare me for what happened next. LittleVirgo turned around, tambourine in hand, and said, "bye bye, Mama." Heart. Melted. Like a popsicle on a hot sidewalk.

I realized, as I walked teary-eyed out to my car, that LittleVirgo was a little girl. She wasn't a baby anymore. She had grown up right before my eyes. And, I had helped. I had raised a little girl who was independant, and curious, and knew how to tell me that she was ok. I didn't f*ck it up! And that's when I realized it, I'm a Mom. Because, that's what Moms do. They raise independent, curious little kids that they are proud of, and they get excited and teary-eyed when those kids do something wonderful. Sigh.

So, there you have it. My confession. I'm a Mom.

I'm also a loudmouthed bitch, but that's a whole other blog.

Printed word, I'm cheating on you

I wish I liked the drink, Old Fashioned, becuase it would be my signature drink. Instead, it's a dirty martini. But, I digress. As I was just saying, I'm old fashioned. I'm a feminist (retired). I love books.
Curling up with one on the couch with the perfect beverage and pouring over printed words on a page is bliss. I read Pride & Prejudice every February. I love postcards. I love greeting cards. I love the spring and fall fashion issues of Vogue. I love the Hollywood issue of Vanity Fair. I love oogling the hotties in suits in Esquire. This is crazy, but I love to hate tearing out the subscription cards from these magazine. I even love the putrid stench of perfume and cologne samples. I'm old fashioned and sentimental. Being smack dab in the thick of technology might seem uncomfortable to someone like me. Ha! Wrong. I deflected technology for a while, but then it grabbed hold of me and swept me up like a Victorian love affair. And, sigh, I've been totally cheating on the printed word. In the last six months, I've basically been molesting my iPhone. I'm in LOVE with Instagram (follow me @sarahsibley). I scan that shit all the time. I love that the world is my photo album, and thanks to filters, every photo I take could be printed and framed. I love Words with Friends. I love weather apps. I love Twitter (@crazy_virgo). I'm lukewarm on Facebook. I love Shazam. I love that every time I wonder what an actor is up to the IMDB app can tell me. I've even dabbled in an iPad, which I swore to hate. We didn't hit it off so well, but I respect its presence.
Thanks to my technologasm, I haven't even got through half of my yearly reading of Pride &Prejudice. I'm behind on my subscription to Vanity Fair, and basically, my iPhone is my right hand. Is this my cry for help? Yeah. Maybe. And, ironically, it's coming via a blog..... I should be journaling this shit in a ratty book with a ballpoint pen that has been passed down from generation to generation. Sigh. Cheating again.
I've gotta make peace with my internal struggle here. I've got a little Sophie's choice going on, and it needs some mediation. Can my right hand hold a book while my left hand types? Technically, no, because I'm not ambidextrous. But in spirit, yes. That's just how it's gonna have to be, becuase I'm sure as shit not giving up my iPhone or my laptop. Books, you won't get dusty. I'm a Virgo, so it's impossible for me not to clean the books. Magazines, you won't go out of date. Same rule applies. As a Virgo, I recycle the magazine as soon as the issue expires. Greeting cards..... well you are probably getting shelved, b/c email and texting is so much easier. But, I'm a sucker for letterpress, so probably you'll be back in my life soon.

Printed word, Yes I love technology, but not as much as you, you see.

Mrs. Mom

It feels like it's been years since I blogged, when in reality it's been 5 months. So much has happened in five months that I should publish a book, not a blog. Well, let me re-phrase that. Only about 6 people would read the book, but what I've experienced feels like it's novel-worthy. You're waiting for me to write that I was kidnapped, held for ransom and escaped, right? HA! hardly. I had a baby, remember? Way more life altering than escaping kidnappers.

It happened pretty much like I planned it (see previous post), only BabyVirgo arrived at lunchtime, not cocktail hour. I'm proud to say I had a drug-free birth - no epidural. It was THE hardest, most wonderful thing I've ever done. Gentleman Husband was the greatest team player/support person in the world. He did everything just as a husband should. The first three months are total shit. Lots of crying - by baby and parents - diaper blowouts, confusion - by baby and parents -saying "I'm sorry" - to each other and to baby. But, you do it, and you figure it out, and somehow this teeny little being starts to grow and recognize you and eventually you get to 4 months and breath a sigh of relief. And now, I'm actually enjoying the ups and downs of little BabyVirgo on a daily basis.

I decided not to go back to work, but to freelance instead. I find that this decision has its good and bad points. On the good side, I get to watch my baby grow up everyday. I get to feed her. Play with her. Never miss a moment of her cuteness. I could go on, obviously. On the bad side, I sometimes forget that I'm a stylish, 30-something Mrs., not just a Mom. I have to remind myself to wash my hair instead of conveniently throwing it into a ponytail. I have to remind myself to get out of the house and make plans to socialize, otherwise I wear sloppy outfits every day. I have to remind myself that I own heels. I have to remind myself I have hobbies that don't include laying on my tummy, bouncing a baby on my knee, or pushing a stroller. Of course, the good will always outweigh the bad. Of course. But, I need to find balance in my life. 

There is nothing better than the site of BabyVirgo's smile through the bars of her crib in the morning when I go to her. This kind of exhilaration used to only come with the seasonal issue of Vogue. Watching her attempt to eat baby food is so exciting, you'd think I just won tickets to go see Radiohead. You get the idea. I've left Social Virgo behind for Mama Virgo. At some point they have to meet though, right?

We'll see. In the meantime, this is NOT a mommy blog. I hope to keep that promise to you, reader.

Birth Plan

Oh yes, Gentleman Husband and I have one. We talk to little BabyVirgo and let her know our plan, so she can adhere to it when it's go time.

It goes a little something like this:

Sept 4th -

7:30 a.m. Mild contractions start.

8:00 a.m. Contractions continue for a few hours, while we go through all the relaxation exercise we perfected in our birthing class.

12:00 p.m. Contractions are 5 minutes apart. Head to the hospital.

1:00 p.m. Enjoy lovely jacuzzi bathtub and wonderful view of the Flatirons while breathing through contractions,which are getting more intense, with Gentleman Husband rubbing my back and telling me how great I'm doing.

3:00 p.m. Pushing starts.

4:00 Baby Virgo is born. Celebration and tears ensue.

5:00 p.m. We all enjoy BabyVirgo's first happy hour as a part of our family.

Nice and tidy. Seems like a wonderful way to enter the world to me. I know babies aren't excited to leave the confines of a nice, warm, dark womb, so giving her a party when she arrives is the least I can do. Breastmilk and beers all around.

So, basically, a work-day full of labor and viola! She arrives. If she's anything like me, she likes schedules and order, so knowing what's going to happen before it happens is probably putting her at ease. She's probably hanging out, enjoying the last few days in the womb, like I enjoy the last few days of vacation. Relaxing, stretching, getting some good napping done, reading up on current events, knowing what the fall runway colors are, listening to good music.

One must have a plan, no matter how ridiculous it may seem. Yes, I'm ready for the unexpected, but again, she's a virgo, and we don't really do unexpected.

Girlcrush, part 75

I've had plenty of girlcrushes starting back in my youth with Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. Obvious dreams of hot pink sweatshirts, teased hair, my own perfume. I used them as my first fashion inspirations. I even tried to write an entire musical using TIffany's first album, thinking that maybe we'd meet when I completed the script and took it to Broadway. Then, matured to  Carly Simon, after seeing "Working Girl." A passionate, emotional voice echoing through the whole world calling out to women everywhere. All that crazy long feathered hair blowing in the wind on the back of the Staten Island Ferry singing her her heart out. In my teen years it was all Tori Amos. I died my hair red on my 16th birthday and knew the words to every song she sang, wrote them on the covers of my notebooks, thought about taking up piano, and most certainly called myself a Toriphile or some ridiculous stalker name. I probably dabbled in some Ani DiFranco in college. Who didn't?

Most recently it's been Neko Case. Rachel Maddow. Bjork. Well now I have a new one.
 Allison Mosshart. Half of "The Kills". Half of "The Dead Weather." 

 

Hello rock and roll star. Joan Jett and Pat Benatar incarnate, but with better hair. I tried my best to keep this crush at a minimum, because let's face it. She's the epitome of Hipsterdom. Every skinny jean wearing muther fucker out there loves her. My GAP-wearing, clean-laced, bourgeoisie ass is probably on her KILL LIST. Well, clearly, I'm attracted to ladies that are a total mess. My new GF Allison is a drinking, smoking, erratic, dramatic, hot rock-n-roll mess with a voice that punches you in the face. This is exactly everything that I am not. Which, I presume is what makes her so crushable. 

Evidence:

Treat Me Like Your Mother Video

 

In the past, I suppose I crushed on Bjork so much because girl dresses like a three year-old that insists on doing her own hair and wearing rain boots, a tutu, a cowgirl shirt and a stocking cap. She let's her insides dictate her wardrobe, which usually equates to confusion and and an emotional clusterfuck. A mess.

 

And a mess is something I can never pull-off. I like showering and brushing my hair. I don't smoke. I don't drink whiskey. I can't stand on stage, or in front of a camera, or straddle a piano seat bench and serenade a crowd with my heart leaping out of my throat in song. SO, I have a type. I crush on girls that are a little bit what I wish I was and shall never be. Maybe for my 40th birthday (yes, already planning it) I'll invite them all, we'll do several lines, drink vodka out of the bottle, wear bras and leather pants, rent out a theater, invite everyone I know, perform in my all girlcrush band and go on a 72-hour bender. But probably it will be a dinner party with fresh squeezed cocktails, farm-fresh food, discussion about babies, independent film, and fashion. Alas.... I'd bore my crushes to tears.

So, I'll continue to love them from afar, dress like them in my head, have secret conversations with them while I'm supposed to be working. Don't worry, I'm not going all Tyler Durtan on you.

The Learning Curve

I'm really pregnant these days. Large round protrusion on the front of my abdomen that you can see coming before the rest of me ever appears, pregnant. With each new month comes more learning about being pregnant. Aside from the expected learnings - breastfeeding, sleeping patterns, holding, swaddling - there have been a few surprising things I've learned.

1. People that didn't ever talk to me before I was pregnant now want to have conversations about forthcoming baby and how the pregnancy has been. Case in point - our neighbors, very nice people whom we often smile at, are now all up in our business about this forthcoming child. Because they are in their 40s and have two kids, apparently we had nothing in common before, outside of sharing a street. Now, oh yes. We're both reproducing, and we should base a friendship on that. Really? I don't want to just talk about my kid and how her feeding is going, and whether she's sleeping all night. I've got a lot more to give in a conversation than that.

2. Total strangers want to know the due date of the baby. They also want to know where we are delivering. Why? Are they going to be appearing at the hospital on that date to check and see if I've had the baby? Are they sending cards? Gifts? What is to be gained by their knowing my due date? 

3.Everyone loves a pregnant lady. This I suspected, but really in these last months I've noticed cars actually stop for me at the Whole Foods cross walk, and when I wave to thank them, they're smiling and waving back instead of sneering and motioning to hurrythefuckup. A cop didn't give me a ticket for driving illegally in the HOV lane. Random people congratulate me. It's nice.

Just proving that you never stop learning, this pregnancy is as you might expect, no exception. I know every day will be a learning experience when babyVirgo gets here, but I've gotta tell you, general public, don't TELL ME how to raise my child (finger waving in the air).I'll learn that one all on my own.

I'm in Love

Who is this woman, and where has she been all my life. Thanks for Little Pink D for posting her lastest blog.

behold, 

Dear Coke Talk.

You know the best part of this? Not the snarky answers. The impeccable wit. The right-on-the-money responses. It's that I totally imagine a drunk Dolly Parton really answering these questions. As you know, this blog is not an aggregator of other cool stuff, but I'm making an exception this time to pimp Coke Talk. I love her.

GOOP - See??? I actually do work.

Goop friends - I know a lot about a lot. Being beautiful and famous just gives me great perspective on life in general. And once in a while, I like to allow you to ask me things so that I can share with you, common person. Because I know you don't have the clairvoyance that I do to answer all life's hard questions like what's the best moisturizer to use, where to stay in the French Riviera, and where to go in LA when you want to just pig out on michelen-star Italian food. I imagine these things must have been plaguing at your soul, and poor you, no one to ask. Well, shhhhhhh Gwenyth, you're once a week e-newsletter celebrity pal is here. After carefully reading the answers to these questions I get asked all the time, you'll feel better. 

Although, I can't believe so many people ask if it's really me writing all the newsletters every week and recommending restaurants and what to read, or wear. Uh,  yes, people it's me. I really labor over those 2-3 lines that introduce the subject matter of each weeks newsletter. It takes time to think of what celebrity to consult. Then it takes time to yell at my assistant to find email addresses. And, then I have to go meet them for cocktails. That's a reallly long day, and I do it all myself. Which is exactly why I need a month off this pretend job to go relax in the Hamptons.

Loves, g

 

P.S. Yes, I'm hitting the Hampton's (Where I live next door to Aerin Lauder of Estee Lauder, and Martha Stewart) with Jay-z, Beyo, Jessica & Jerry Seinfeld (we jews.....,), so, sorry you can't come or afford to even drive through my neighborhood. buuuut, that's where i'll be for the next month. Byyyyyye

This week's actual GOOP.

 

Wiggle It, just a little bit

The band, 2 in a Room, sang, "! wanna see you wiggle it, just a little bit." 

Though I'm not on a beach, and no one has been video taping me, that I know of.... that's just what I've been doing. On all fours. Every night. Me, in what is commonly referred to as "the dog position" wagging my hindquarters back and forth in slow motion. Wiggle it.... Then, moving forward and backward, over and over. Just a little bit.... And finally, circling my hips and hiney in a figure eight, like I'm doing a hula, on all fours. As it groooves.... Is this some sort of kinky pregnancy dance, you ask? Oh no, just the opposite. This could not be less of a mating call. This tribal looking exercise is supposed to keep little virgo-to-be in the position for the perfect birth. Wagging it, wiggling it, and working it all around so that I can possibly have a wonderful, natural birth free of drugs. This erotic exercise came highly recommended courtesy of the team of experts (i.e. my entourage) that will be leading me and Gentleman Husband through the natural birth of our first blessed child.

Now, I know most of the midwives and my doula have children, but did they forget how incredibly vulnerable and awkward they felt every minute of the day. WITHOUT the wagging and wiggling? Me thinks not. Not only must I deal with random people touching my belly (what is it with that?) and the stares and constant curiosity that pregnant women attract, but now I must wiggle it, just a little bit in front of Gentleman Husband without the hope of any hanky panky, b/c let's face it.... the bulge hanging down in the front might be beautiful, but it's not so sexy. No one wants to see me "wiggle it." I can say with some certainty that 2 In a Room will never ask me to be in their beachfront, bikini-clad video. Now, National Geographic, maybe....