Putting the "Lock" on "Schlocky"

I can't help it.

Not to get too teenagery faux-meta on your Pretty arses, but my usual default approach to the world is one of detached bemusement. It isn't intentional, but I generally find myself living the Lloyd Dobler* philosophy - if I can couch my enthusiasm about any given subject with a comfortable layer of irony and enough "Flight of the Conchords" episodes, it won't hurt as much if it doesn't turn out as I'd secretly hoped.

*Why, yes, I will be making outdated 80s movie references as long as we both shall live, forever and ever, amen. Deal with it.

But this time, I can't help it. I'm happy. Excited, even.

(Alert: Smug Singletons, here's where you should click over to another blog. You're welcome.)

I had another good ultrasound last week; the baby ("Grand Master P"? Or is that just too much for this white girl to pull off?) continues to look healthy. As my Twitter friends know, I'm pretty sure I felt him kick for the first time too.

This is real. This might actually be happening. I have absolutely no control over how it all will work out, but it's happening.

And I'm 100%, absolutely, un-ironically, thrilled about it. Happy. Occasionally terrified, what with that whole lack of control thing, but happy. Full stop.

Does this mean I'll be giving up my protective layer du sarcasm anytime soon? God, I hope not. Jon G*osselin is bound to do something else stupid, so it's only a matter of time (brief, I imagine).

Until then, I can't help it. Happy.*

*PS - I owe you all a "bump" picture update, which I will provide upon the earlier to appear of the following: (1) free Photoshop program; or (2) the magical anti-acne, ahem, "Pregnancy Glow" potions I've ordered. Thank you for your understanding.

"Revolutionary Road", aka A Yuppie's Torture

"How do you break free without breaking apart?" - tagline to "Revolutionary Road".

(Credit: Wikimedia)

@6:50 pm, Saturday, January 17th: Anonymous Husband and I settle in to our seats for that cinema du suburban nightmare, "Revolutionary Road".

@6:57 pm: Engage in covert armrest warfare with the lady to my right, as we struggle for room in the packed theater. Briefly note that my boots are much cuter than hers.

@7:00 pm: Get wholly engrossed in movie & neglect armrest warfare, to the delight of uncutely shod neighbor.

@8:56 pm: The AH and I stumble from the theater, shellshocked, viscerally affected, wishing for a drink, a distraction, an ANYTHING to ease the personal insecurities raised in the past two hours.

@9:00 pm: Drive home to Pretty HQ in silence, save a few muttered, barely audible words relating to vodka.

@9:15 pm: Liquor in hand, the AH & I slowly go about unraveling that which we just watched, simultaneously excited and daunted and horrified. The AH channel surfs between Big Hollywood Action Movies as I look for the answers in the delicate lines of my crystal glass. Wedgwood appears no closer to assuaging the fears than I do.

@12:00 am, Sunday: Fall into a dreamless sleep, grateful for respite from the questions.

@10:00 am: Drive to & from in-laws, with 80 miles one-way and nothing to do except think, again, too much.

@5:15 pm: Sit down for usual Sunday night blogging, attempting to summon perky powers to discuss favorite winter beauty products, only to find the thinking won't stop. Attempt to silence the unceasing questions via my kind friend, cookie dough, only to find I'm just more plump, yet no more content.

This not being the "I Pick Excellent Movies" blog, I prefer to leave such reviews up to the experts, hence this isn't exactly a review. This is more to say that sometimes a book, a song, or a movie just happens upon you. Doesn't need to be Art with a capital "A", or enjoyable, or even good in any quantifiable sense (if such a measure exists, which I question) - just something that speaks to the questions you hadn't realized you were asking yourself.

And so "Revolutionary Road" crept up on me in a month that has been prone to much navel-gazing and, admittedly, privileged-life ennui about things like What Should I Do When I Grow Up - a question only those of us fortunate enough to have choices can fuss over. A month in which I couldn't and can't quite identify what was the matter, and so I've wrapped myself in books and rediscovering songs I'd hidden away and such. So I'd expected to like this movie, but I hadn't anticipated being emotionally knocked sideways by the questions it raised. And that is one of many reasons why I'll keep going to the movies . . . but not without a pre-movie vodka soda next time.

Back soon with bright and sunshiney-y, Pretty product intel . . .

Relationship Re-Programming**

**From that title you're probably thinking I'm sending you to some scary cult insurgency camp in darkest Idaho, aren't you? Fear not, pets - I'm unfortunately far too fearful of camping and people like Tom Cruise for that sort of thing. Thank you for your understanding**

I was all set to wax fashionista tonight and dissect Michelle Obama's Narciso Rodriguez "victory dress", until this evening's Junior League project sucked the superficial right out of me. Well, most of it. Actually, it so happens that most of you other fashionable blogettes like The Preppy Princess and Ms. Mindless AND, you know, the LA Times beat me to the Narciso punch, so I'm afraid you're briefly stuck with me and my Deep Thoughts du Jour on this whole newlywed thing and how one has to adapt to new ways of thinking. I promise, this navel-gazing will be blissfully short and hopefully not as painfully "duh"-level obvious as it sounds. Besides, as a married lady of all of nearly two, yes two years, I figure I'm an expert by now, no?

So back when I was one of those sparkly "new" newlyweds with unicorns and rainbows prancing about my still-to-be-unwrapped wedding gifts, any new ways of thinking tended along the more superficial. The money and housing sort of Grown-Up Stuff wasn't really an issue. For little ol' me, it was that I took the Anonymous Husband's family name and, as a result, couldn't for the life of me politely introduce myself for our first marital year without: (1) feeling completely show-offy, as if I were braying "Hello, I'm Mrs. Legallyblondemel. Legallyblondemel, that is. What's that about a first name? I much prefer the formal Mrs."; and/or (2) forgetting whether or not an explanation of shiny new last name was even necessary in the first place. Being shamefully bad enough with other people's names, both first and last, it seemed reckless to take on a new one of my own, and it certainly took time to get the brain-to-mouth motor skills working on its behalf.

As the AH and I round the corner from years 2 to 3, I find the brain re-programming to be a tad more taxing in nature; lately, it's the taking any potential marital issues to my actual Anonymous Husband first prior to vivisecting them in excruciating detail first each time with the Girlfriend Committee ("GC"). Although it must be said the GC has the benefit of good champagne, the importance of which cannot be overemphasized. But back to the point assuming I have one - none of this is to say that I don't absolutely rely on the GC's counsel in almost all situations, but after twenty-some years of making most decisions by group vote, I am trying to be more mindful about, say, actually discussing them with the AH first when appropriate.

This is absolutely, definitely not my arguing that the GC shouldn't be consulted about some things - just that there are also a few bits that are best left in the marital circle, if for no other reason than many friends or family members (if they are anything like the Pretty, that is) remember every last *$&^ thing and will hold it against the Offender until the end of time. As well they should in many situations, of course; for example, I take great comfort in the fact that my family to this day loathes my 4th Grade Archnemesis for the unforgivable trickery she pulled at our end-of-the-school-year party (which involved embarrassment, Dainties, and an adorable boy). But seriously - I'm learning that there are times when it seems best to just do the spouse-to-spouse emotional warfare first, and that sometimes the good stuff is in figuring things out together. I know, this sounds unforgivably hokey - not to mention entirely impossible at times - but hopefully every solid marriage sees the unicorn-and-rainbows aspect even in the problem areas?

So what say you, internet GC - does this sound familiar to anyone else, singles and dating-s and affianced included? Any advice from the Marriage Experts out there? Please try to ignore the tremendous irony in my asking for your GC thoughts, after having just said it isn't something I should always rely on . . .

The "Y" Word

I recently devoured fabulous posts from The Preppy Princess, in which TP addresses the alleged return of the preps, - however did I miss the memo that we were in exile? and where do the commas belong in this run-on sentence? - and SLynnRo, who (to vastly oversimplify her eloquent point) discusses how your outer appearance can lead others to make sweeping assumptions about you here. So I was happy to stumble upon this related analysis (warning: possibly NSFW due to drug photo/references) of the yuppie by author Jay McInerney (he of "Bright Lights, Big City" fame). Not to confuse the prep with the yuppie, although the two seem to be used so interchangeably nowadays, but I thought this was a somewhat evenhanded and highly entertaining look at both the evolution and current state of the BMW Nation, as it were, as well as the pre-glam, pre- "Sex and the City" New York; the story is tailored to Manhattan, but I'd argue is something of a nationwide sociological thingy (to use the scientific term) here in the US.

I for one use these terms fairly often in regards to myself, admittedly without much thought about how those loaded words that might fall on other ears, particularly those like McInerney's who fancy themselves outside the Cashmere Cabal - or at least did before yuppie went mainstream. (Speaking of cashmere, go check out the Saks sale section; new and adorable stuff on sale like this Milly cardigan. It's ok, please just come back when you're done - no hall pass necessary). Ahem - back to the point, I tend to throw on the pearls and go to my professional job and reside in my partially-gentrified neighborhood sans much regard for what my neighbors or co-workers, some of whom to my eye are the "uniformly nonconformist" types that McInerney so perfectly and ironically identifies, some of whom are just - you know, different. On the one hand, that's fine - let's all clap and sing Kumbayah and have an Oprah moment in which we celebrate our differences and don't give too much thought about them, no? On the other, it's not a bad idea to occasionally take a critical view of what we're holding out to the world as our life philosophy, whether it be through our words, appearance, or actions, intentional or otherwise.

I won't quote the McInerney article in full because I don't want to rob you the fun of reading it yourself, but let's take a look at the original yuppie criteria he quotes as originally seen in "The Yuppie Handbook" - yes, there is one - published in 1984:

1. Resides in or near one of the major cities;
   
2. Claims to be between the ages of 25 and 45; (Pretty comment: I particularly like this one - were there old biddies running around in 1984 popping their collars and driving Saabs and claiming to adore the Proto-Yuppie, Alex P. Keaton? Speaking of, it's time for a photo, isnt' it?)
   
   
   (credit: Boston.com. And the inspiration of little conservative girls everywhere.)
3. Lives on aspirations of glory, prestige, recognition, fame, social status, power, money, or any or all combinations of the above; (Pretty: The poster boy for #3 being the flip side of Alex P., Patrick Bateman of "American Psycho")
   
   
   (credit: New York Magazine via Lions/ Gate Everett Collection)
4. Anyone who brunches on the weekends or works out after work; and (Pretty: Uh-oh)
   
5. Anyone who takes her Pug to doggy day care and just left a Junior League event at a downtown wine bar. (Pretty: I might have added this last one myself, but surely it's implied?)

Um, so apparently these traits stood outside the cultural norm in 1984 . . . but were you checking off the list mentally as I was? Can you think of any other young professional sorts circa 2008 who don't fit most of these? And that's part of what the author drives at here - yuppie has gone mainstream, or as he puts it, "we have met the enemy and he is us."

If you haven't fallen asleep yet, lovelies - what do you think? Yuppies here to stay? So entrenched we couldn't do a thing about it if even if we so desired? Could care less and wondering what my point is here? When am I getting back to talking about discount shopping again?

Important, Special Note to Readers: Not to worry, we'll get past this faux-pensive phase shortly and resume vital Target updates as usual tomorrow. Promise!