It was in the middle of the fairway on hole 7 at Las Vegas National that Tiffany and I put our fancy sneakers up on the dash of the golf cart. An overcast day, breeze blowing, and slightly tired from the party the day before, I was admiring the 60s aqua and pink houses surrounding the course. Tiffany squinted at a low plane flying into McCarran and took a drink of water. We heckled the group of guys in front of us, taking their sweet time on the green.

"I think," said Tiffany, "That I'm a man sometimes."
"Why?" I responded, "Because we're golfing faster than these guys? And now we're totally impatient that we have to slow our game because of them? I mean, come on, FORE."
"Totally!" she said, and we laughed.

The universal conclusion between the two of us pony-tailed girls in cardigans was that we are too much like men. Exhibit 1: We are the golfers. We own clubs, not rent, and the idea of a Saturday morning smacking a Titleist a few hundred yards is an absolute delight. Maybe "delight" is too frilly. Is "totally boss"?
Exhibit 2: I golf and I have a husband who doesn't want to go golfing, not ever. I ask, sometimes pleadingly and using my nicest girl-ish wiles, for him to set a tee time, and he refuses. What kind of lucky man is my other half that he has a wife that would love nothing better than to golf? Not so lucky that he will join, is the answer.

The girls in the cardigans swear. We probably swear too much. Tiffany likes to swear while flashing an innocent girl smile. I've made men stammer and sweat with some of the words that have fallen out of my mouth, resulting in minutes of silence and throat-clearing anxiety (for them. I'm just raising one eyebrow.)  I don't swear like that anymore, but don't think I can't. It's in my back pocket; a slim and wicked weapon of choice.

It's Tiffany and I watching the World Series together, and again, not one man watching it with us. Who can resist the boys of summer in their final autumn innings? Not us. Take us out to the ballgame anytime.

She and I go to football games together, no football-attending men around these parts. We cheer until our throats give out, or until Tiffany starts swearing because that two-point conversion attempt was a bad, bad idea and I have to elbow her to remind her that we're at a BYU game and the other fans are fast becoming goggle-eyed at the two mouthy brunettes.

We've played a half dozen sports together. When it comes to softball, I can throw and she can run. We're evenly split on the bowling.

Exhibit 8: Relentless pursuits of new and better burger joints. Tiffany takes her steak rare, and I, a medium-rare. I've been known to make fun of the men who order well-done. Cough.

Our careers are technology careers. Boy-heavy in those joints, let me tell you what. We're used to being the only woman in the room. We roll with the barbs and the vaguely sexual references because we know we can give better than we get.

And, really, we're both nerdy boys. We read nerdy boy books. We like nerdy boy TV shows. Tired of me going on and on about Battlestar Galactica? TOO BAD. You should have watched it already, Shirley.

So the next time you see us on the golf course, heckling the frat boys whose short games are approaching triple-par, give us a shout, or the finger, because we'll just slide on our cute driving gloves, flip down our adorable, big-lensed sunglasses, fluff our hair, and flip you a double deuce right back.

MmmmmWHA!

The Radius

I have a thing.

I know, I know, I have a lot of things, but this one thing perplexes people. What can I say? I'm intentionally difficult (but you eat Hershey's, so we're even.)

I have a ten minute radius.

I don't like to drive outside of my ten minute radius. My home is the central point, and everything that I want to reach, be it groceries, movies, shopping, schools, or friends, needs to be within that ten minute radius. Why? Because I lack the patience for a larger radius. I have friends who live 30 minutes away. Ask them how many times I've been to their houses. My best friend moved 45 minutes away for all of 2008. I think I visited her twice, and only because it could be piggy-backed on other errands. My relatives suggested I move to Eagle Mountain, and I could barely hear them make the suggestion without collapsing into a pit of excruciating pain from just thinking about how long I'd have to drive every day just to get to a store.

A friend who lives in Spanish Fork, 25 minutes away, asked me to parties at her house on consecutive nights. I sighed the sigh of both the tween and the put-upon. "You want me to drive all the way down there? Two nights in a row?"
"Is it because it's South valley?" she immediately bristled.
"No, no, I don't care that you live in Spenish, it's just the drive."

I really have to feel it to drive more than 10 minutes to get to anywhere. I really feel my work, so the 20 minutes I drive to get to my job is mostly worth it. Mostly, because I still hate the drive, and will complain to just about anyone (and now the whole Internet) about my commute. My mother-in-law, veteran of Bay Area traffic, laughs in my face. I know, California, I know that 20 minutes is the golden commute time, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

If I could, I'd go back to living in a city where I could use public transport and walk to everywhere I needed to go. The thing is, I have this husband who doesn't want to, and even I don't think that a 10 minute radius is worth contemplating divorce (usually.)

Do you have a radius or are the miles wide open? Am I the only one?

Something Old, Something New

Old news comes from my Giveaway Giveaway. Random says that Clyde won!

Clyde said...
My daughter's classmate father passed away about a week before Thanksgiving... He was the only income in the house (three kids, the youngest is 2 1/2 years old) so it's a heartache to know that this Christmas will be a hard one - without a dad and some little new things to play with.

Thanks for this generous giveaway!... It will make a lot of a deal for whoever is the lucky winner.

Clyde, drop an email to jetset dot azucar at gmail dot com.


Something New!

Did you know I get phone calls from my friends asking me questions night and day? It's true: my friends treat me like I'm their Wikipedia on speed dial. Sometimes a girl gets tired answering calls all the time, even if the phone is ringing Jay-Z. That's why I started a new blog to feature things I like, things I don't like, and soup, which I could eat, or not eat. The blog is called Jet Set Galore. And while it will not tell you on which aisle you can find the balsamic vinegar at the Wal*Mart, and a recipe for balsamic dressing (Shannon,) today Jet Set Galore will tell you where to get the best facial in Salt Lake (of course, it's the only facial I've ever had in Salt Lake.)

I would be genuinely delighted if you'd pop on over and tell me what you like or don't like, or talk all about soup.

(I like olives.)

The Bully

A couple of weeks ago EG came home crying. His friend, let's call him Wayne, who is also five years old, but a runt of a kid who still sucks a pacifier, closed a garage door on EG's head. I tried really hard not to freak out. Then I told my husband, who freaked the tarnation out. He wanted to blow up everything in our new neighborhood, "I will go over there and tell them that if they can't control their child than I will, and that EG is not allowed to play over there and that none of their children are welcome at our house. They need to stay away from us." There were other general pronouncements of finality bandied about and not a small amount of rage.

See, husband is from Back East where neighbors would just as soon knife you as look at you. I decided that maybe setting off a nuclear bomb in our neighborhood where we want to live for a long time would probably not be a good idea.

That wasn't the first time we'd had problems with Wayne and his brother, both had been seen punching EG and generally acting like little punks, but a garage door is on another level. We forbade EG from playing at their house and he's obeyed.

Today, EG came home and told us that Wayne had kicked and punched him again while at a friend's house. I consider myself a non-violent person. I don't like weaponry, I don't even want toy guns in my house, but this constant barrage from a squirrely little kid? I'm not OK with that.

"Wayne told me I have a new name: Butthead."
"Did you tell him that he's got a new name too?"
"YES! I said his name was PEE!"
"Good one!" I laughed.
"But mom," EG said, with a little awe in his eyes, "Betsy says that Wayne is a Kung-Fu Master."
"WHAT?" I started laughing and laughing, and then EG joined me, his giggles supplanting his nerves at the facing of a Kung-Fu Master.

I wiped my eyes and said, "Honey, you're more of a Kung-Fu Master than he is. Wait, I'm a Kung-Fu Master!" I chopped through the air above the kitchen table to EG's delight.
"Let's have a talk," I said, "Next time Wayne hits you, I want you to hit him back."
EG's eyes widened, "I can hit him back?"
"Yes. In fact, please, hit him back. Punch him right back."
"Can I kick him?"
"Absolutely. In fact, here are the new rules: no hitting at school, no hitting on the bus, and no hitting first. But if Wayne hits you, or kicks you, you kick him right back, you punch him right back. And then you tell a grown up."
You should have seen the smile on EG's face.

(I can't believe I just encouraged violent retribution.)

(I can't believe Wayne is still alive and my husband is not in jail, that is a minor miracle in itself.)



(Maybe I should dig out my karate gi and start wearing it around the neighborhood. We'll see who's the Kung-Fu Master now.)

Guest Post: I Don't Use Pickup Lines

It took months of cajoling and one missed deadline, but I finally got my cubicle neighbor, sometime friend, and almost twin Brawley Avalon to write a guest post. What happened? We witnessed him work his magic on a cute girl at Five Guys. I so rarely see a pickup in action anymore (my life is all black tie parties and specious dinner clubs, where pickup lines are highly discouraged,) I begged him to share How It Works...

I don’t use pickup lines.

Is a great pickup line! Now you understand how pickup lines work.

What movie is this from? “Nobody puts Baby in a corner!”

Is another great pickup line! Showing a strong knowledge of pop culture early can give your Relationshipmobile great mileage. What other movie lines might he know! Is often what a woman is left thinking. Plus Patrick Swayze.

Knock knock!

Is another great pickup line. Girls are attracted to men who can make them laugh, unless they’re balding. Then forget it! Also, if your BMI is over 25. Then you’re best resigning yourself to another adage, which is that “laughter is the best medicine,” which is to say women see you as a balding, pudgy doctor with mild healing powers.

Is this yours?

Can be a great pickup line, unless you’re pointing to something currently in their possession.

Did you drop this?

Can be a great pickup line, unless it’s something of yours (in that instance, refer to “Is this yours?” above).

Hey!

Is for horses.

Can I get your opinion on something?

Without waiting for a response, and followed immediately by a non-controversial query about anything but religion, politics, sports or her tanning lotion, can be a great pickup line. I recommend asking how she feels about anklets, or euthanasia.

Do you believe in spells?

Is a great pickup line, provided you can follow with Real Spells! The best spells use colored handkerchiefs, small animals that can cry out in pain, and quarters. For maximum effect, quote The Prestige to make her think of Hugh Jackman while looking at you. Another way to do this is to grow mutton chops.

Did you see the fight outside?

Is a great pickup line, unless there really was a fight involving you and her boyfriend and the blood streaming from both nostrils is yours.

Don’t you love Twilight?

Is a great pickup line for all ages. My sister left the last book out. I was curious! She left them all out, actually. I didn’t have a job for awhile. Best the second time through.

Brawley Avalon is the nom de plume of a guy searching for his other half (is it you?) in the Florence of the West, where he was once dumped by a girl because he wasn't enough like Edward.

I'm a Loner, Dottie

I felt so rebellious today, like I could do anything.

For instance, I wore open-toed heels on this day (which is in February.) I took a chance on a sandwich for lunch that had Prosciutto di San Daniele instead of Prosciutto di Parma (bold, I know.) There was the text message I sent to cjane knowing full well that she would not text me back, OK, two text messages thrust into the ether in complete defiance.

My ultimate rebellion came in the most unlikely place: Costco. There I was, listening to Okkervil River and pushing a cart that would fit Wisconsin, heading rapidly with the rest of the bourgeoisie towards the salmon bin. An idea so reckless, so crazy came to me, and I could not stop it. Before anyone could see, I made a break for the bread aisle and stuffed two loaves of pure white bread into my cart.

I broke into a sweat.

White bread; it breaks all the rules. I almost felt guilty walking to the checkout lines. What if someone looked inside my cart? I mean it is white bread; it’s diabetes in a plastic sleeve! A shiver came over me as I realized the potential long term consequences: children refusing future purchases of wheat bread, friends noticing the i-give-up staff of life on the counter, the death of a nutritionist that always results when white is chosen over wheat, the responsibility was almost too much to bear.

Not a touch of barley, not a hint of whole grain, what was I thinking?

I don’t know if I’m cut out for wholesale rebellion.

Today is a momentous day at The Jet Set.
Sick and tired of those stupid summer clothes (with their unflattering short sleeves and thin fabrics,) I pulled out my boxes of fall and winter things. Oh, my lovely raiments! I didn't get to wear my cute, cute fall clothes last year because I was knocked, knocked up. Digging through my clothing hoard is nothing to write home, or to you, about. However, the fact that I put on the clothes and THEY FIT certainly is something to write to you about. Sure, a few things still need an adjustment, but I am not in my fat wardrobe anymore.

For my male readers:

Clothing Hierarchy
Big, fat, I'm going to cry 9 month maternity clothes
Regular maternity clothes
Post maternity clothes (aka super-fat wardrobe)
Fat clothes
Regular clothes
Skinny clothes
By the Hammer of Thor I will never be able to wear these again but I can't give them up clothes

With all that clothing complexity, now you see why so many of us like our shoes and accessories; they still fit us when we're fat or skinny.

I seriously can't wait to put all those awful summer clothes into the deep freeze. What can I say, I'm just not a warm-weather dresser. Give me a silk skirt, wool sweater, and knee-high boots. And then give me leather driving gloves, a fur collar, and a chapeau. Can you pass me the houndstooth coat please? Why underdress when you can overdress? That's my motto. Well, one of my many mottos.
Other samples of my mottos: Try anything once! (generic,) Don't waste your calories on bad food (a little preachy,) and If you have a choice between baking and cleaning, always pick the baking (that's more like it.)

In between shoveling carrot cake in my mouth (see above,) I have been a little lax at watching my exercise and intake. I still have a little ways to go. Even further if I keep finding new uses and applications for Nutella.

I tried to do yoga a couple weeks ago for the first time since the baby. You know how when you're in shape and you push yourself you feel the effects the next day, and sometimes even worse the day after. It's going to be really bad if later that same day you begin to feel the tell-tale signs of stiffness. I knew I'd over stepped my abilities when I could hardly walk by 6pm. It felt as if I'd been jumped in to my first gang (East Siiiide.) I hobbled around for the next week cursing those first workout blues ("Neptune's Trident! This hurts!")
It's all going to be worth it when I can slide like Dietrich into a pair of new wide-legged pants (but not too much like Dietrich, if you know what I mean.)

In my head I buy all these nicely tailored but basic pieces and then embellish them (not be-dazzle them) in the fashion of Anthropologie. People are so complimentary when I tell them, "Oh, actually, I made this...yes, I know...I found the fabric at a little shop on Rue du Fromage... it's incredibly hard to come by...yes, it is lovely...I find great satisfaction in sewing my own clothes...I just enjoy wearing beautiful things... it's really a priority for me."

Let's be honest, if I'm picking up a shirt from the floor and spot-wiping it to get the baby puke out before throwing it on and going out the door, I don't exactly have the time to create a one of a kind piece of wearable art.
The worst part is that I am absolutely capable: I own the tools and am design-minded enough to do that kind of handiwork. I know how to tailor clothing. I just need to accept that those types of projects are not going to get done at this time in my life. (Note to self: scrap "Why pay for it if you can do it yourself?" from the motto list.)

That's OK, being reunited with my cozy fall wardrobe shall console me.

Oh! New motto! "After two kids you should totally be able to buy yourself a new wardrobe."

Rynell tagged me a little while ago and I decided, just for fun, to play along.

Eight Facts About Me

And they are irrefutable facts! Well, I guess they could be refuted if someone really wanted to take the time. They might just be eight things I want to talk about but the editorial staff is going to call them Facts, and you can’t argue with the JetSet Editorial Staff—it’s just not done!

1. I had this whole bit about how if I could go back and tell my pre-child self anything it would be X words of wisdom. Now I can’t remember what I wanted to tell me and considering inter-time communication still isn’t possible, the point is moot. Or is the point moo? I prefer points being moo.
2. I think couples that tell you that they never, ever fight are lying. You either haven’t had a fight YET, or you call them discussions and even when they get heated you still call them “a discussion.”
3. Other Half and I had a fight at lunch today.
4. I forgot that I had a company meeting so I sure did walk into a big room with 50 people in it with my puffy, red eyes and nose from the fight. I had to introduce myself (again) and pretend that I normally have red-rimmed eyes and a swollen pink nose. I used to act so this wasn’t a big stretch for me.
5. I started acting in elementary school. My first play was Macbeth. I’m not an actor anymore so I don’t care if I call it Macbeth instead of The Scottish Play; I live life dangerously on the edge.
6. My next role was Bianca in The Taming of The Shrew. That was a real challenge, because I am nothing like sweet-tempered Bianca. That’s what we board-treading thespians like to call “playing against type.”
7. My last performance was in Sunday in the Park With George at university. I realized while sitting as motionless as possible on the set (you’re supposed to be in a painting) that I’m a terrible actor and it was best to never inflict my dramatic pretensions on anyone else ever again.
8. Café Johnsonia and I are going to lunch next Thursday the 23^rd in my neck of the woods and we’re wondering if you want to come. And that’s a party fact.

Rules I Live By

Over my vast decades of experience I’ve pulled together a few theories on life, basically my very own This I Believe without the cohesive single topic.

One of my favorite theories is the No-makeup/Yes-makeup Rule for going to the store.

If you go to the store looking pulled together, you will run into no one.

If you go to the store in shambles—no makeup, no shower for three days, taco sauce stains on your shirt, those really bad jeans that you swore you’d only ever wear around your house, and the comfy shoes that make you look short and stumpy—you’ll see everyone.

First you will see your ex who broke your heart

thereby confirming their decision.

Next your old neighbors, who haven’t seen you in a dozen years

and used to remember you fondly.

Naturally, the friends with whom you’ve lost touch prompting them to place you into the definitely-over friend category.

People that you went to school with

and never thought you’d see again.

Your significant other’s ex.

That is why you will see me in the parking lot of the store applying a little lip color and doing a quick wardrobe review before even stepping out of the car. It’s not so that I can impress the people in the store, it’s to prevent running into anyone I don’t want to talk to.