Reality Bites

In recent years, reality shows have become wildly popular, but my question is this:  "are they actually real?"  The answer in a word, hardly.  I find it quite ironic that tapings of The Real Housewives, Big Brother, Survivor, Big Rich Texas, etc. are considered to be reality shows.  The fact is, they are as far from reality as can possibly be imagined. 

Honestly, in what world do teenagers have plastic surgery that's routine as bi-yearly dental cleanings and women shop around the clock for designer fashions that cost more than a year's rent?  Hello, it's not reality! 

Millions of people tune in to these shows weekly to satisfy their cravings for a dose of reality TV for one reason...to witness the train wrecks that they are.  I can't even have a lunchtime conversation with my coworkers (you know who you are) without a discussion arising about the latest happenings to one of the "real" housewives of whatever-city-has-disgraced-its-namesake for D-rate publicity.  I don't have much to contribute to those conversations because A) I don't watch those shows and B) I couldn't care less.

I don't mean to get on my "teenagers-today-have-no-idea-what-real-life-is-like" soapbox, so please forgive me, but it must be said that the reason they expect Daddy to hand over the keys to a brand new SUV on their 16th birthday is partly a result of these so-called reality shows.  It's almost as though they feel a sense of entitlement because that's what is portrayed on the sets of these TV shows.

I remember like it was yesterday...the minute the credits rolled at the end of the first Sex & the City movie, my mother's first words were, "You know that's not reality."  Bummer.  I would love to live in a New York City studio apartment and still have the means to drop thousands of dollars on Manolos and Dior on my writer's salary.  But as a real-life writer, I can 100% honestly vouch for the validity of my mother's statement.  While I do have a semi-unhealthy obsession with shoes, I sure as heck don't have the likes of Louboutins or Jimmy Choos lining the shelves of my closet.

Don't get me wrong...I'm all for TV shows allowing everyday folks possessing God-given talents the ability to shine and receive accolades and recognition they would otherwise never receive (yea for The Voice and Project Runway!); however, I'm not about to waste my time watching wealthy, catty women bad-mouth each other while cameras are rolling. 

I also think it's great that certain reality shows help morbidly obese individuals with lifelong eating disorders drop the pounds that present life-threatening health problems and keep them from feeling a sense of self worth.  But sending a group of people to a tropical island and taping them as they duke it out over team challenges in order to determine that last man standing....NOT reality!

If you want to film a true reality show, drop contestants off in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a magnifying glass and a pocket knife and see if they can actually survive MacGyver style.  But don't for a second pretend that they're out there "roughing it" with a camera crew standing ten feet away feeding them McDonalds cheeseburgers between takes.  That's not survival!

Bottomline, for the sake of guilty-pleasure entertainment, reality shows are fine.  But as for passing them off as real life, the tribe has spoken....."reality shows bite!"

    

"Google" It!

If I had a nickel for every silly argument Jeremy and I had that ended in the resolve to "Google it," I can assure you I'd be writing this blog for a living as I'd no longer need my day job.  Lately, I've caught myself wondering what did we do before Google?  

In the olden days, if we needed information about something, we had to look it up in the encyclopedia.  Well, I'm sad to say that, just a few weeks ago, Encyclopedia Britannica announced they will no longer print hard copies.  Everything is now digital.  I'm not ashamed to admit that the English/grammar nerd inside of me was a little disappointed to hear the news.

As much as I hated scouring the pages of those massive reference books for information to fill countless school reports, I relied on them all throughout my elementary education.  While one could easily suffer a hernia from carting them around in a backpack, they were filled with all kinds of facts from "A" to "Z"--literally.  I'm really kinda sad to see them go.  I realize that, in an ever changing society that's constantly making technological advances, the time would eventually come for the extinction of these dinosaurs.

It's a shame my nephew (who's nearly 12 years old) will never hear his parents utter the words, "Look it up in the encyclopedia."  He only knows the instant gratification that Google and other online search engines provide.  The other day, I asked him if he even knew what a card catalog was, and he replied, "You mean that big cabinet with all the little drawers?"  Ugh--I'm older than I thought!    

While I do appreciate the convenience of settling a fight about song lyrics or the inventor of bubblegum on the spot with the use of my iPhone, there's something to be said about the mystery of who's actually right.  Well, thanks to Google, that mystery is solved (and I can gloat about being right!)...because there are some things you just can't find in an encyclopedia anyway.

RIP 

Encyclopedia Britannica

1768 - 2012

Expen$ive Ta$te

My brother thinks I'm spoiled, and though he may be partially correct, please allow me to explain myself before you pass judgment.  In the past, I had the privilege of experiencing some unique fine dining situations.  In college, I dated a Floridian pastry chef and, with that, came the perks of a certain type of lifestyle.  Whenever I'd go visit the Sunshine State (that is Florida, isn't it?), he used his pull and connections in the culinary industry to wine and dine me.  From these experiences, I may have developed what my mom likes to call "expensive taste," but I assure you it was long before these evenings of 5-course meals out that my appetite for the finer things in life had been whetted--and by the way, my parents also played a huge role in tempting my tastebuds.

In fact, by age 3, I had been to Hawaii--not once--but twice!  While I'm sorry to say that one of my fondest memories of these extravagant vacations was going for a walk with my granddaddy to discover hundreds of dead frogs along the road after a rainstorm, I am not embarrassed by my not-so-humble beginnings.  I know how truly blessed I have been to experience many things most people only dream of--and THAT, my friend, may make me spoiled, but it does NOT make me a spoiled brat.

Unlike the children of Hollywood's richest celebrities, I didn't wear designer clothes on the playground...nor did I receive a brand new sportscar when I turned 16.  Don't get me wrong--I was well-cared for, but I wasn't unbelievably spoiled.  While my parents footed the bill for my five-year college education and sorority dues so I wouldn't be in debt up to my eyeballs resulting from student loans 20 years down the road, I am not oblivious to the sacrifices they had to make to be able to cover these expenses.  I am grateful for everything I've ever been given, but I'm not so spoiled that I feel entitlement to a handout.  I am now out on my own in the real world, a fully capable 31-year-old working woman who is her sole support. 

I've had some tough financial times, and I must admit it's nice to know I don't ever have to worry about my electricity being shut off or living in a cardboard box at the airport because my parents will always be there if I need them.  But I can honestly say it's not their finances I'm most reliable on--it's their unconditional love and support that I'm most thankful for.

I'm very girly, and it's true that I have a great love of food and fashion.  There are times when getting dressed up and going out on the town for a fancy meal is all it takes to make me happy, but I don't expect such luxuries on a daily basis.  It's just nice to experience "richer fare" once in awhile for a special occasion.  Just last week, Jeremy surprised me and took me out for my birthday to my all-time favorite restaurant--Bob's Steak & Chop House.  He even wore a suit! (and looked incredibly handsome).  While his choice of restaurant was surprising, the real surprise was that he was willing to pick up the check at such a place. 

You see, Jeremy and I are two very different people.  Five-star dinners are not his choice of money well spent.  He would be happy eating at El Fenix every single day (I'm dead serious) in jeans and a T-shirt.  While I greatly enjoyed dinner and his thoughtful birthday surprise, I must confess it took just a tiny bit of my joy away when he looked at the bill, paused, and then said he was "crying a little on the inside."  I guess I will just have to realize that he and I will never agree on spending money this way.  Sometimes, I believe the experience is worth the money when he always wants to have something to show for it.  So I'll just have to hit up the ritzy wine bars with my dad--a fellow lover of the finer things in life.  (Come on--where do you think I got it?!) 

I spend most of my hard-earned money on clothes and shoes, but I don't own a pair of Louboutins, and there's not a single garment from Neiman's hanging in my closet.  I enjoy a $40 glass (yes, I said glass) of wine on occasion (usually when Dad's paying!), but I'll drink the $3 bottle of Oak Leaf from WalMart on a weekly basis.  I enjoy fancy vacations to tropical paradises, but I'm just as happy going on a 3-day road trip to New Braunfels in South Texas.  You see, it's all about balance.  There's nothing wrong with occasionally splurging and still being able to appreciate the everyday stuff, too.  That's what truly makes a person "refined"--their experiences in life.  I'm happy to say I've had many that I wouldn't trade for the world--and they've made me who I am today.  So yes, I may shell out big money for name-brand cosmetics, highlights, cute shoes and the occasional designer handbag, but I don't take any of it for granted.  After all, it's just "stuff"....and besides, I already know that the best things in life aren't things.

Aunty = Awesome!

Whether I care or not to admit it, I'm now at the age where people ask me if I have kids, and I can't look at them as if they're crazy because it's a completely legitimate question.  My answer is always, "No, but I have a niece and nephew, and that's way more fun!"

I truly believe that all kids need to have a "cool, fun aunt."  Since I'm not married and I don't have any rug rats of my own, that's exactly what I intend to be.  If you think about it, being an aunt is the greatest thing in the world--you get to spoil the kids rotten and do all the fun stuff without the temper tantrums, terrible two's, disciplining, and diaper changing.

Speaking of diapers, it's important that I share a major milestone with you.  At nearly 31 years old, I recently changed my first diaper.  Yes, it's true, and if you know me, you'd realize how huge an accomplishment that is since I swore the first poopy diaper I ever changed would be that of my own child.

Mom says I should be embarrassed to admit that I've never changed a diaper, but being that I was always the youngest and never around kids other than the occasional babysitting job (which I refused to accept if the kids weren't potty trained), I don't think that's unusual at all.  Why in the world would I volunteer to change someone else's baby's diaper?! 

A few weeks ago when my brother and sister-in-law needed a babysitter for a few early-morning hours and no one else was available, I decided I was finally up for the challenge of diapering.  I love my little niece more than anything in the world, so I figured I could suck it up and finally change a poopy diaper.  I would only be alone with her for several hours, and how many times can one kid poop in the morning anyway?  As often as I've seen others change diapers, I figured  it would be a piece of cake (maybe that's not a good cliche to use here since we're talking about poop).  Anyway, much to my surprise, it proved a bit more challenging than I realized.

I laid Tori down on the changing table while trying my hardest to breathe through my mouth.  I must admit I cringed with dread as I undid the Velcro tabs on her diaper.  "This is not so bad," I thought to myself.  She wasn't that messy.  In fact, it looked like round little rabbit pellets.  (Sorry if that's too much info!)  I lifted her legs up and grabbed the wipes, while trying to scoop up the dirty diaper, but a runaway turd rolled out and onto the table.  Ewww!  I tried scooping it up and getting it back in the dirty diaper while keeping Tori's legs extended straight up in the air.  I must not lay the kid back down on the rabbit pellets.  All the while, she was wrinkling her nose and crying, "Tinky, tinky!"  Yes, I know it's stinky, baby--hold on.  Since I only have two hands (I swear, you need at least three for this job!), I had difficulty getting the poopy diaper all wrapped up until after the wiping was done.  As you can imagine, that caused the stench to linger in the air a little longer than either of us deemed necessary. 

Finally, I got her cleaned up and put a new diaper on only to realize that I had it on backward as she whined "hurt, hurt."  Come on, I thought this was supposed to be easy!  I turned it around, powdered her little bottom, and fastened that sucker up as quickly as I could.  Finally, mission accomplished.  I did it!  Now to get rid of the little ball of stink.  All I have to say is, thank the Good Lord for the Diaper Genie.  I opened the lid, dropped it in and Tori said, "Bye, bye stinky Mickey!"  (Her diapers have Mickey Mouse on them.)  Thank goodness I only had to change one diaper that day.  I know the more you do something, the better you become at it, but I think changing diapers is something I'm not so sure I want to achieve expert status in.  I love my niece and nephew, but I think I'm gonna stick to my potty-training rule before babysitting again. 

Once Tori gets a bit older and can wipe her own little bottom, then lookout--'cause here we come!  Tori will have a full day of fun with Aunty Cassie....and I bet there will be a trip to the shoe store, nail salon, and ice cream shop involved.

Writer's Block

As a writer, there's nothing more daunting than a blank piece of paper staring you back in the face.  I'm currently sitting on the couch with a glass of red wine, gazing at my empty notebook, waiting for inspiration to come.  I cut off my fingernails and got out my old Martin guitar, feeling inspired to play and write.  I'm embarrassed to admit how long it's been.  In fact, my fingers have grown soft as a baby's bottom--no more traces of chord-playing callouses.

I brushed off a layer of dust, tuned up my strings and began to practice some of the chords I've known since I got my first guitar at age 9.  And then.....nothing.  Why can't I think of anything to write about?  I'm a writer, for crying out loud!  I do this for a living.

I've had a love of country music for as long as I can remember.  I grew up listening to women lament about lost loves and broken hearts long before I had the mental capacity to grasp such a concept as a mere child.  While I've (thankfully) never experienced divorce or abusive relationships, I find that my lack of "hard living" puts serious limitations on my wealth of songwriting material.

There's a joke in country music that goes like this..."What do you get when you play a country song backward?  Your wife comes back to you, your dog comes back to life and your truck starts up again."  Everyone knows that country music is about heartache.  I think that's why I love it so much--because it tells a story.  Even if, after the song ends, you feel like you need a Prozac, it's still a great song--because it makes you feel what the singer/songwriter was trying to convey at the time it was written.  So there's tons of pressure to write a great song that makes people feel something.  Too bad I happen to be at a loss, thanks to the dreaded "writer's block."  That's why I'm currently writing a blog about having nothing to write about!

Sometimes when writer's block strikes, the best thing to do is walk away and come back to your writing later.  Well, it's been almost a week since I started writing this post and now all I have is short, ugly and unpainted fingernails--and still no new song.  I keep a notepad by my bed in case I wake up in the middle of the night and inspiration strikes.  Usually though, I find that songwriting ideas come to me at the most inopportune times, such as when I'm in the shower or driving to work.  So if you see me on the highway and my car swerves a bit into the next lane, not to worry--I'm probably just in the middle of jotting down a line or two that suddenly popped into my head before I forget it......either that, or I'm responding to a quick text message.  (Just kidding, Mom--kind of).   ; )

Shamed by a Name

There are certain things I believe celebrities simply should NOT be allowed to do.  One is name their children.  I mean, come on--kids have a hard enough tough time growing up this day and age as it is.  Of course, being bulleyed and teased for your hand-me-down clothing and bowl-cut hairstyle are practically rites of passage.  We all must endure the ridicule at some point and, as a result, come out on the other side stronger individuals for it.  However, getting your you-know-what kicked on the playground as a result of your parents' thoughtless decision and attempt at uniqueness is just downright ridiculous and totally unnecessary.

Just last week, Beyonce and Jay Z's daughter's name was released by the media--Blue Ivy.  It got me to thinking...why do celebrities feel the need to torture their children?  I started a running mental list of all the atrocious names I've heard come out of Hollywood.  First, there was Rumer.  Then came Apple and Moses, Jermajesty, Blanket, Huckleberry, Pilot Inspektor, Coco, Phineus, Moroccan and Bear Blu....and the list sadly goes on and on. 

When I was growing up, the name Cassie was unheard of, and I thought I had it bad going through life with a name that no one could pronounce.  Seriously--if I had nickel for everytime someone called me Casey, I'd be retired by now.  Apparently, Hooked on Phonics didn't work for the majority of the population.  Even my college professors couldn't get it right! 

Most of the time, I don't even bother correcting people when they butcher my name--I pretty much answer to anything.  I've had many a phone conversation answering to Cathy Phillips as though I speak with a "lithp."  As irritating as the mispronunciation of my name is and the fact that I rarely find trinkets in gift shops with my monogram, I guess it could be worse.  I could have famous parents and, as a result, be named after a fruit or household item.

Project $$$hopping

I've recently become obsessed with the TV show Project Runway.  In fact, I just purchased Tim Gunn's book about fashion and style.  While I appreciate his charming wit and onscreen "make it work" pep talks, I have cause to wonder what makes a person qualified to ascertain what is and is not fashionable.  Fashion is art--there is no right or wrong answer to the question...only the guts to claim it, wear it and work it, girl!  An outfit deemed stylish by one person can make others do a double take (and NOT in a good way) as the wearer passes by causing onlookers to wonder if that person in fact, owns mirrors in his/her home.  I believe I have seen some of said outfits on the show's models.

Now I think of myself as a somewhat fashionable individual--at least, I try to be.  I am fascinated by all things related to fashion, cosmetics, and of course--SHOES!  I've been employed in the fashion industry for a good part of my post-college career, and I've learned a great deal of fashion industry-related terms that the "lay-woman" probably has never even heard of.  Even though my degree is not in fashion merchandising, it's very interesting to me.  As a result, my style has definitely changed over the years.  I can honestly say I am a recent convert to skinny jeans (much to my sister-in-law's horror).  I used to think the only person they belonged on was Audrey Hepburn; however, as my shoe collection grew, so did my desire to show off my fancy, new stilettos.  Thus, the skinny-jean-wearing began.  I also have stacks upon stacks of wedge sandals piled up in my closet.  I used to HATE them and then one day I decided I was wrong--they are absolutely adorable!  It really is amazing to look at old photos and see how fashion has transformed over the decades.  Some things are still classic while others came and went...but not soon enough (hello, 1980's--arguably the WORST fashion era known to mankind).  In any case, fashion constantly is evolving and even sometimes is recyclable.  Only now, it's "vintage"--and more expensive!  

In order to (as Steel Magnolias' Truvy would say), "stay abreast of the latest styles," I spend hours parked in front of the TV each week to watch Michael Kors, Nina Garcia and Heidi Klum spout off their blunt opinions of the garments the wannabe designers of today have crafted and sent down the runway on tall, gorgeous, (and emaciated) models.  Sometimes I agree with their candid remarks, but oftentimes, I'm stunned at the near verbal abuse of what comes out of their mouths.  I have to say this...Michael Kors, you make great clothes, but my God, your Lifetime Achievement Award does NOT make you the end-all of the fashion world!  (Sorry, had to get that off my chest).  I never know what the judges are going to say.  Even Tim Gunn, who has amazing foresight into what the judges like and dislike, is not always on the same page as Michael, Nina and Heidi.

The beauty of this show is the subjectivity.  While many times, I would never wear what clothing the designers made, other times, I think to myself, "I have got to learn how to sew!"  It would be awesome if I could design my own wardrobe out of scraps of fabric.  The truth of the matter is, I cannot sew...not even a little bit.  I can't even sew a button on a shirt.  There are a few select pieces in my wardrobe that I have "repaired" over the years with a needle and thread, but to see the stitch work would only solidify my point that I am NOT a fashion designer.

Since I crave the stylish pieces that my nonexistent sewing machine could never produce, I must turn to shopping.  I.  LOVE.  TO.  SHOP!!!!  So the result of my Project Runway viewing has become Project Decrease My Bank Account.  Some may find my obsession to be a mere display of profligacy (Jeremy), but to me, it's all worth it.  I may not have a practical time and place to wear those fabulous dresses and ridiculously tall, uncomfortable (but killer!) shoes, but I WILL look stylish if and when I do!  Because Truvy also said, "There's no such thing as natural beauty."

If someone out there reading this is well versed in sewing, I'd love to try and learn a new skill, but until then, I'm off to the mall......