So . . . some big news.
I am going to New York on Tuesday to do a taping for The View. It will air on Friday. It is for a segment about adoption.
Oh my word. I am not usually the nervous type. I AM NERVOUS.
I’m excited, too. They are flying Mark and I out. For the first time in my life, I will get off the plane and one of the drivers holding a sign up will have MY NAME on it. I think I might be most excited about that.
And New York City. Even thought we will be in the city for less than 24 hours.
I started thinking today about everything I want to say about adoption. I started planning the points I wanted to make, and the myths I wanted to dispel, and the realities that need to be heard. And then I remembered the handfull of interviews I did after the earthquake, and how fast it goes. And how you think you know what you want to say, but the questions may not give way to the points you’ve planned, and before you know it they are wrapping up. And suddenly you and Don Lemon are having a bumbling moment of confusion on live tv because he doesn’t realize that Kembe isn’t a baby, so when he refers to the baby you think he’s talking about Karis, so then you explain that the baby came home from Haiti, and then he’s confused because he thought your child was still in Haiti, and OH MY GOSH WHO’S ON FIRST?
And The View. I mean, those ladies. Who can keep up with them? My only hope is that I’m just talking to one of them, not ALL FIVE. Yeesh.
Only I hope it’s not Joy. Because all I will be able to think of is Fred Armisen saying, “”So what? Who cares?”and talking about his brazier.
So today, because I couldn’t handle the stress any more, I decided to focus on the one thing I can control: my outfit. (in psychology, we call this sublimation). I had two hours to hit the mall and try to find something that would look good on camera. Only, I imagine I will be sitting. Which means, anything I wear needs to look good while seated. And . . . yeah. That’s not always so flattering. So, I went looking for an outfit that will hide the inevitable tummy spilling situation. So I’m looking for a shirt, with maybe some well-placed puckering or ruffles . . . but nothing too bulky. Then maybe some sort of short jacket in a good fabric? And then, I can’t really wear a skirt because I don’t want to be stressed about not showing my undies while I’m sitting there. But jeans seem too informal. And I don’t really do slacks. And a long skirt looks too matronly. And . . . yeah. I pretty much came away from the mall with nothing but a clear conviction that I’m gonna need some Spanx and more than two hours to shop.
(And if you are someone with a finger on the pulse of psuedo hipster fashions for post-baby 30-somethings who pretty much only wear black and need something that hits below the knee, I am all ears. Seriously. HELP.)
While at the mall, I took a few pictures of the latest hideous Brooks Brothers display.
I seem to do this every time I visit South Coast Plaza. I don’t know why I focus so much emotional energy on Brooks Brothers. (Yes I do. In psychology we call this displacement). And I don’t know why they stir in me a disquieting rage. (Yes I do. Something to do with excess and pretension and moronic groupthink). But seriously. Just be warned. If you ever come near me wearing seersucker pants with embroidered animals, I will kick you in the throat. If you have an ottoman that matches those pants, I will kick you in the gonads. DO NOT TRY ME.