Wicked M, 99, died happily of extreme candy and Cheetos consumption at her beach home on Tuesday. Her husband, Superman, 102, was found holding her hand and lying next to her. It appears that Superman died from excessive knowledge of absolutely everything. It has been told that Superman always knew he would pass away at the age of 102 and that Wicked M vowed to never live a day without him.
Wicked M lived life to its fullest. Her enthusiasm for life was storied and unmatched. She was married to Superman for seventy years and they spent those years traveling the world in search of a Mexican restaurant that could beat On The Border's extensive menu and hot salsa. After a battle with infertility in the first decade of their marriage, Wicked M and Superman eventually welcomed four children. Those children are now best known as a world-famous photographer, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, an NFL quarterback, and an elementary school teacher. Wicked M often said that her children were her greatest accomplishment.
In her late thirties, Wicked M began a successful photography studio and is best known for her famed permanent collection at the Annie Leibovitz Gallery in New York City. Wicked M enjoyed photographing people, places and things and loved to capture the little moments in life. She was well aware that, after all, we are all only here for a brief time.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
I wonder what my obituary will say?
**No, this is NOT a morbid wonder! It is fantastical.**
MSO Rin, 106, died of laugher at her home on Saturday, surrounded by friends, her beloved sports-star/doctor nephew Kaveman, her younger sister Kat and older brother-in-law Owl (of Airstream-American-artist-historian fame), and her beagle puppy, Hamish.
MSO Rin lived a full and joyful life, spending much of it in her favorite places: Tennessee, Montana, New York City, Great Britain, and Chili’s. After growing up and studying English, theatre, and flirting in various Midwestern/Midsouthern states (the battle to claim her as a native daughter rages on between North Dakota, Tennessee, and Indiana), MSO Rin met The Boy, the love of her life, at age 23 and was married to him for 77 years. Together they worked, traveled, camped, and saw lots and lots of plays. It was The Boy, MSO Rin, and two of their closest friends (Wicked M & Superman) who took Las Vegas by storm in early 2008, winning a record single-weekend payday which still stands. Many of MSO Rin’s other legendary adventures can be found in her biography by the multihyphenate artist G Love—another sorority sister who shared MSO Rin’s rare air. Her accomplishments are too many to list here, as are her acolytes. Just buy the book. It’s written like delicate poetry but yields emotions as powerful as a Rocky Mountain snowstorm.
After a long and storied life with The Boy, and an appropriate period of mourning after his death in a freak snowboarding accident at the Senior Winter Olympics in 2078, MSO Rin found comfort in the smile and songs of one of her idols, indie-rock musician Ben Folds. It was very Katie Holmes of her, actually, as she had crushed on Ben since she was in college. The pair was married by MSO Rin’s personal spiritual uplifter, super jane, who today is still an ordained minister, college president, wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and lover of a good late-‘90s hip-hop tune.
This phase of MSO Rin’s life saw the realization of one of her lifelong dreams: to become famous without having to actually do any work. To relive the funniest and most poignant periods of MSO Rin’s twighlight years, visit Wicked M’s permanent photography collection at the Annie Leibovitz Gallery (formerly the historic office building housing Rolling Stone offices) in NYC.
The most lasting legacy MSO Rin gave was not her life as a muse, as one might think (Ben’s last song, “My Reason, My Rin,” remains his most popular). It was, in fact, her weekly postings as one of the world-famous Wonder Women—MSO Rin, along with the above-mentioned phenomenal women, created a blog in 2007 that was hailed as groundbreaking. The Wonder Women provided both a connection point for the four Pis and a definitive collection of their soulful and sophisticated wisdom. It is a touchstone creation that serves to guide their generation to this day. You can buy “I ♥ WW” stamps online, where a portion of all proceeds will go to scholarships through their sorority. Go ahead and get enough for all your Christmas cards now!
With MSO Rin’s death, the process for granting The Wonder Women sainthood can begin. It will be the first time a saint is represented by four people at once.
MSO Rin, 106, died of laugher at her home on Saturday, surrounded by friends, her beloved sports-star/doctor nephew Kaveman, her younger sister Kat and older brother-in-law Owl (of Airstream-American-artist-historian fame), and her beagle puppy, Hamish.
MSO Rin lived a full and joyful life, spending much of it in her favorite places: Tennessee, Montana, New York City, Great Britain, and Chili’s. After growing up and studying English, theatre, and flirting in various Midwestern/Midsouthern states (the battle to claim her as a native daughter rages on between North Dakota, Tennessee, and Indiana), MSO Rin met The Boy, the love of her life, at age 23 and was married to him for 77 years. Together they worked, traveled, camped, and saw lots and lots of plays. It was The Boy, MSO Rin, and two of their closest friends (Wicked M & Superman) who took Las Vegas by storm in early 2008, winning a record single-weekend payday which still stands. Many of MSO Rin’s other legendary adventures can be found in her biography by the multihyphenate artist G Love—another sorority sister who shared MSO Rin’s rare air. Her accomplishments are too many to list here, as are her acolytes. Just buy the book. It’s written like delicate poetry but yields emotions as powerful as a Rocky Mountain snowstorm.
After a long and storied life with The Boy, and an appropriate period of mourning after his death in a freak snowboarding accident at the Senior Winter Olympics in 2078, MSO Rin found comfort in the smile and songs of one of her idols, indie-rock musician Ben Folds. It was very Katie Holmes of her, actually, as she had crushed on Ben since she was in college. The pair was married by MSO Rin’s personal spiritual uplifter, super jane, who today is still an ordained minister, college president, wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and lover of a good late-‘90s hip-hop tune.
This phase of MSO Rin’s life saw the realization of one of her lifelong dreams: to become famous without having to actually do any work. To relive the funniest and most poignant periods of MSO Rin’s twighlight years, visit Wicked M’s permanent photography collection at the Annie Leibovitz Gallery (formerly the historic office building housing Rolling Stone offices) in NYC.
The most lasting legacy MSO Rin gave was not her life as a muse, as one might think (Ben’s last song, “My Reason, My Rin,” remains his most popular). It was, in fact, her weekly postings as one of the world-famous Wonder Women—MSO Rin, along with the above-mentioned phenomenal women, created a blog in 2007 that was hailed as groundbreaking. The Wonder Women provided both a connection point for the four Pis and a definitive collection of their soulful and sophisticated wisdom. It is a touchstone creation that serves to guide their generation to this day. You can buy “I ♥ WW” stamps online, where a portion of all proceeds will go to scholarships through their sorority. Go ahead and get enough for all your Christmas cards now!
With MSO Rin’s death, the process for granting The Wonder Women sainthood can begin. It will be the first time a saint is represented by four people at once.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
i wonder if they call me that.
it is truly amazing how society works. we like to classify, don't we? we like to brand something (or someone) with a name so that we know where they fit into the scheme of things. in college, we threw labels on ourselves based mostly on what campus organization or sorority we were involved in. as we get older though the way we classify changes a bit. no longer are we classified as a result of our inner circle, but by who we are as individuals: where we work, what our occupation is, where we live, etc. the classifications are endless.
i'm pretty sure how people describe me and i think most descriptions are fairly accurate. i've been with the same boy for 11 years (married for 7 of those 11). i have 2 girls and a decent, respectable job. i have a mortgage and a car payment and very recently turned 30 (as in, i turned 30 yesterday. is that recent enough?). consequently, society labels me as a 'working mom' which is right on the money. those involved in my professional life have one set of labels for me while my friends from college have another. combine them all together and you have me.
i could say to hell with labels and what people think of me, but i would be lying. we all worry about what others think and some of us (i'll raise my hand here) have the need to be liked and labeled nicely by all people at all times. when i start to worry how society sees me though, i remember what my grandpa used to say: those i care about know how i am. and i don't give a damn what everyone else thinks.
those are definitely wise words and ones i hope i am able to take to heart.
i'm pretty sure how people describe me and i think most descriptions are fairly accurate. i've been with the same boy for 11 years (married for 7 of those 11). i have 2 girls and a decent, respectable job. i have a mortgage and a car payment and very recently turned 30 (as in, i turned 30 yesterday. is that recent enough?). consequently, society labels me as a 'working mom' which is right on the money. those involved in my professional life have one set of labels for me while my friends from college have another. combine them all together and you have me.
i could say to hell with labels and what people think of me, but i would be lying. we all worry about what others think and some of us (i'll raise my hand here) have the need to be liked and labeled nicely by all people at all times. when i start to worry how society sees me though, i remember what my grandpa used to say: those i care about know how i am. and i don't give a damn what everyone else thinks.
those are definitely wise words and ones i hope i am able to take to heart.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
I Wonder If They Call Me . . .
Let me tell you how I see myself.
I am a free spirit. I wrote out a list of why I think of myself this way, but it turned into an ILOVEME session, and it was boring, so I erased it. What it all boiled down to was – I am young, I am unfettered, I am a little bit wild. Kind of a hippy. Somewhat transient. Blowing in the wind. Open.
So you can imagine my distress when my husband and I looked proudly over our 2007 Christmas newsletter and we suddenly realized – holy Schmitt, we’re sending a Christmas newsletter. We’re MARRIED. We have a cat. We have a dog. We have a freaking WHITE PICKET FENCE. And we’re about to have a baby.
When, oh when, did we become so domestic?
I have a friend, just a few years younger than me, who’s a nursing student here. She doesn’t eat meat. She has a nose ring. She is traveling to Guatemala this summer for a class. And I look at her, and her fiancé, and I wonder – what must they think of us? They didn’t know me when I was traveling Australia with only what I could carry in a pack on my back. They didn’t know Darlin’ when he was in Americorps and slept on a different basement floor every night. They didn’t know us when we stayed up late, and spent what little money we had going to the bars, and when my work uniform was a sarong and tank top and Darlin’s hair was down to his shoulders. These friends of ours, and all the friends we have here in North Carolina, met us as a settled couple. I’ve had an office job since I got here, and the early hours I have to work for that job keep me from having the energy to stay up late. In order to meet our domestic obligations (the mortgage, the cars, feeding the cat), we have to be much more sensible with money, so we don’t go out to the bars anymore. The travels we make now (honeymoon and Patrick’s research trip aside) are all to visit family, and all short (that damn job again). Our hairstyles are conservative. Our house has furniture that we care about in it. I would be hard pressed to carry everything I care about in one backpack now. The wedding album alone would take up half the space. Diapers would take up the other half.
I garden. I crochet blankets. I have a Kitchenaid. I’m decorating a baby’s room. I am the very definition of DOMESTIC:
** ORIGIN Latin domesticus, from domus ‘house’ • adjective 1 relating to a home or family affairs or relations. 2 of or for use in the home. 3 fond of family life and running a home. 4 Blogger G Love, one of the Wonder Women. (per www.askoxford.com)
Sometimes, it gets me down. Sometimes, I think I liked me better when I was less in love with my house and the stuff in it, more able to pitch a sleeping bag on any old floor. I was more myself when I only had about ten articles of clothing. Two pairs of shoes – one for winter, one for summer. A disposable camera. When I actually drove the pickup (gas costing what it does and my commute being what it is, I now drive the more fuel efficient Matrix. Because, you know, it’s the more responsible choice.)
But sometimes, I like it. It soothes me to know that Patrick met me when I was still loose and a little wild, so that’s the me he fell in love with. And this new, domestic us is just who we’re inevitably evolving into. Children have always been in my picture, and unless you are bazillionaires like the famous Brad and Angie, it’s a lot easier to raise children if you have an established and comfortable home, a single stopping place, a depository for all the trappings that are required to feed and clothe and comfort them.
There is no shame in domesticity. It’s foreign and new for me personally, but it’s an evolution that I can get behind. As the wee imp in my belly (getting less wee by the day) pummels me with his fearsome infant strength, and I think on how prepared we are to welcome him, I realize how appropriate it is for me right now to be called domestic. Domestic and free-spirited are not necessarily mutually exclusive.
In fact, just to prove it, I think I’ll drive the truck to work tomorrow. So there.
I am a free spirit. I wrote out a list of why I think of myself this way, but it turned into an ILOVEME session, and it was boring, so I erased it. What it all boiled down to was – I am young, I am unfettered, I am a little bit wild. Kind of a hippy. Somewhat transient. Blowing in the wind. Open.
So you can imagine my distress when my husband and I looked proudly over our 2007 Christmas newsletter and we suddenly realized – holy Schmitt, we’re sending a Christmas newsletter. We’re MARRIED. We have a cat. We have a dog. We have a freaking WHITE PICKET FENCE. And we’re about to have a baby.
When, oh when, did we become so domestic?
I have a friend, just a few years younger than me, who’s a nursing student here. She doesn’t eat meat. She has a nose ring. She is traveling to Guatemala this summer for a class. And I look at her, and her fiancé, and I wonder – what must they think of us? They didn’t know me when I was traveling Australia with only what I could carry in a pack on my back. They didn’t know Darlin’ when he was in Americorps and slept on a different basement floor every night. They didn’t know us when we stayed up late, and spent what little money we had going to the bars, and when my work uniform was a sarong and tank top and Darlin’s hair was down to his shoulders. These friends of ours, and all the friends we have here in North Carolina, met us as a settled couple. I’ve had an office job since I got here, and the early hours I have to work for that job keep me from having the energy to stay up late. In order to meet our domestic obligations (the mortgage, the cars, feeding the cat), we have to be much more sensible with money, so we don’t go out to the bars anymore. The travels we make now (honeymoon and Patrick’s research trip aside) are all to visit family, and all short (that damn job again). Our hairstyles are conservative. Our house has furniture that we care about in it. I would be hard pressed to carry everything I care about in one backpack now. The wedding album alone would take up half the space. Diapers would take up the other half.
I garden. I crochet blankets. I have a Kitchenaid. I’m decorating a baby’s room. I am the very definition of DOMESTIC:
** ORIGIN Latin domesticus, from domus ‘house’ • adjective 1 relating to a home or family affairs or relations. 2 of or for use in the home. 3 fond of family life and running a home. 4 Blogger G Love, one of the Wonder Women. (per www.askoxford.com)
Sometimes, it gets me down. Sometimes, I think I liked me better when I was less in love with my house and the stuff in it, more able to pitch a sleeping bag on any old floor. I was more myself when I only had about ten articles of clothing. Two pairs of shoes – one for winter, one for summer. A disposable camera. When I actually drove the pickup (gas costing what it does and my commute being what it is, I now drive the more fuel efficient Matrix. Because, you know, it’s the more responsible choice.)
But sometimes, I like it. It soothes me to know that Patrick met me when I was still loose and a little wild, so that’s the me he fell in love with. And this new, domestic us is just who we’re inevitably evolving into. Children have always been in my picture, and unless you are bazillionaires like the famous Brad and Angie, it’s a lot easier to raise children if you have an established and comfortable home, a single stopping place, a depository for all the trappings that are required to feed and clothe and comfort them.
There is no shame in domesticity. It’s foreign and new for me personally, but it’s an evolution that I can get behind. As the wee imp in my belly (getting less wee by the day) pummels me with his fearsome infant strength, and I think on how prepared we are to welcome him, I realize how appropriate it is for me right now to be called domestic. Domestic and free-spirited are not necessarily mutually exclusive.
In fact, just to prove it, I think I’ll drive the truck to work tomorrow. So there.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
I Wonder if They Call Me That...
*I am not sure I can focus on just one thing for this wonder. I am sleep deprived and unfocused, so bear with me as I muddle through my "I wonder how others judge me" entry.*
We all wonder what others say about us when we are not around. We wonder if they talk about our outfit or the way we have our hair styled. I often wonder if people call me selfish, stubborn or stuck-up. Do they call me attractive, athletic or witty? Do they call me competitive, sarcastic or intelligent? Do they call me all of the above? Welcome to my World of Worrying About What Others Think of Me. Most of the time, I never even think about what others believe about me. I did plenty of that in high school and I was lucky enough to go to a college that was very welcoming and accepting of everyone. I could just be myself. Since having moved to a new city almost two years ago, I have been faced with having a new set of people judge me based only on what they see and hear in a short time. They have zero frame of reference for me as a person and this town is a much more difficult crowd than my college was.
I suppose that more than anything I wonder if people call me friendly or warm. Outgoing? Funny? Fun to be around? Wondering if people are calling me nice things is much easier than wondering if they are calling me not nice things like snob, cold, or rude. The ultimate wonder is whether or not people call me a bitch. I am not even going there though. I shudder just thinking about it.
I would like to think that I move through the world in a gentle way, ruffling as few feathers as possible, and somehow still making a difference. I am more quiet and introspective than people expect me to be (Unless you know me really well -- then you are stuck dealing with my loud laugh, sarcastic comments and extroversion to an extreme) and I am trying to be a more positive person.
I suppose it was super jane's comment on MSO Rin's post yesterday that really got me thinking. I may wonder what people call me, but why do I care? Why do we have to judge each other? I may wonder what others call me, but I know who I am. And that is more is than good enough for me.
We all wonder what others say about us when we are not around. We wonder if they talk about our outfit or the way we have our hair styled. I often wonder if people call me selfish, stubborn or stuck-up. Do they call me attractive, athletic or witty? Do they call me competitive, sarcastic or intelligent? Do they call me all of the above? Welcome to my World of Worrying About What Others Think of Me. Most of the time, I never even think about what others believe about me. I did plenty of that in high school and I was lucky enough to go to a college that was very welcoming and accepting of everyone. I could just be myself. Since having moved to a new city almost two years ago, I have been faced with having a new set of people judge me based only on what they see and hear in a short time. They have zero frame of reference for me as a person and this town is a much more difficult crowd than my college was.
I suppose that more than anything I wonder if people call me friendly or warm. Outgoing? Funny? Fun to be around? Wondering if people are calling me nice things is much easier than wondering if they are calling me not nice things like snob, cold, or rude. The ultimate wonder is whether or not people call me a bitch. I am not even going there though. I shudder just thinking about it.
I would like to think that I move through the world in a gentle way, ruffling as few feathers as possible, and somehow still making a difference. I am more quiet and introspective than people expect me to be (Unless you know me really well -- then you are stuck dealing with my loud laugh, sarcastic comments and extroversion to an extreme) and I am trying to be a more positive person.
I suppose it was super jane's comment on MSO Rin's post yesterday that really got me thinking. I may wonder what people call me, but why do I care? Why do we have to judge each other? I may wonder what others call me, but I know who I am. And that is more is than good enough for me.
Monday, January 14, 2008
I Wonder if They Call Me That?
I have just had an epiphany. Not the change-your-life kind or the I’m-such-a-genius-why-didn’t-I-think-of-that-before kind, but the stunned, holy-gracious-me-it-just-sunk-in kind.
The Boy and I are a childless couple.
Some stats: he’s 35.5, I’m days away from 31, we’ve been married for 6.42 years (Really? Are you sure? Oh, yep, there it is on the calendar. OK. Right.), we own our home, we have BIG debt, we have a nephew, he has a snowboard, I have a gym membership.
And we’re the ones who don’t have or intend to have kids. Some of our other married friends are in the don’t-have boat also, but I don’t recall knowing that anyone else is also rowing toward planning-not-to-have. Wow. One half of this blog is currently not in the family way or already maternal, but I’m the only quarter not anticipating that ever changing.
I was reading a play—Shining City, by Conor McPherson—and one of the characters says this:
… We’d been slightly left behind, a little bit, you know? All our … all our friends, they, you know, they had families. And, that … that … bound them together, you know?
… Look, that’s what people talk about. Of course they do. It’s perfectly normal to want to talk about the things that are happening in your life. But, you know, that was what we were always sort of on the edge of. You know, those conversations. You know, you’d be trying to, waiting for the subject to change and then of course, some stupid f%$@er would turn around and go, “Do you have any kids, yourself, John?” And I’d be, and I know that happened to Mari too, I’d be like, “Eh, no, no actually, I don’t.” Which’d be then … “Oh! Right! Okay!” You know?
But it didn’t really hit me that in fifteen years, that could be me or The Boy talking. It was, instead, this sweet and honest message on G Love’s other blog:
Childless friends, of which I have many: even though we’re heading down different roads, you will still be a huge priority in our lives. There’s plenty of room for love, of the parental kind and also the friend kind. My babies will be very precious, but they’ll never know what the ‘80s were like. I need you people in my life.
And I realized that she was talking to me. To me and my husband. Holy crap.
So now I walk around wondering if that’s how we’re described as a couple: “childless.” And if we’re pitied by people. Or envied. I wonder if women I see in stores or at restaurants look at me and can tell that I’m not a mommy. I wonder if they wonder if something’s wrong with me—or if they automatically think there is. Because I’m on the back side of five years of marriage and don’t have a kid and another on the way.
At dinner last night, The Boy and I were noticing how much pregnancy/childbearing/parenting was pervading our sphere right now, both personally and entertainment-world-wise. We saw Juno last week (a FANTASTIC film, by the way. Stop reading and go buy a ticket!) and since my epiphany is fresh, I felt like the movie was speaking just to me, directly and conspiratorially. It said, “See? You’re fine. You can watch someone else be ambivalent, even distressed, about being in the family way and you can watch another someone else yearn for motherhood—and you’re still at peace with your choice. You aren’t going to wake up in a cold sweat because your body changed your mind. You are a valuable human being without reproducing. You see the blessings and pitfalls on both sides of the fence from right here on the ‘not’ side where your grass is the perfect shade of green.”
I don’t want you to think this wonder is bitter or defensive or trying to hint that one choice (“-less” as opposed to “with”) is better than another. It’s just … you know … I was wondering.
The Boy and I are a childless couple.
Some stats: he’s 35.5, I’m days away from 31, we’ve been married for 6.42 years (Really? Are you sure? Oh, yep, there it is on the calendar. OK. Right.), we own our home, we have BIG debt, we have a nephew, he has a snowboard, I have a gym membership.
And we’re the ones who don’t have or intend to have kids. Some of our other married friends are in the don’t-have boat also, but I don’t recall knowing that anyone else is also rowing toward planning-not-to-have. Wow. One half of this blog is currently not in the family way or already maternal, but I’m the only quarter not anticipating that ever changing.
I was reading a play—Shining City, by Conor McPherson—and one of the characters says this:
… We’d been slightly left behind, a little bit, you know? All our … all our friends, they, you know, they had families. And, that … that … bound them together, you know?
… Look, that’s what people talk about. Of course they do. It’s perfectly normal to want to talk about the things that are happening in your life. But, you know, that was what we were always sort of on the edge of. You know, those conversations. You know, you’d be trying to, waiting for the subject to change and then of course, some stupid f%$@er would turn around and go, “Do you have any kids, yourself, John?” And I’d be, and I know that happened to Mari too, I’d be like, “Eh, no, no actually, I don’t.” Which’d be then … “Oh! Right! Okay!” You know?
But it didn’t really hit me that in fifteen years, that could be me or The Boy talking. It was, instead, this sweet and honest message on G Love’s other blog:
Childless friends, of which I have many: even though we’re heading down different roads, you will still be a huge priority in our lives. There’s plenty of room for love, of the parental kind and also the friend kind. My babies will be very precious, but they’ll never know what the ‘80s were like. I need you people in my life.
And I realized that she was talking to me. To me and my husband. Holy crap.
So now I walk around wondering if that’s how we’re described as a couple: “childless.” And if we’re pitied by people. Or envied. I wonder if women I see in stores or at restaurants look at me and can tell that I’m not a mommy. I wonder if they wonder if something’s wrong with me—or if they automatically think there is. Because I’m on the back side of five years of marriage and don’t have a kid and another on the way.
At dinner last night, The Boy and I were noticing how much pregnancy/childbearing/parenting was pervading our sphere right now, both personally and entertainment-world-wise. We saw Juno last week (a FANTASTIC film, by the way. Stop reading and go buy a ticket!) and since my epiphany is fresh, I felt like the movie was speaking just to me, directly and conspiratorially. It said, “See? You’re fine. You can watch someone else be ambivalent, even distressed, about being in the family way and you can watch another someone else yearn for motherhood—and you’re still at peace with your choice. You aren’t going to wake up in a cold sweat because your body changed your mind. You are a valuable human being without reproducing. You see the blessings and pitfalls on both sides of the fence from right here on the ‘not’ side where your grass is the perfect shade of green.”
I don’t want you to think this wonder is bitter or defensive or trying to hint that one choice (“-less” as opposed to “with”) is better than another. It’s just … you know … I was wondering.
Friday, January 11, 2008
We're Almost Back!
The Wonder Women are proud to announce that they will begin posting again this coming Monday! We are thrilled to be coming back in full force after our extended (and unintended) holiday vacation from blogging.
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