Faab. U. Luss.
Well, at least if you're up to your eyebrows in crabbiness, trying to wade through the reams of data that is leading you to the unavoidable conclusion that the Seattle Public Schools is not, as one would hope, being piloted with care and attention, but instead sort of drifting towards an inexorable, mediocre doom (but a doom full of good intentions! Swell.).
I think you can guess what kind of mood I'm in when I talk about "inexorable doom" and it doesn't have to do with not finding anything at the Barney's sale (well, that I could afford. Yup. My life: still tough).However, there has been a little cheer in my holiday season (besides Curly and my boy, who, I have to admit, have been a total blast to be with. And Stumpy. Let's not forget that guy. The one I married back in the day before internet wedding registries.). The cheer is GOOP.
I subscribed to GOOP some time ago, and the hysterical missives have been arriving on a mostly weekly basis. I'm sure Gwyneth doesn't intend them to be funny, but they are.
I'm pretty confident that Gwynnie spends more on her highlights each month than I do on hockey fees, my mortgage and shoes. Put together. Which, by my careful calculations, makes it okay for me to laugh at her. If she insists on being blonde, skinny and rich and dispenses advice, she should expect to be laughed at. Often.
So when she suggests a Christmas morning holiday menu (spiced pumpkin and walnut bread, a nice little Christmas-sy bit of anaphylactic doooooooom for Curly, accompanied by a little frittata), I giggle.
On purchases she suggests? Her favorite olive oil is (wait for it) 44 Euros a pop. Yeah. Honey, I'm sure it's fab, but I don't think it's going to be on my grocery list on a regular basis, and I say that as someone who is regularly suckered into paying more than she should for such things and has a love of high-quality ingredients. Chocolate at $110? Christmas hampers at 250GBP? Uh, that's a lot of sterling.
Her relationship advice is priceless (of course). I admit I was hoping the answer to "why are holidays with my family so difficult?" question would be "because, daaaahling, you need to take them to a huge, fabulous, staffed rental house on St. Bart's for the holiday, like I do! It's so homey!" Sadly, no. It was all "when we are reactive, we disconnect from The Light of The Creator" this and "love is being free of judgement" that. From guest gurus, no less. Yawn. Come on. Send Deepak Chopra on to his next well-paid speaking engagement and advise your folks with questions to get some crazy-expensive highlights (at your favorite place in London, regardless of where they live), already. I'm subscribing to your newsletter for advice from a wealthy, pampered celebrity who is pretending she's a homebody who knows what it's like not to have multiple (staffed) houses, personal chefs, trainers and nannies. And has tips!
So, yeah. My coal-black, spiteful heart, despite having the influence of rosy-cheeked children who I take skating and sledding and kiss often, mostly remains a nice, dark, tarry color.
I'm going to go back to being a stridently irate Seattle public school parent now.