“In this age of grand illusion/You walked into my life/Out of my dreams” –David Bowie, “Word on a Wing”, “Station to Station”

On the morning of Monday, January 12th, I woke up in an Airbnb near Joshua Tree, Calif. Since my Mom and Dad had flown into L.A. to watch our two boys, my husband and I had managed to get away for our 11th wedding anniversary for a full 2 days and 3 nights to explore the national park and have some romantic times and whatnot. It had been years since we were alone together for more than a few hours and we were giddy with freedom.

I’d never been to Joshua Tree before and was completely taken with the stark, gorgeous landscape. There’s a melancholy feel to the purple windswept desert, made more pronounced by David Bowie’s latest album, “★” (“Blackstar” when said out loud), running through my head as we set off on long, cold hikes. The album had just been released on January 8th, DB’s 69th birthday, and our wedding anniversary. I remember the thrill it gave me to set our wedding date on a day when DB would no doubt be celebrating as well. Our first dance as husband and wife was to a gentle, lilting version of “Life on Mars” sung by the Brazilian singer/songwriter, Seu Jorge. When DB heard the cover of his iconic song he’s quoted as saying, “Had Seu Jorge not recorded my songs in Portuguese, I would never have heard this new level of beauty which he has imbued them with.” Love within love within love.

On that Monday in Joshua Tree, when I discovered DB had died, I looked out of the window at the spindly shrubs and blowing sand. The mountains in the distance were violet and gray and the sky a colorless wash. There was blue snow on the peak of each mountain. There were birds wheeling on the horizon. Everything was very cold. I wandered around for a while trying to remember how to get dressed. I took my sunglasses in and out of their case several times trying to remember what they were for. I felt disoriented and foolish, choking back tears and feeling my chest tighten with terrible pain because someone I had never even met, died.

I often felt lonely and isolated as a child. I don’t really know why. I felt there was something weird or wrong about me, something I shouldn’t share with anyone. I couldn’t have put a name to it or pointed out any one thing, it was just a yucky feeling. It had a habit of sweeping over me without warning. Sometimes when I felt this way, I stole forbidden snacks, like Twinkies, and stuffed them in my mouth while hiding behind the pantry door. It was hardly original, but I didn’t know any better. When I discovered David Bowie at the age of 8, the loudest part of that bad feeling was silenced. I was 8 in 1988, so the DB I fell in love with was Jareth, the Goblin King from the movie “Labyrinth”. But I like to think that if I had found Ziggy, the Thin White Duke, or any other incarnation of David Bowie, I would have felt the same way.

When I saw DB for the first time I felt a physical shock of recognition. That thing, that person on the screen, that hypnotizing voice was somehow the place I’d always been trying to get to. The person I wanted to be and also to be with. The place I could go to in my mind and be home and safe. And happy. And free.

The Goblin King was a placeholder for me until I got older and could drive myself to the record store. A compilation album called “Changes” introduced me to the big hits and I loved them pretty hard. I played it over and over until every song was an old friend. I fell hopelessly in love with DB’s voice, which could sound so deep and full-throated or high and reedy, broad and boogie-woogie or close and intimate. Sometimes he murmured, sometimes he shrieked, but he was always singing right to me. My musical discovery wasn’t linear, but eventually from “Changes” I went on to the old stuff, “Ziggy” and “Hunky Dory” and “Aladdin Sane” and “Diamond Dogs”.

All through my life, the more I heard, the greedier I got. I did “Lodger” and “Low”. I did “Station to Station” and “Heroes” and “Young Americans” and “Let’s Dance”. I did “Scary Monsters” and “Outside”. I did “Earthling”. When I went away to college, my brother burned “Bowie at the Beeb” onto 3 CDs to keep me company. When I was young, more albums led to more pictures. This was all mostly pre-internet, so my cache was limited, but I culled enough resources to understand. We were soulmates.

Bowie taught me that the chaos I felt inside was okay. That it was good and right to keep looking for little pieces of yourself, to try things on and discard them. His voice was an antidote to my growing pains, of which there were many. He was always there. DB showed me that when you look in the mirror and you don’t like what you see, you’re completely free to change it. You could be a boy or a girl, or like boys or girls. You could be a bizarre half of something backwards. An elegant dandy. An alien.

This was so comforting to me that during my formative years whenever I was lonely or sad, I would put on DB and just feel better. Thinking of him or a song fragment would give me the bravery I needed to face a scary situation. Knowing he was out there, what I thought of as a part of me, this BETTER, BEST part of me, made me safe. OK. Inspired. Happy. Filled with joy. I loved thinking of his quick smile and saucy sideways glances. I loved picturing him laughing at some clever quip or an old hilarious memory shared with a close friend.

And I don’t mean to imply that our relationship was just me sitting around filled with reverent longing. Mostly, me and DB had crazy fun. I just loved him with all my heart. He was my hero.

I especially leaned on DB after my children were born. When I was a new mom I felt lost. I knew I wasn’t who I used to be, but I couldn’t locate who it was exactly I was supposed to have become. Everyone seemed to want something from me, but my resources were depleted. DB helped recharge my batteries. He reminded me that it was ok to flounder. To fuck up and bum around. He gave me happiness and light when I felt low. We had daily dance parties; me, my babies, and Bowie. When he was just over a year old, my youngest son said his favorite song was “Under Pressure.”

I read DB biographies and went back to the beginning of his discography to try and listen to every bit, start to present. I found terrible albums like “Tonight” and rediscovered forgotten times, like when DB teamed up with Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails for a tour. I often fell asleep watching old clips of him performing on YouTube, feeling a tiny, connecting thread between us, covering all those miles, light and strong. I thought of that thread as unbreakable.

And now he’s gone.

I knew he would probably die during my lifetime. He’s quite a bit older than me, and I knew his health wasn’t great. I tried to prepare myself for this eventuality. And I knew I’d be sad. But then the albums started coming again. We got “The Next Day” and of course, “★”. And there were videos and he looked fine! Everything seemed fine. I thought we had years still.

But we didn’t.

I didn’t expect to feel like this. I didn’t expect it to actually, physically hurt. Or that I would feel sick and terrified. And I keep asking myself the same question:

Am I grown up enough to take on the rest of this life without DB?

I didn’t really know him. I don’t know the sound of his keys jingling in the door. I don’t know what he liked for breakfast. I don’t know how his face changed when he was suddenly tired of the conversation. Or the smell of the crease of his neck underneath his jacket collar.

I feel angry. Cancer has cheated me out of more albums. More times of discovering the intimate quiver of his breathy baritone brushing against my ear drums, my fingers feverishly pressing my headphones as tightly to my ears as possible to block out everything but the connection between us.

I hate thinking of him dying. I hear he died at home. I try not to, but lying in bed at night, I can’t help but work up this image of him slipping away, eyelids fluttering over his mismatched eyes, fingers pleating and wrinkling the bedsheets. As vitals slow, it must feel like falling a bit, falling nestled in a secret cocoon of half-remembered conversations and sounds, fluttering scraps of life.

Last year I got a tattoo I’ve been wanting for a long time. It’s the image of DB from the cover of “Diamond Dogs”. He’s stretched out against the entire upper part of the inside of my right arm. His dog legs reach past my elbow and his flat, sexual stare peeks up around my bicep. Two skeletal arms reach up into my armpit. It’s an arresting and beautiful image. When I look at it I remember it’s okay to have the storm inside.

It used to be fun to trade Bowie stories with people when they would spot my tattoo and ask. Now, everywhere I go his voice is there. He’s playing at every sidewalk cafe, in every restaurant, in every store. Even at stupid Target. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to talk about it. Most people are kind, but some aren’t. I don’t want have that conversation anymore where you explain how you’re a bigger fan than me or jokingly ask if I’ll make it through the day.

For now, I’ll squeeze my arm against my chest and try to keep reality where I can see it.  DB didn’t know me. And I didn’t know him. A wife has lost her husband, a son and a daughter, their father. They know the real loss. They are the ones who deserve the condolences. What I know and what I need is what lives in my mind and heart. All the time I thought I was drawing on DB for strength, it was really only from myself. It was really just me.

David Bowie, I can still reach out and find you there. Your voice and pictures and movies. You gave so much to us all. I can’t really lay claim to any of it. It’s all flung out in space covering us all, inspiring us all.

Very recently, scientists have witnessed the most luminous supernova that has ever been recorded. NASA tells us that a, “…supernova occurs at the end of a single star’s lifetime. As the star runs out of nuclear fuel, some of its mass flows into its core. Eventually, the core is so heavy that it cannot withstand its own gravitational force. The core collapses, which results in the giant explosion…” This supernova is said to be producing 570 billion times more light than the sun at its peak. It is the brightest thing humans have ever seen. It is the most light ever.

When things are really bad or really good, I’ll still close my eyes and step into your arms, Goblin King. As you press your powdered cheek against mine, the sound of my ball gown rustling will quiet my quickened breath. Your voice will slow my heart beat. We’ll sway chastely to the slow rhythm of my childhood longing. You’ll live there forever for me and nothing can ever take that away.

As long as there’s sun

As long as there’s sun

As long as there’s rain

As long as there’s rain

As long as there’s fire

As long as there’s fire

As long as there’s me

As long as there’s you

Lyrics from “Where are we Now?” off of “The Next Day”

Thin White Duke Image courtesy of Reddit

Bowie Desert Image courtesy of Icons on Pinterest

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The post David Bowie and My Broken Heart appeared first on EcoSalon.

Is it humanly possible to stay healthy and fit during a Vegas Vacation?

My name is Sarah and I’m a fit mom. That’s what I call myself for work, This Fit Mom. I’m a group exercise instructor, personal trainer, fitness blogger, and fitness writer. So I basically eat, sleep, and breathe fitness. All day, every day. Also, like I said, I’m a mom. And I have two little boys. They’re busy. All day, every day. Also, I have a husband. And he has some parents. Those are my in-laws. And this past weekend we all went to Vegas. Together.

I’ve only been to Vegas once before, when I was younger. I didn’t like it much because my husband (he was just my b-friend then) and I were poor and liked Radiohead a lot, if you know what I mean. So, we mocked stuff and sat around sadly, like only 22 year-olds can. My memories of it were mostly just being really hot and dirty. And not in a sexy way.

So when my in-laws suggested we drive up from Los Angeles with our two boys, I wasn’t super psyched on the idea at first. But my MIL (they were in town for a business convention) thoughtfully arranged a beautiful suite for us in a swanky hotel (The Cosmopolitan), and planned several fun kid activities (visit to a shark reef and seeing some dolphins and stuff). Plus, the pool was gorgeous and there was the promise of a lot of free babysitting. So, slowly but surely, I got very on board.

Now, when I plan on traveling anywhere I have a fair amount of anxiety due to my lifestyle. I exercise for 1-2 hours almost every day. This requires space, equipment, time, and child care. When you’re on the road, these things can be hard to come by. Additionally, I eat in a somewhat restrictive and particular manner. I do my best not to eat any grains, dairy, or processed food. I care about where my meat comes from and I prefer my fruit and veggies to be organic. (Are you annoyed with me yet?) Last, but not least, I eat one blended meal a day. That means if I don’t have my Vitamix, I feel somewhat…bereft. So, traveling poses some difficulties there for me as well.

But in a an attempt to be less Type A than I usually am and show my husband and his family how fun and flexible I could be, I told myself that it was going to be fine. FINE. Firstly, there would be a gym at the hotel. A very nice and well stocked one, if the pics on the website were any indication. And there would be three adults around who could watch the kids while I “got ma sweat on.” It might even be like a treat!

Secondly, we were going to be eating out for every meal during our entire Vegas vacation. I could always just order a plain salad with a protein. NBD! For breakfast there would be eggs. Greens, veggies, and protein. Maybe not the most varied or satisfying menu, but totally acceptable for four days. And just for extra back up, I would bring six Quest Bars. You can always depend on a Quest Bar in a food emergency.

Maybe I would even come away from this Vegas vacation more fit than I already was! Maybe it was like a gorgeous chance to step away from all of my usual duties and responsibilities so I could get some monster workouts in while relaxing and not rushing around like a maniac. Also, my husband and I would finally have some well deserved time alone. We could even go on a date! FYI, the last time we went somewhere alone together it was a different calendar year.

Day 1

The drive through the desert was hot but beautiful and fast and when we got to The Cosmopolitan I was knocked out by how nice it was. The in-laws had stocked our bar with ingredients for Negronis and Rye Whiskey and we mixed up drinks while the kids climbed over all the furniture like wired cats and the grandparents plied them with gifts. Heaven. It was kind of late and the kids were hungry, so we headed right out to the Rainforest Cafe.

My kids are insane for animals so they were beyond wowed by the animatronic beasts, festive decor, and extensive kids menu at the RC. But perusing the chef’s offerings, I could see that right away my salad plan wasn’t going to hold water. All of the salads sounded dismal and I could just picture the watery iceberg and wilted spinach. My wonderful husband, sensing my distress, whispered that we could just get a small appetizer and have something better later-BY OURSELVES. Eating without children is a pleasure as rare to us as a nun playing craps.

So, we ordered nachos. No one had really eaten anything substantial since breakfast and we were all famished. And although I meant to just have a chip or two, this is what happened to the nacho plate.

After that, the kids headed to Grandma and Grandpa’s room for a slumber party and we were left to our own devices. We both felt full from the grody nachos and tired from the travel day, so we stupidly decided to stay in to relax and enjoy the view. To our credit, this was our unbelievable view.

Day 2

To combat the effect of the nachos, I got up early the next morning and hit the gym pretty hardcore. It was a great gym. Tons of equipment, mostly empty, and a killer view. I ended up hanging around for almost two hours and and doing cardio, glutes, squats, shoulders, and some core work. Here’s my Instagram selfie:

Then we all hit the pool. Because there was no time for breakfast I housed two Quest Bars to keep from fainting in the heat. Have I mentioned there was a heat wave while we were there? The temps soared up past the 100s erry damn day. It was as hot as a sack o’ nuts.

We did some lunch before we ventured out into the baking oven of the filthy metropolis. This time we went to a proper restaurant, Holsteins, and I was able to snag a super salad with ahi tuna. It was delicious and filling. Things were looking up for sure. It’s possible at this point I felt a little smug, like what’s the big deal? Anyone can do this healthy-in-Vegas thing.

During most people’s stories, it’s always at the smug point that things turn to shit. And my story is no different.

After the kid friendly activities (Shark Reef, they went bonkers), my husband and I had some free time before bedtime. So we decided to go on an early-evening date to get some sushi in the casino. And get sushi we did! We went to Blue Ribbon Sushi, and it was incredible. Here’s my dinner. JUST MINE. Not to share or anything. And it might be that I had some, or a lot, of sake. But here’s the most beautiful damn dinner you’ve ever seen.

uhhhhhhhh. It was so good.

After that, things went downhill. My younger son, who is 3, got sad and wanted to sleep with us. So, I ended up in bed at 7:30 with a cranky toddler who kept kicking me in my very full belly and poking my face with his meaty little fingers and calling me a, “poo poo ghost face” and then giggling like someone on Molly. Needless to say, I wasn’t able to get up early and do the gym the next day.

Day 3

After a responsible breakfast of eggs, we headed back to the extremely fabulous pool. While squatting down to give my older son something, I stood up wrong and my hip twanged like a freaking banjo. After that, it was all I could do to keep the screams inside while I limped around and felt cursed. It might be that felt very sorry for myself and had a few too many frozen margaritas (the waitress brings them to you while you’re floating in the pool!!!), skipped lunch altogether, and took a lot of selfies while my lovely MIL and husband watched the kiddos.

After more fun kid activities (the Secret Garden, they loved it) everyone wanted pizza for dinner and I said what the fuck. I ate some damn pizza. My hip was still hurting and I was starving for some carbs.

My sweet husband had planned for us to go see a movie and have another fab dinner, so I was pretty excited. Even though I was kind of full of pizza and a little hungover from the shitty margaritas, I rallied and got all dolled up.

We got all the way downstairs and halfway through the casino when the text came through. “Both boys want Mom. So sorry.”  The message was like finding out the new expensive sweater you love so much is woven from a homeless man’s pubes. Very very disappointing, but not anyone’s fault and just something you have to find a way to accept. Defeated, we slumped back upstairs and collected our heinous spawn. As a consolation prize, I got to watch the Miss America Pageant on mute while my older son snored old pizza breath into my face. I was so sad, I got up and ate another Quest bar because it had chocolate in it. I gloomily noticed it was the last one. Not even my Quest bars had lasted.

Day 4

I meant to get get up early and at least do 200 burpees in the hotel room, but I accidentally slept in. Damn you, blackout curtains! That morning was our departure day. My hip felt better, but I was broken. We hit up the incredible Cosmopolitan buffet and I went a little nuts. I had smoked salmon, chocolate mousse, sushi, gelato, caesar salad with a glistening white anchovy on top, bacon, pork belly, more sushi, three cups of coffee, raspberry rice krispie treats, pho, roasted potatoes, eggs, orange juice, chocolate tart, and more sushi.

We took the leftover pizza from the night before home with us and I ate it all in the car while blasting the air conditioning in my face to keep the carb and guilt sweats down to a slow drip.

Here’s what I learned:

1. Bring a sound machine. Here’s my pick, it works gooooood and is small and portable. Surprise! People are partying in Las Vegas. They will play extremely loud music in the room right next to yours. If you are adults who are alone, this can just be annoying. With kids = Disaster. The sound machine truly cancels the noise out and lets you (and your babies) have a decent night’s rest.

2. Go all in or all out. No wish-washy crap.

• All In: If you’re going to be good in Vegas, plan ahead. Prep chicken. Buy canned salmon or packaged tuna. Blend tons of greens into smoothies. Gather responsible carbs. Buy 24 Quest Bars. Freeze it, pack it, put it in your mini fridge. Then you’re not at the mercy of when other people want to eat or what there is on a menu. You can down your fuel whenever you need to and not inconvenience anyone. Insist on getting time to spend in the gym to just slip away. Don’t care about the fun you’re missing. Find a way to be accountable. Strut around the pool marinating in the glory of your superior hotness. Sip only water. Feel smug on the car ride home.
• All Out: Just take a break from your grueling schedule and have an incredible time. Don’t feel guilty about anything you’re doing and take advantage of every minute that’s available to you to indulge, get crazy, and do things you normally wouldn’t do. Stay out too late and don’t think about the next day. Smile all the way home remembering the fun you had.

Follow Sarah on Facebook: This Fit Mom

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Images: Shutterstock Vegas Photo and Sarah Olive Bergson

The post I Tried to Live a Fit Life During A Vegas Vacation: A Survivor’s Story appeared first on EcoSalon.

There’s this wonderful guy out there. And he has the best job in the world; being David Bowie.

No, he’s not the actual David Bowie. His name is Will Brooker and he’s a professor of film and cultural studies at Kingston University in London. He’s also an author, an expert on Batman, and living as Bowie for a year.

Professor Brooker is working his way through Bowie’s life and enormous body of work in order to better understand his prolific subject. He has dressed, eaten, slept, talked, sang, and read like the famous musician, actor, artist, and fashion icon and will continue to do so for an entire year. He plans on taking his hard-won knowledge and writing a book on Bowie and his experiences.

While moving chronologically through the time periods of Bowie’s life and sharing pictures and thoughts on Twitter (@willbrooker), Professor Brooker has garnered a fair amount of interest. His experience has been mentioned in publications including The Daily Mail, Rolling Stone, and The Huffington Post.

As a Bowie nut myself, I was gripped by terrible jealousy when I heard about Professor Brooker’s immersion into Bowie’s life and music. I can’t imagine a better way to spend a year. I had so, so many questions. He was kind enough the answer some for me.

Sarah Olive Bergeson: Why Bowie? 

Will Brooker: This is an open question and I could answer it in a variety of ways. I write about popular culture and cultural icons, their meanings to audiences and the way they change over time. That is my job and what I do. So that’s one reason “why Bowie.”

In terms of rock icons, I don’t think there is anyone comparable to Bowie: in fact, calling him a rock icon reduces him. He is a popular culture pioneer, particularly influential in music and fashion but with significant contributions to video, cinema and art, with an incredibly sustained career, and a particularly breathtaking output in the 1970s. I find him an extremely complex and fascinating figure. He’s given a great deal to late 20th and early 21st century culture — I think his work has given a lot to me personally, for years — and this is my way of celebrating and connecting with him, through writing, analysis and research.

I could also say that I’ve written or edited three books on Batman now, and don’t want to write another book about Batman. So I’m moving on, and Bowie is a good thing to move onto.

SB: Are you listening to the Bowie albums that correspond to the period you’re dressing for, or are you just listening to whatever music Bowie would have listened to at the time?

WB: Yes, I am listening constantly and repeatedly to Bowie albums up until the point I am currently focusing on. With “Low”, “Heroes,” and “Lodger” I decided to take them all on at once during August, as they are considered part of the same Berlin period. I’ve been reading about those albums and about Bowie’s Berlin years this month, while also painting in an Expressionist-inspired style as Bowie did. After I visit Berlin (in September) I’ll finally move on to “Scary Monsters.”

I do of course allow myself to listen to anything before the point I’m working on, so the Bowie back catalogue (and list of Bowie influences) grows over time. The same applies to the Bowie songs I work on in my weekly singing lessons.

SB: Do you perform or lip sync to Bowie’s music, alone or in public?

WB: I’ve been learning better singing technique through private tuition and have covered a handful of Bowie songs so far (from the period up to around 1978). I’ve been invited to join a couple of bands for rehearsals, with an aim to perform Bowie covers with them at some point in the future.

SB: Bowie is notorious for disliking attention when he is out and about. Do you get a lot of attention when you go out dressed up? How do you find yourself reacting to the notoriety? Do you pretend to actually be Bowie in your interactions with others? 

WB: We have to remember that the famous Bowie outfits are stage outfits and personas. So I don’t wear the more iconic and recognisable styles except on special and public occasions. The ‘Low’–period hair is permanent though (until I change it for the Berlin period) so I am increasingly, because of the recent publicity, being recognised even when I’m just out trying to be anonymous.

Prior to that, people certainly recognised who I was “being” when I was out wearing the “Life On Mars” make-up and hair, or the Thin White Duke outfit. They often assume I’m a professional lookalike and that it’s my job, which I take as a positive comment.

The problem with acting like Bowie is that during the 1970s he’s usually quite awkward, stubborn and rude in interviews. I’m inclined, by contrast, to try to be nice and friendly to people if they ask about my research project. I’ve sometimes slipped into a Bowie manner on these occasions after a champagne or two, and it risks coming across as obnoxious.

I enjoy this radio interview (starts 10 minutes in) http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p02yv4pr as I had just come from a live TV feature and was in quite a hyped-up mood, so I think I start to speak a little more like David at some points.

SB: What will your book be like? A narrative of the experience? Bowie biography?

WB: It’s an academic book called “Forever Stardust” due to be published in 2017 — a study of Bowie as author and artist, in terms of his recurring themes, motifs and meanings. But I was always considering writing a separate piece of some kind about my experience, and that’s still a strong possibility. I’ve been asked recently if I would think about writing a Bowie biography in the future, too. Those would be in addition to the academic book, and wouldn’t directly overlap.

SB: What’s the most compelling insight you’ve gleaned (about Bowie and/or yourself)?

WB: I think I have, through this process, developed a strong and original sense of what personal drives and fears motivated Bowie’s artistic choices, and what lies behind his work, during the 1970s at least, and I think also his later career (1980-2015). It makes sense of pretty much everything he’s done, in a new way. That’s my feeling, anyway — that I have gained insight into a pattern that explains everything. So, that’s compelling. But vague.

SB: Do you have a significant other who is living through this with you? If so, how do they feel about it?

WB: Yes, like David Bowie in the 1970s, I am married. Unlike David Bowie’s marriage in the 1970s, I consider it a very good marriage. She already knew what I was like, of course, but my wife is both supportive and very no-nonsense, which is extremely valuable in terms of keeping me in touch with the real world.

SB: Did you smoke before your immersion? Are you now?

WB: No, I’ve never smoked. I think there have to be limits to the simulation, just as it would be unwise in many ways to attempt to replicate Bowie’s drug habits of the mid-1970s. I doubt that David Bowie would want me to start smoking because he once did, though it’s true I think that it’s an important aspect of his vocal style, both sung and spoken, and his visual image.

SB: Do you have help in creating Bowie’s looks? Were you into hair and make-up before this process started?

WB: I pay a considerable amount to hairdressers, beauty salons, make-up artists and providers of vintage clothing. But yes, I liked hair and make-up beforehand, and I do a lot of the make-up myself.

SB: Why do you think people find Bowie so compelling?

WB: I think we all have our own David Bowie and our own reasons for loving him. Certainly, objectively speaking, he is a hugely talented and creative individual, with a great deal of charisma and a vast body of diverse work, so there is a lot to love. But I think he speaks to all of us in slightly different, personal ways, and we will all have our stories about why he and his music are important to us.

SB: What’s you favorite Bowie album? What’s your favorite Bowie song?

As I’ve been working chronologically through Bowie’s albums and listening to them repeatedly and closely, the last one I’ve been immersed in tends to be my current favourite. It was “Aladdin Sane” for a while, and then it was “Young Americans” and then “Station to Station” (it has never been “Pin-Ups”). Right now I am revaluating and re-experiencing “Lodger”, and I have a note written today that it may be his pivotal album along with “1.Outside” — that’s an example of an observation I might well reconsider and reject later, but it’s an interesting thought and there is logic behind it.

The first Bowie album I really connected with personally was “Let’s Dance,” and I will always like “Low” because it has the best cover art. But it’s been enjoyable rediscovering and finding new pleasures in each of his albums so far.

My favourite Bowie song also changes as I go. Like Bowie (in the 1970s at least) I am quite an impatient person and appreciate novelty. Again, I was very much into “Aladdin Sane,” the song, when I was interviewed in Melbourne in July, and more recently felt that “Station to Station,” the song, must be his masterpiece. Now I’m getting more into “Low.” My first favourite Bowie song, as above, was from “Let’s Dance” — “Ricochet,” the first track on the b-side. Lyrically, I think Bowie’s best is “A New Career in a New Town.”

—

And to all those out there who might not know Bowie’s work as well as Professor Brooker, “A New Career in a New Town” has no lyrics. It’s an instrumental. So, perhaps what Professor Brooker is saying (much like Bowie himself might) is that the music speaks for itself. And that you have to work for things a little. If you’ve never heard the song before, give it a listen. It’s on the album, “Low”, one of my personal favorites. And it’s saying some beautiful things.

Follow Sarah on Facebook: This Fit Mom

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Being “rich“. Is that really the best we can hope for our children?

Recently, my husband emailed me a link to an article, “Will Your Child be Rich or Poor? 15 Poverty Habits Parents Teach Their Children” by Tom Corley. It’s uncommon for him to send me whole articles, as he usually prefers to text me inappropriate pictures or screen shots of Tweets he considers gut-busting, but he’s not alone in his enthusiasm. The article boasts 398k likes on Facebook. The title was somewhat off-putting to me; I figured it might be a case of click-bating and dove in with eagerness.

But the article left me feeling fairly queasy. I don’t really care about the writing style, or the heavy reliance on the statistics from the self-conducted study. What was so unpleasant was the tone. The simplistic and childish assumption that all rich people are happy and classy, and all poor people are miserable and gross.

I can only assume that this article is a very brief summary of the kinds of things Mr. Corley discusses in his two books: “Rich Kids – How to Raise Our Children to be Happy and Successful in Life” and “Rich Habits – The Daily Success Habits of Wealthy Individuals.” The books were written using data from a study that Mr. Corley’s website (richhabits.net) says he culled by the following method: “For five years, Tom observed and documented the daily activities of 233 wealthy people and 128 people living in poverty. During his research he identified over 200 daily activities that separated the ‘haves’ from the ‘have nots.’ ”

After a brief introduction, the article lists some depressing statistics from Mr. Corley’s study. Things like, “72% of the wealthy know their credit score vs. 5% of the poor”, “62% of the wealthy floss their teeth every day vs. 16% of the poor”, “79% of the wealthy believe they are responsible for their financial condition vs. 18% of the poor”, etc.

Mr. Corley then goes on to explain to parents how to structure children’s lives so that they can avoid falling into the heinous and irreversible trap of becoming poor. To prevent such ruination, Mr. Corley provides us with 15 bullet points.

I readily acknowledge that I agree with a lot of the suggestions. In my opinion, many of the things he says are just good common sense ways to help your kids develop into nice and healthy grown-ups. Mr. Corely urges us to limit screen time and junk food, let our kids know that it’s ok to make mistakes, set aside one hour a day just to chat, have them exercise daily, help your child open up a bank account, and have kids write thank-you notes.

But much of the list seems stifling and wrong-footed. I’m not sure if Mr. Corley has any children of his own, but it seems as if he hasn’t ever met an actual child. Also, I’m not sure what age group he’s suggesting these tactics be unleashed on. The list doesn’t seem appropriate for younger kids, but it doesn’t seem right for teenagers either.

Mr. Corely wants our kids to set monthly, annual, and five-year goals, work or volunteer 10 hours a week, save 25 percent of their earnings and gifts, read two “educational” books a month, create daily to-do lists that must be monitored by parents, require kids to participate in two non-sports related activities, have parents punish children when they lose their tempers, and have parents teach their children that wealth is good and it’s important to pursue the “American Dream”.

My husband and I have two boys. I like to think we’re raising them to be kind, polite, empathetic, hard-working, and happy. Does anyone really think that being rich automatically makes them happy? As long as we’re somewhat responsible, shouldn’t we focus on being fulfilled, rather than wealthy? It surprised me that my partner would want to enforce this money-hungry, Gestapo-like regime on any person, much less our own children.

And I can’t imagine a more perfect breeding ground for intense resentment and rebellion than the schedule prescribed by Mr. Corley.

A Day in the Life 

• 5:30 am: Wake up. Write up daily to-do list and submit it to Mom for approval.
• 6:30-7:30: Have breakfast, and get ready for school. Make sure khaki pants have perfect pleats.
• 8:00-3:00: School (think he’s allowed to have fun or just, you know, suffer?)
• 3:30-4:30: Homework (which Mom has to help with)
• 4:30-5:30: Non-sports related activity, pottery making. Mom will drive him, of course.
• 5:50-6:30: Soccer practice, because we need to squeeze in that daily exercise. Mom continues to chauffeur.
• 6:30-7:30 It’s time to volunteer. Mom carts the little guy over to the local nursing home where he empties bed pans for an hour.
• 7:30-8:30: Dinner. Mom still has to make a healthful meal.
• 8:30-9:30: Chatting. Not sure what there is to discuss since kid had spent most of the day driving around with Mom.
• 9:30-10:45: To-do list. Oh, man! He didn’t take out the garbage, write a thank you note to grandma, balance his check book, or read a chapter in his educational tome, “The Youngest Millionaire in the World.”
• 11:00 pm: Floss the crap out of his teeth and go to bed. Hopefully, this little man is so worn out he falls asleep quickly, because 5:30 comes awful early.

And I sincerely hope Mom doesn’t mind having zero time for a life, job, partner, or other children.

Like I said above, I’m not in favor of letting kids do whatever they want or fostering a completely self-centered existence. But when you force a kid to do anything, it sucks. They hate it and a ton of your parental interaction time is spent on tedious nagging. As a parent sometimes you have to insist. But this is an ENTIRE DAY of forced labor and boring busy work. Whether they end up rich, poor, or something in-between, how can such a parent involved, over-scheduled childhood make a happy, self-sufficent adult?

Instead of teaching kids how to become wealthy, a specious goal at best, how about we give them some room. Sometimes, kids and teens need to be alone, or do nothing, or go lay in the grass and daydream. Sometimes they need to be selfish, go play, stare in the mirror, or waste time. More than sometimes, really more like a lot of times. How about they read books because it’s fun, or we talk when we feel like it? Why not take the that twenty dollars from Grandma and blow the whole thing on bulk candy and a video game? Why not enjoy being young? It’s such a short and precious time.

And what happens when you release this carefully controlled animal into the wild? Will he be able to navigate college without you and your incessant nagging? Will he call you every night crying to come home? Or will he dive headfirst into the fun he’s so long been denied and never call you again?

If kids never have a chance to stop and let their minds wander, how will we they discover who they are and who they want to become? If they’re always working, how will they ever know that yucky feeling that comes from too much lolling around? How can a child or teenager so tightly harnessed ever make the mistakes that we’re supposed to teach them are ok?

Here’s a fantastic essay from Motherlode, the parenting blog on the New York Times site. It’s called, “What’s Your Teenager Doing This Summer? In Defense of ‘Nothing’ “by Julie Lythcott-Haims. Mrs. Lythcott-Haims spent a decade as the dean of freshman at Stanford University and saw first-hand how crippling over-scheduling and over-parenting can be. I suggest that you give it a read. It’s very well-written and definitely something that’s actually worthy of being shared on Facebook. I plan on sharing it with my husband tonight.

Follow Sarah on Facebook: This Fit Mom

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Recently, a friend and I were sitting around discussing how our periods are like prison time.

I have an IUD that causes my periods to last for two weeks every month. On my heaviest days, I need to visit the restroom about every 45 minutes to prevent my underpants from turning out like a battle scene from “Game of Thrones”(both gory and tedious to make sense of).

I also have two small children, so I can’t go anywhere without decent bathrooms. Why, you ask? Well. I need to safely corral them but leave them outside of the stall. I want them outside because I’m just not ready to answer questions about what mommy’s doing with her “ba-gina”. I want the bathroom to be reasonably clean because there’s an excellent chance they’re going to lick something while unattended. So forget all playgrounds, walks, stores, parks, libraries…basically anywhere except a nice hotel that comes with a nanny service. So, I tend to feel trapped at home.

Any-who, I was whining about my heavy flow and the expense and waste of all those tampons when my friend suggested the Diva Cup. The what-a-cup? It sounded like horrible soup. She explained it was a kind of flexible cup you stashed in your business that collected all of the blood instead of absorbing it. So, maybe I could wear it all day. Even on the days when every trip to the bathroom felt like the equivalent of a Civil War amputation.

Coincidentally, I also stumbled upon this hilarious rant in the Huffington Post, An Ode of Hatred To My Diva Cup, by Alex Logan. Logan despises the cup for being messy, inconvenient, non-functional, and uncomfortable. Like someone asking you to smell something nasty, I felt drawn to the Diva Cup. It was possible the universe was speaking to me. I ordered one that very day.

One of Logan’s gripes about the DC was its cost. She paid $40 for hers at Whole Foods. Amazon only made me shell out $27.78 with free shipping, so already I was totally winning! I had to decide if I wanted Model 1 (Pre Childbirth or under 30) or Model 2 (Post Childbirth or over 30). So I either had a normal sized vagina or an enormous one. I’m not sure why on the last night of your 20s the vagina fairy bestows a cavernous birth canal upon you, but whatever. Since I have the aforementioned offspring, I went for Model 2 (huge vag).

As fate would have it, the DC arrived on the very first day of my period. I was pretty excited to try it! But when it tumbled out its box, I was really taken aback at its largeness. Logan had a similar complaint. The thing looks really intimidating. I mean, it’s a silicone cup that can hold two ounces of liquid (a little less than the amount in a shot glass), so buyer beware. However, having pushed two babies the size of medicine balls through my vagina, I smugly felt I could handle it.

There’s a pamphlet included that tells you how to get it up there. Before you can do anything though, you need clean hands and a clean cup. The instructions advise you to wash your DC in “warm water and a mild, unscented, water-based (oil-free) soap”. So if you’re one of those anti-bac people, line up your plain soap before it’s deep sea diving time. Tip No. 1: When you wash it, always use warm water. It makes the cup softer and easier to mess with.

Next you fold it in half, then fold it in half again. This is not difficult. After it’s in they want you to rotate the cup to make sure it’s in the right place and fully opened. I rotated the shit out of that thing. I turned it like I was winding a goddamn clock. Tip No. 2: Zealous rotating is not helpful. Coupla turns should do it.

Then, done! I was pretty comfortable. Like a tampon, I could faintly detect something up there, but it didn’t bother me at all. After a while, I totally forgot all about it.

Then, it was time to take it out. That was a little funky. The DC has a ribbed stem at the bottom to help you grasp the cup and pull it out. But I didn’t feel like it was that simple.

First off, you gotta have a little bit of fingernail to pinch the stem and pull the fucker out. But not TOO much nail. Please God, keep ’em trimmed down somewhat. You really have to fish around sometimes. Thinking of those long, sharp acrylics is giving me the horrors. Secondly, it kept traveling pretty far up there while I was wearing it. It took some bearing down to get it to where I could grab the stem. (Maybe I DO have a huge vag…?) Finally, pulling it out is vaguely uncomfortable. Like I said before, the thing is somewhat sizeable. Taking it out feels like a very tiny birth. I wouldn’t call it painful, but it’s something. I would maybe liken it to birthing the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Small-ish and soft, but not really a good thing. However, I didn’t find it a deal breaker. Tip No. 3: Relax as much as possible and the removal is more comfortable.

And then there’s the mess. As long as you’re in the shower or a private bathroom, it’s really no problem. Watch your pants for dripping, though. I kept dripping one tiny, infuriatingly bright red drop on the waist band of my jeans. Every. Freaking. Time. Anyway, you empty it into the toilet and then wash it with your special soap before reinsertion. You’ll need a little clean up at this point. Baby wipes are helpful. Tip No. 4: The very easiest way to change the DC is in the shower. If you can time it that way (in the morning, after the gym, etc.) that’s your best bet.

Tip No. 5: Wear a panty liner with the DC when your flow is heavy. There’s a little leakage but not much. I would call it a light dusting. Not enough to soak through your pants, but enough to ruin your underwear. I would wear a liner with a tampon on a heavy day anyway, so this is no inconvenience to me.

Experiments

Here are some trials I did on a THF (Triple Heavy Flow) day. You could maybe compare it to the scene in “The Shining” when the elevator doors open and the ocean of blood surges forth:

1. Dancing. I put on The Weeknd and danced. I danced like, dirty. And…fine! No big leaks.

2. Water. On THF days I can’t go swimming because my tampon becomes water logged and blood starts to seep out. Very embarrassing and super grody. So, I checked out a hot tub. No leaks at all and I felt confident. I might have done some more dirty dancing in the tub just for fun. Just to double check! All went well, although my friends were a little alarmed at the dancing. Everyone else was just sitting and chatting quietly.

3. Vigorous Exercise. I got sweaty, girls!!! I worked it wicked hard. I’m a group exercise instructor and on THF days I have to run to the bathroom at least once during an hour long class. No more!!! I jumped, kicked, squatted, strained, and burpeed. Not one drop sullied my Lorna Janes!

4. Sleeping. Normally on THF days I have to stick three pads together to keep my overnight tampon overflow from ruining my sheets. My husband affectionately calls it, “The Diaper”. It sounds like a bag of cats ‘n candy wrappers when I walk. I wore the DC to bed (it’s safe to wear it for up to 12 hours) and for the first time in years, I tore off The Diaper in the morning and threw it’s pristine white triple thickness into the garbage. I’m freeeeeeeee! Never again! See you in hell, Diaper!!!

The Takeaway:

People who should not buy the Diva Cup:

-Women who regularly need to use public or shared bathrooms where the sinks are separate from the stalls.

People who should buy the Diva Cup:

-Everyone else.

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