Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

Best-selling author and marketing genius Seth Godin recently said on his blog, “You don’t need a new plan for next year. You need a commitment.”

When I started thinking about New Year’s resolutions, Seth’s words kept running through my head. Why plan to do something? Why make resolutions? Why say “I’m going to try to …” Instead, make a commitment. No ifs, no ands, no buts. Commit to doing whatever it is that you say you are going to do every year but somehow never accomplish.

Thanks to Seth Godin’s insightful words, I don’t have any New Year’s resolutions; however, I commit to do the following things in 2012:

1. Finish the second draft of my book. I have been dealing with this goal off and on for three years. Mostly off. I could use the excuse that writing is time-consuming (it is), but the truth is working on my book is like cutting my carotid artery open every day. It’s painful and messy—not healing and cathartic although people assume the latter is true. I feel drained, exhausted, and emotionally spent after working on my memoir. I hate it.
2. Do yoga once per week. Working out five times per week with a combination of yoga, cardio, and resistance training would be ideal (remember EMAO?), but I’m not exercising at all right now. Therefore, it’s best to keep my commitment realistic given my time constraints. Yoga Blend has two classes on Sunday that I enjoy so all I need to do is pick one, drive there, and appreciate the “me” time while I enhance my yoga practice.
3. Write my blog a minimum of twice per month. While I commit to writing twice per month, my goal is to write every week. However, like yoga, I need to have reasonable expectations of my time and energy. As a full-time Social Media Specialist, I spend eight hours a day looking at two computer screens. Despite my numerous blog ideas, sometimes I don’t even check my email when I get home let alone start my laptop.
4. Complete my 52 Postcards in 2012 project. This year I am going to write a postcard every week to someone I know or don’t know (perhaps you my devoted blog reader?). To see how you can become a recipient of one of the many postcards in my collection, click on 52 Postcards. This experiment is an exercise in writing, discipline, and a great way to share my postcard obsession with others.
5. Learn more about wine. This commitment may sound unnecessary, but it’s related to my job at TGIC Importers. I will continue to attend wine tastings at Vendome Wine & Spirits to improve my palate. I am considering taking Wine Spectator’s free, online, self-paced courses. Depending on where my job takes me, I might even enroll in the Wine and Spirit Education Trust program.
6. Stop picking at my cuticles. You know how some people resolve to lose weight every year, but never do? Well, that’s me and my relationship with my cuticles. I don’t know why I pick at them. I’m not even aware of it half the time. I don’t bite my nails—never did, but there is something about my cuticles that I cannot resist. This year I commit to not pick. It’s gross. It’s nasty. It’s unladylike. If you see me doing it, call me out.
7. Quit watching my soap opera The Young and the Restless (Y&R). I can already hear the groans and chuckles, but you have to understand. Y&R debuted in March of 1973—five months shy of my first birthday. My mother watched the soap from the beginning with me in her arms. I remember when Nikki was a young stripper who fell in love with the self-made millionaire Victor Newman. I haven’t seen every Y&R episode. I even went years without watching the show, but I know its history better than I know my own genealogy. My friend MB and I text each other about the repeated, tired story lines. After fast-forwarding through three episodes in one hour, I realized I don’t care anymore except … I want to know who killed Diane Jenkins, and I’m counting on MB to tell me.*

AWW — XoXo

P.S. What are your commitments in 2012?

*I already deleted Y&R from our DVR. One commitment down, six more to go!

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10. You watch Lifetime movies.

9. You like Lifetime movies.

8. You watch Lifetime movies even when you don’t like them.

7. You record Lifetime movies.

6. You watch enough Lifetime movies to know that the ones on the Lifetime Movie Network (LMN) are always better than the ones on the regular Lifetime channel.

5. You get genuinely upset when your cable provider has a dispute with LMN, which seems to happen every six months.

4. You know what Pick-a-Flick Fridays are.

3. You IMDB the actors in a Lifetime movie because they look familiar only to discover they have been in other Lifetime movies that you have already seen.

2. You watch two LMN movies in a row and don’t realize you have already seen both of the films until the end of the second one, yet you don’t care that you have wasted four hours of your time on a Friday night.

1. You lie down, watch four Lifetime films back-to-back, and after eight hours you cannot recall the plot of any of the movies. Oh—and you forget to eat. Or you eat an entire bag of chips. Or a pint of ice cream. Or both.

AWW — XoXo

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A week ago today, 22-year-old Jared Loughner opened fire outside of a Safeway supermarket in Tucson, Arizona. Loughner was attending a public rally held by Rep. Gabrielle Giffords (D-Ariz) whom he shot; the congresswoman remains in critical condition. Using a Glock 19 semi-automatic pistol, Loughner killed six people including nine-year-old Christina Green—a 9/11 baby—and wounded fourteen others (including Giffords). Considering this tragedy is the biggest news story of the week (and perhaps the year), why do I turn off the TV every time I hear about it?

Murders don’t bother me. In fact, I love crime shows. From the Hollywood ones (e.g., Law & Order, Detroit 1-8-7) to the real ones (e.g., 48 Hours on ID, Wicked Attraction), I relish in solving the mysteries, capturing the killers, and seeking justice for the victims. My husband recently asked how I could watch so many crime shows. I replied, “I think I was a cop in a former life. Or a lawyer.” I love a good murder.

Although people are killed every day, few murder cases become public knowledge unless a celebrity is involved or there is an unusual twist. Remember Laci Peterson? Her husband Scott Peterson was convicted of killing her and their unborn child. I followed every detail of that case not only because it was on the news every night, but also because I didn’t want to believe that Peterson could kill his pregnant wife in order to continue an affair. I was standing in a teacher’s lounge watching the news when the verdict was announced: guilty. Two teachers and I woo-hooed, joined hands, and danced in a circle like kindergarteners doing “Ring Around the Rosey.” Justice had been served.

Multiple murders committed by the same person don’t trouble me either. In fact, I am a bit obsessed with serial killers. (I think I was a criminal profiler in a past life, too.) If you share my fascination, I highly recommend reading the book The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers. If you like female serial killers, check out the Hollywood version of the Aileen Wuornos story titled Monster starring Charlize Theron and then watch the documentary Aileen Wuornos: The Selling of a Serial Killer directed by the fabulous Nick Broomfield. Some people are born sociopaths with no moral conscience, but others, like Wuornos, are products of devastating, abusive childhoods. The former scare me while the latter sadden me.

Given my past lives—a homicide detective, a district attorney, and a forensic psychologist, you would think that I would be interested in the Tucson tragedy. But I am not. I have realized that I cannot handle mass shootings. I didn’t even know about the Connecticut shooting this past August until I researched information for this blog. I am sure I read about it; I just blocked it out. Of course, I remember Fort Hood, Virginia Tech, and Columbine. When those events occurred, I also turned off the TV. I don’t know what makes a shooting spree so different from the other murders that interest me.

• Is it the sheer number of victims? No. Serial killers murder multiple people.
• Is it the weapon of choice? No. I don’t mind guns and want to learn how to shoot one.
• Is it that many of the shooters commit suicide and justice is never served? Maybe. I hate it when the bastards kill themselves. I almost respect the ones that don’t even if they claim temporary insanity.
• Is it that there never seems to be a particular target or if there is so many others are killed in the crossfire?

Yes! That’s it. If you plan to kill a specific person, keep it clean. Don’t do it in a public location. Think about other people who may be present; they have nothing to do with your motive (e.g., anger, revenge).

However, if you are mad at the world and start shooting innocent people to display your rage, do not blast that last bullet through your brain. Have the courage to face the sea of bloody bodies and broken hearts caused by your mind and your weapon. After a speedy trial, we [the public] will send you to Oklahoma where the victims’ families can watch as a firing squad shoots you.

Until then, I will shy away from mass shootings. Give me a simple crime: a victim, a motive, a killer, a trial, and most of all—justice.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. If I seem too callous, I apologize. I do sympathize with the victims’ loved ones and my thoughts go out to them.

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I am embarrassed to admit that I watch the television show Little Miss Perfect, a reality series that follows child beauty queens and their stage mothers in their quest to achieve the title of—you guessed it—Little Miss Perfect (LMP). I stumbled upon this show last year, and my husband walked in the room when I was watching it. He shook his head when he saw a JonBenét Ramsey doppelganger grace the screen. I shouldn’t have told him, but I said, “Wanna hear something scary? I’ve been watching this show for four hours.” (It was a marathon of the first season). Before I could say, “I’m hooked” he left the room.

Later, I tried to understand my fascination with LMP by discussing the show with him. I don’t support “glitz” pageants because they send a message to young girls that hair extensions, false eyelashes, heavy makeup, spray-on tans, and flippers (i.e., a fake tooth mold that hides “unsightly” missing teeth) are necessary in order to be beautiful. However, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the TV that night. I explained to my husband that despite their shortcomings as parents, the mothers genuinely want what is best for their daughters, and they think beauty pageants are the way to a better life. He nodded and replied, “Sure. They’re [the mothers] just getting ready for the Big One.”
“That’s it,” I replied. “The Big One—Miss America, Miss USA, or even Miss Universe. They are thinking about the future.” The conversation with my husband may have ended there, but the one in my head had just started.

Even though I never participated in them, I have always loved beauty pageants. I watched the Miss America and Miss USA pageants every year when I was a child. At that time, the show would display each woman’s score on the television screen up to the thousandth decimal place (e.g., 8.345). My mother and I would sit with a notebook, add up the numbers, and calculate the winner before she was announced to the world. I still remember Bert Parks singing “There She Is, Miss America” until he was dismissed from the show after hosting it for 24 years. Bob Barker, best known for hosting The Price is Right, also emceed the Miss USA pageant from 1967 – 1987. The highlight of these two pageants occurred in 1982—the year my parents separated. I was still living in Fort Smith, Arkansas, with my mother. I’m sure that the entire neighborhood heard our squeals of delight when Miss Arkansas, Terri Utley, won the Miss USA pageant. A few months later, we screamed when Miss Arkansas, Elizabeth Ward, won the Miss America pageant. For years, Arkansas had plaques under its state-line signs at major border crossings; they read, “Welcome to Arkansas. Home of Miss America and Miss USA 1982.” Just like a parent, every state is proud of its beauty queens.

When it comes to their children’s dreams, I believe parents fall into three categories: the Mini Mes, the Better-than Mes, and the Wish-it-were Mes. All three types are on display at the LMP pageants. The Mini Mes are your former beauty queens; they want their daughters to be just like them. The Better-than Mes never experienced the beauty pageant circuit so they want their daughters to have the opportunities they never had. The Wish-it-were Mes fall somewhere in the middle. They either tried beauty pageants and failed or never had the chance to compete. Either way, they live their dreams vicariously through their daughters.

On a recent LMP episode, combination Wish-it-were/Mini Me mom Kelly had a full-blown meltdown when her seven-year-old daughter Trinity failed to place in the top five after forgetting the steps in her dance routine. During the same competition, Better-than Me mother Marie (who had to rent a dress for the Beauty portion of the competition because she couldn’t afford to buy one) beamed as her nine-year-old daughter Taylor became the second runner-up in her first glitz pageant. A tomboy who displayed her incredible karate skills during Wow Wear (i.e., talent) by breaking boards with her bare hands, Taylor is not your typical LMP contestant. She has her own short hair, her own teeth, her natural skin tone, and she wore little makeup until the end. However, Taylor exuded charm, charisma, and confidence. Unlike Trinity, who seemed to be desperately trying to please her mother, Taylor was on that stage because she wanted to be there, and that made all the difference.

I would classify myself as a combination Better-than/Mini Me parent. While I was raising my sister Adrienne, my goal was not only to give her more than I had, but also to lay the foundation for a higher self-esteem at an earlier age. I wanted her to achieve better grades in school than I did, to excel at her art in a way that I never did, and to feel okay in her own skin at a younger age than I did. On some level, I experienced some Mini-me moments because I encouraged her intellect, talent, and creativity—things we had in common, but I never desired a carbon-copy image of myself. I wanted Adrienne to be the best person she could be, and she exceeded even my high expectations.

• She earned a 4.0 GPA after one year of high school.
• She had her art displayed in three Los Angeles galleries by the age of 15.
• She didn’t love every aspect of her body, but she realized that she was attractive even if she was not a size zero.

By comparison, I never achieved a GPA above 3.75 in high school, I never danced a solo, and I still struggle with body issues.

However, I sometimes wonder if I gave the impression—like many LMP moms—that being perfect was the only acceptable outcome. As Adrienne’s drill team coach in elementary school, I pushed her and her peers to perfect every step in their routine. With only seven weeks of practice, I knew we didn’t have a chance of winning since most teams had nine months to work on their dance. However, part of me hoped that the girls could pull it off. As I watched them perform, I kept smiling despite the missed steps, the wrong timing, and the occasional frown. When they finished, I praised them for doing their best even though they had performed much better the day before when they debuted their routine for the school. Adrienne shook her head; she knew the truth—they had failed to be perfect. After a long day, we rode the bus back to school. Even though they had lost, all of the girls talked and laughed—except for Adrienne. She looked at me as tears slid down her face. I still don’t know if she was more upset about losing the competition or disappointing me. I never asked.

Even though it would never occur to me to enter my child in a beauty pageant, I can relate to the LMP mothers. Sure, some of them go too far, push too hard, especially the Wish-it-were Me moms, but I understand wanting your child to be a winner. Pageants teach children how to be disciplined and how to compete—two valuable skills that are necessary in the real world. In many ways, participating in pageants is not that different from being on an athletic team; except the last time I checked, soccer was much cheaper.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. My husband was right. In last night’s episode of LMP, a grandmother said, “This [Little Miss Perfect and other pageants] is something we’re doing until Asia gets Miss America.” Better-than Me grandma may be correct because five-year-old Asia was crowned Little Miss Perfect Nashville after an outstanding, military-inspired Wow Wear routine.

Posted under Adrienne & Beauty/Fashion & Entertainment | 3 Comments »

Although I read numerous fairy tales when I was a little girl, I never wanted to grow up to become a princess. Maybe I knew the stories were unrealistic or maybe I never wanted to be rescued by a prince. I loved the beautiful dresses and happily-ever-after endings, but not if they came with seven little men singing irritating songs or an ugly giant beast who used coercion to obtain love. Even from a young age, I wanted to feel powerful and strong—like a super hero. I wanted to be Wonder Woman.*

I don’t know if I saw every episode, but Wonder Woman was my favorite TV show until it went off the air in 1979. I looked through my mother’s fashion magazines and cut out every picture of Lynda Carter (aka Wonder Woman) that I could find. In first grade, I dressed up like Wonder Woman for my school’s annual Halloween contest, which I won. Taking home the first-place prize not only made my mother proud, but it also fueled my obsession. I collected over 100 photographs of Lynda Carter, and I studied them religiously. Whether she was wearing her costume or her “regular” clothes, I thought if I could just grow up to be a tall, gorgeous, intelligent Wonder Woman that I could conquer the world. (They should teach genetics in elementary school.)

As the one of the shortest girls in a junior high of over 1000 students, I soon realized that “tall” was not a word that people would ever use to describe me. (I’m under 5′3″.) Despite having attractive parents, there are no supermodels in our family, and I was an awkward tomboy for many years. However, I knew I was smart, and that my brains would be the key to my success. No one had to make me do my homework or pay me to earn A’s in school. I wanted good grades because learning made me feel powerful, which made me feel strong. In fact, school became my sanctuary when our house resembled a domestic war zone during my parents’ divorce. While my mother and father screamed at each other, I hid in my room. If I wasn’t reading or doing homework, I looked at my Wonder Woman pictures because I needed her strength. When my dad moved out of the house, I was proud of myself for not crying. I may have been ashamed because I knew everyone in our cul-de-sac was watching, but I didn’t cry. At ten years old, I had learned how to fake it.

I remember someone telling me that the one thing that people have in common is that “We’re all faking it.” I feel better knowing I am not the only person who presents an image to the world that is a mere facade. However, I don’t fake everything. I possess some of Wonder Woman’s four distinct qualities: beauty, wisdom, swiftness, and strength. I may not be drop-dead gorgeous, but I can appear and feel beautiful when necessary. I’m not Einstein, but I’m no dummy either. I wouldn’t say that I’m quick, but when I’m in shape, I am quite physically strong for someone my size thanks to years of dancing, gymnastics, and marathons. The most interesting characteristic about Wonder Woman though is how her physical and mental qualities created someone with vitality, courage and a mental backbone stronger than steel. Without knowing it, I modeled myself after Wonder Woman, and when I didn’t feel that inner strength, I faked it.

“Faking it” has its advantages. My healthy state of denial made it possible for me to be an advocate for my sister Adrienne during her 147-day battle with cancer. As long as I kept pretending everything was going to be okay, I could get through each day. Except for a brief meltdown during the burial service, I continued to fake it after Adrienne passed away. I attended a Halloween party only three weeks after her death not because I was fine, but because I thought that I needed to show my friends that I would be fine. A month later, I agreed to plan my best friend’s thirtieth birthday because her husband asked me to do it as a surprise to her. I could have said no. I’m sure that he would have understood, but I wanted the distraction. I needed to keep up the facade because I was afraid of what would happen if I stopped faking it. I have always been “strong” and “tough”; without those adjectives, I don’t know who I am.

Recently, my husband of three years (we’ve been together for six) said, “I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“Like what?” I asked even though I knew exactly what he was talking about.
“So close to giving up.”
I had no idea that he was that observant. Apparently, I cannot fake it with him. He sees right through me. I think he got more than he bargained for when he married me. I know that he doesn’t handle things well when I am physically hurt. He has said, “I’m so used to you being strong that I don’t know what to do when you’re not.” Maybe he thought he was marrying Wonder Woman, but I have to stop perpetuating this myth that I can handle everything. In fact, when people comment on how strong I am, I correct them. I appreciate compliments, but I cannot accept them when they are based on a lie. I must be honest.

After eight years of faking it, I am tired. Exhausted. One of my friends said that I sounded broken after he read the first draft of my memoir. He thinks I need to fix the ending. But that is how I feel: broken. Even though I love my husband, my family, my friends, and my pets, and even though I know people have suffered far more than I have, losing Adrienne was too much. Sad does not begin to cover the array of emotions that I go through during the day. I cannot sleep unless I take a pill. I’ve tried it all: anti-depressants, talk therapy, grief counseling, writing, reading, exercising, etc. Nothing changes a situation that I refuse to accept. However, I can stop pretending that I do.

I don’t need to support the facade anymore. Watch out—the false walls are tumbling down. I will allow myself to feel however I want. Besides, depression makes you appreciate the little things more. The funniest thing that happened last week was when my husband broke a glass saltshaker. No one was hurt, and we quickly cleaned it up. I didn’t show him how much I was laughing on the inside. All I kept thinking was … I wonder how many more times that will happen in our marriage. I’m the clumsy one, not him. I will remember that broken glass the next time I think I cannot make it through another day without my sister.

I still love Wonder Woman, but I am not a super hero, and I will not fake it anymore.

AWW — XoXo

*In the original TV pilot written by Stanley Ralph Ross, Wonder Woman is Princess Diana, a young woman from Paradise Island, home to beautiful, ageless, Amazon women with special powers. She gives up this life for the man she loves. Guess I did want to be a princess!

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