Silicon Valley Moms Blog

Lessons Learned from Eight Belles

It's been 30 years since I saw "The Run for the Roses" for the first time in person. Affirmed was the winner and went on to win The Triple Crown, an honor no other horse has earned since then. A college friend (and fellow SV Mom blogger -- you know who your are...) hopped a ride with two random guys what had advertised for riders in the student center via one of those posters where you tear off the phone number at the bottom of the page. We'd met some boys from Louisville in Daytona Beach during spring break and went off on a road trip adventure to see them again. As it turns out I'd see one of them again a lot as I eventually married him.

Anyway, I digress. Marrying the boy from Louisville meant moving there and more than a decade of Derby Days. It's a great time. The playing of "My Old Kentucky Home" still makes me verklempt. I have many fond memories and saw dozens of thoroughbreds run for the roses, including two fillies -- Genuine Risk and Winning Colors.

Where has All the Pubic Hair Gone?

I read a disturbing article in a magazine the other day. It described a horrifying trend -- spa visits that include pedicures, facials and bikini waxes for ... eight-year-old girls.

Yes, you read that right -- 8 YEAR OLDS! These over zealous moms have run out of things to tweak on their own bodies so they're taking their pre-pubescent girls to spas to do things like get their eyebrows and bikini lines waxed, insisting on it even if there's nothing down there to wax. Think about that. What were you worried about in the third grade? I don't think I was concerned about pubic hair because I'm thinking I didn't fully realize I'd sprout some in the 6th grade. OK, so girls might be a bit more sophisticated these days but gimme a break.

I can see enlisting the help of a skin care professional for a daughter who has a bad complexion or needs

 

"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore"

To borrow a line from The Wizard of Oz -- "The wind began to swish / The house, to pitch / And suddenly the hinges started to unhitch." That was the scene last night when around 10 pm a tornado tore through downtown Atlanta and ripped off a section of the Georgia Dome roof. It's March Madness time and  Alabama was playing Mississippi State in a semi-final game in The Dome when the twister hit.

It was a horrifying moment for the fans and players inside and it was horrifying for me too because my daughter was one of them. She passed on a trip to Florida to spend her spring break at the tournament working for the Southeastern Conference (SEC) press department and had been at the games all day.

My husband and I (big NCAA basketball fans that we are) were watching basketball but not the 'Bama/MSU game when the announcers broke in to say that SEC game had been stopped because of the tornado and then went back to their regular programming.

Scenes We'd Like to See

As I see yet another dutiful wife standing next to her slimeball politician hubby I can't help thinking about Mad Magazine and the recurring feature they used to have called "Scenes We'd Like to See." The cartoon would take something in popular culture and show what would happen if people reacted with brutal honesty like a parody of a Marlboro Cigarette ad with The Marlboro Man riding his horse with an oxygen tank strapped to his back. Don't you wish we could see those wives in those kind of pictures and video clips instead of the ones published?

What would you give to see Silda Spitzer grab the mic and say "Hope your hottie whore has a nice apartment, because I just changed the locks on ours," or "Was part of that money spent on Viagra, because God knows you need it."?

Dina Matos McGreevey had an Op-Ed piece in the New York Times today --  "Stand by Yourself." She claims that she didn't know what her soon-to-be-publicly-outed-cheating-lying-husband was going to say at the press conference and stood in a fog while he made a mockery of their marriage. She said if she had it to do over she'd do it again for her daughter's sake but here's the scene I'd like to see: Another press conference where Dina tells her daughter that  even though her father turned out to only be a sperm donor with a checkbook, she loves her very much and that she should never let anyone make her stand in public humiliation.

Let's Talk About Vaginas

It's that time again. It's the Tenth Anniversary of V-Day -- a "global movement to stop violence against women and girls." It was started on Valentine's Day by Eve Ensler, author of The Vagina Monologues to raise money for anti-violence groups. Every year her play is performed in February at venues around the world with famous women like Jane Fonda, Oprah Winfrey, Glen Close, Ellen DeGeneres and Jennifer Hudson performing the monologues. Some are happy tales, some are sad, funny and controversial.

OK, so maybe you don't want to talk about yours, but feel my pain and pride as my daughter decided to talk about hers...in public...on stage...

Yikes! I think it's hard enough to say "vagina." (I don't know why, do you?) Most of us have nicknames for it like "lady garden," "tootie," "muff," "poontang" and "va-jay-jay." One very proper southern belle friend of mine calls hers "Mary Frances."

Anyway, I know lots of you have theater kids. My daughter was involved in theater in high school but always behind the scenes -- costumes, directing, set-building. The only time I saw her on stage was the tech crew curtain calls so you can imagine my surprise when she called during her freshman year in college to tell me that she had landed a part in The Vagina Monologues.

C: None of the Above

I have decided that I am suffering from "Electile Dysfunction" -- the inability to become aroused over any of the choices for president put forth by either party in the 2008 election year.

I've taken those on-line quizzes to see which candidate best embodies my ideals and have come up with answers like "you're a Centrist -- in the middle." It seems I'm not Red or Blue, I'm Purple!

I'm not alone either. For one thing, there are five registered voters in our household (you know you've hit a milestone when all your kids can vote too). None of us have a candidate we feel passionate about or one who we feel represents our views and values. I can count on one hand, OK, one finger, the friends I have who can wholeheartedly endorse a candidate, oh wait, I forgot about that kid my stepson goes to school with and who supports his fellow Mormon Mitt Romney, so make that two people.

A Holiday Wish List for Single Moms

I've seen the post and all the comments on being raised by a single mom but how many of you have ever been a single mom? I was -- for 15 years (divorced when my daughter was 2, re-married when she was 17). It was a tough but gratifying experience. I raised a kind and witty daughter who's well-mannered, stable and poised.

It wasn't easy. I didn't take naps. I didn’t take yoga classes. There wasn't a nanny (or grandmother). My daughter was in daycare from 6 weeks old until she was old enough to ride the bus and let herself in the house after school. She had to forgo a lot of after school activities because I couldn't pick her up. My career choices were impacted by putting my child first. I couldn't go jetting off on sales calls without paying big bucks for a babysitter or begging a favor from a friend. Sometimes I paid more for a babysitter than I made. I couldn't volunteer at school during school hours. I didn't buy that stupid frozen food for her fundraisers because you had to pick it up at 2 pm on a Tuesday afternoon so that SAHMs didn't miss their tennis matches.

A Public Apology

I confess. You’ve disgusted me. I’ve hated you. I’ve criticized and nick-picked. I despised you. But now the time has come to make amends.

In honor of turning 50 I want to make a public apology to you me.

To my hair: I’m really sorry about all those perms in the 80s. I don’t know what I was thinking. I took you from silky and shiny to kinky and fried. I promise to never get another perm again, even if big hair makes a comeback.

To my skin: You’re looking pretty good in spite of all that baby oil and iodine and scheduling college classes around prime sun time. Pale is finally back in style and so are you… And face: thanks for not betraying my age by developing frown lines or wrinkles. Laugh lines: I’ve earned you and embrace you. Thanks for the memories.

Boobs: What can I say?

Connected by DNA, bonded by Vinyl

When it came to music, I never had much in common with my mom. She would sip her gimlets while sitting on the back patio listening to “Moon River” while I sat in my bedroom listening to “Come Together” (backward and forward) searching for clues in the “Is Paul McCartney dead?” mystery. Admittedly, mom’s only groovy/hip music experience was dancing to “Rollin’ on the River” with my dad at Christmas parties.

....................

My daughter and I have a different music bond. She “just” discovered a really awesome singer name Van Morrison on iTunes and has an appreciation for The Bee Gees and James Taylor. On the other hand, she creates mix CDs for me featuring songs with lyrics that I’m sure has my mother spinning in her grave but helps me have street-cred at neighborhood dance parties because I know all the words to “My Humps” and “Gold Digger.”

....................

Besides cross generation music sharing, some things have really changed over the years. Her music collection is stored in a device called a “Mini.” My music collection is stored in a device called a "Milk Crate.” Even though I haven’t listened to my Tony Orlando and Dawn or Bad Company albums for decades, I’ve kept them all these years. I couldn’t figure out a proper resting place – they aren’t worth much money but it didn’t seem right to just trash them, so I’ve schlepped them through multiple moves.

....................

Now it looks like I’m not a packrat, I’m a visionary. Score one for me: Vinyl is in! Seems Gen Now is fascinated by the ol’ Licorice Pizzas and are snatching up records at record pace. My daughter wanted in on the action, so I packed my crates in the car and took a road trip to visit her at college.

....................

We found a high tech portable turntable at a vintage shop that doesn’t require all the cumbersome equipment we used and you can even use iPod earphones. We set it up in her apartment and sang along with Steve Miller. We did the “Thriller” dance in our pajamas. She asked me where Kathmandu is and why Hall and Oats wore makeup. I explained the ploy of borrowing albums from cute boys as an excuse to see them again (and why I still had albums with those cute boys' names written on them).

....................

For a couple of hours I was back in college – listening to entire sides of albums (no fast forward or selective downloads, thank you), doing the John Travolta point move, dancing with wild abandon (not too close to the turntable as not to make the needle jump) and looking at great covers like Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band. You just can’t get that on iTunes.

....................

I've decided that next time I'm taking her the vintage version of an iPod – my 45s in their mod carrying case, numbered, logged and alphabetized so she can discover the joy and meaning of “the flip side.”

The OCD of M&Ms

There's a big M&M debate at my house and I need to know whether I'm the weird one or not.

Since I'm surrounded by quirky people  I need some outside input. My husband is a self-proclaimed "propeller-head." He's a Nuclear Engineer. He likes numbers and formulas and well, you can just imagine. My stepson has OCD. Besides having to twirl when he walks, twist his drinking straw three times after every pull and look at each bite of food three times before eating it, he likes to count things.

Both of them have specific patterns when they eat M&Ms and they insist everyone else does too. I don't, except when I was little I and used to take the red ones first (before they were yanked from the bag because they contained the alleged carcinogen Red Dye #3) lick 'em and create my first lipstick. Now I grab a few, eat them. That's my pattern. Grab and eat.

My husband will take a handful, hoard the green ones to feed me later, then eat around the color wheel (a brown one, an orange one, a yellow one....) and repeat until he only has one of each color left in his palm (remember, they won't melt there). Then he eats them in the same order as he did in the elimination round.

My stepson has to eat them in threes (oh what a surprise that one is!). He says he polled the kids in his calc class and they have certain numbers they have to eat at a time too.

So I'm conducting a very important, scientific survey:

How do you eat M&Ms?

You say Mamaw and I say Grandma

When I was growing up I had four grandparents, two of each. We called them Grandma and Grandpa “Smith” and Grandma and Grandpa “Jones.”  They stayed married to each other, as did my parents, until death parted them. I had a stepmother for a year or two after my mom died, but luckily my dad paid her to disappear before my daughter was born. She and my brother’s kids called him Papa.

.....................................................

My stepkids, on the other hand, have a grandmother they call Mamaw C (she’s been married four times so it’s easier to go with her first initial, just like a monogram) and two grandparents on their mom’s side they simply call Mamaw and Papaw (don’t ask me, it’s a southern thing).

...................................................................

During their mother’s lesbian phase they also had her girlfriend's parents as sort of grandparents but now she’s back in the closet and married to a guy who has a couple of children of his own. I don’t know what my stepkids call his parents or what his kids call my stepkids’ Mamaw and Papaw.

..................................................................

I recently had a conversation about crazy holiday schedules with some young mother friends of mine who grew up with divorced and remarried parents (sometimes a few times over) and I felt like I needed a scorecard just to keep track of the family trees. Most of the moms had a mother and father and two step parents, as did their husbands. That means the kids have eight “grandparents.” They really cash in on birthdays and holidays, but they’ve got to be very confused. It’s like a “Who’s on First?” skit…

.............................................

From what I can tell  most of the “real” grandparents lay claim to the “official” kinds of titles like Grandmother/father, Grandma/pa, Granny/Gramps, Memaw/Pepaw and Mamaw/Papaw. The step parents tend towards names like Grandmary, Nana, Papa Bob…you get the picture. Many fights occur, however, when the real grandparents opt for the non-traditional names and the current and ex wife both want to be called something like Nona.

....................................

When parents divorce and remarry a few time things really get wacky especially when kids and grandkids get attached to the steps (now ex-step parents). The best names get snapped up by the early steps and by the time some of them are accepted as the new stepgrandparents they go by “Debbie” or “Grandpa’s new wife Lisa.”

......................................................

I think names are also driven by whether you’re ready to be a grandparent. Face it, there are lots of women who have babies in their late 30s and 40s, the age where women in the 1940s and 1950s were grandmothers. My friends who have grandkids when they “too young” to be grandmother and aren’t ready to embrace that moniker call themselves names like Cookie, Nana, Lala and Grandlinda.

...................................................

Is it more complicated now, or is it just me? What did you call your grandparents? What do your kids call your parents? I hope I’m not a grandma anytime soon, but since I’m part of a blended family I know I’ll have to pick a secondary name …so just call me Mimi.

Viva L'Amour

Good news ladies...romance is not dead. Far from it. Those of you who believe that men aren't wired to be romantic are wrong and here's proof:

My SIL was busy teaching her Tuesday class this week when she heard her cell phone ring. She let it roll to voice-mail. It rang again. Again she ignored it. More rings, more messages...then mom panic set in -- there must be an emergency. She answered. It was my brother with his own personal emergency.

Where was his diamond Masonic ring? What had she done with it? Where did she put it? He couldn't find it and certainly she was the one responsible. Grrrrrrrrrr! He let out a few more snaps and barks in her ear and hung up on her.(BTW this isn't the romantic part)

I don't know why moms are always the ones who have to find lost things, do you? Anyway, I digress.

Not willing to run out of her classroom and drive home to look for the lost ring, she went back to the lesson.

The next call came from her son's (he's 14 years old with Down Syndrome) special ed teacher.  Although he goes to middle school  Garrison spends time in special classes with other challenged kids, including a cute Downs girl named Stacy who has been his best friend since pre-school. It seems the teacher noticed his "girlfriend" wearing a rather large and authentic diamond ring.

When asked where she got it, Stacy explained that Garrison proposed to her that morning and that they were going to get married.

Sadly this will never happen. He doesn't understand how to do many things we take for granted, like making microwave popcorn without setting it on fire. He tries to do things and does many of them wrong. He can't even write his own Valentine but he knows how to do romance right.

So if your man tries to convince you that being romantic doesn't come naturally, tell them to take a lesson from Garrison.

Viva L'Amour!

Lessons Learned from a King

I am white. Very white. My ancestors hailed from Ireland, France, Germany and England. I look white. My golfing buddies call me "Notebook Paper Skin" (Get it ? Ghostly white with blue veins?). They say my legs could be confused with Out of Bounds stakes (for those non-golfers --they're the white ones).

I grew up in the Midwest in a suburban WASP family. I didn't know any Jewish people until I met my freshman roommate in college. There weren't any African Americans in my town. Not a one. The mayor was re-elected for 40 years, running on the platform that he'd personally keep the city that way.  Now before you judge me please realize that you can't choose your gene-pool, your parents or where you live as a child. I just wanted to set the stage for story of the day that changed me forever.

How do you survive a temper tandrum without breaking a hip?

Did you see the article in the news over the weekend about the world's oldest mom? She gave birth to twins at 67. Sixty seven? What? How? She allegedly lied to the fertility clinic and told them she was only 55 (the cut off age for their services). Only 55? That's a bowl of wrong too.

What's even weirder is that this woman waited until her mother died before getting knocked up (guess we never want to have that conversation with our moms now matter old we are, eh?). Anyway, what kind of madness is this? Twins no less!

What I want to know is what kind of life will those boys have? By the time they're in kindergarten she will be in her 70s. Think about the people in your life that are that age, would you let them babysit your kids 24/7 until they're 18? Yikes!

Picture it if you will...shopping at Costco for bulk discounts on Infamil and Ensure or Pampers and Depends.

Temper tantrums might be met with statements like

• "Slow down, I can't run very fast in my SAS shoes"
• "Get out of that duck pond right now, you know my walker doesn't float!"
• "Don't make me carry you out of here, I might break a hip."
• "If I could hear how loud you are screaming I'd be really mad"

I have a hard time remembering where my cell phone is (probably in my hand) and some of you have confessed to putting your shoes in the refrigerator and brushing your teeth with Monistat. What happens if she forgets where she put the babies or feeds them a jar of Oil of Olay?

How will she be able to explain why the tooth fairy never visits her even though she loses all of her  teeth every night?

What happens when they're teens? She'll (God willing) be in her 80s. The TV will be on so loud that they will probably be able to sneak out of the house undetected. No fun pirating the car though, cruising in a Lincoln Town car with a Kleenex box in the back window, one of those bead seat covers and a "You're Following a Sexy Senior Citizen" bumper sticker will never be cool.

I feel their pain. I had old parents. My mom was 36 when I was born; my dad was 40. Wait, I know that's not old by today's standards, but that was in the 50s. They were almost a whole generation older than my friends' parents and didn't have much patience or energy. My brother and I were raised on Glen Miller and bridge parties while our friends were raised on family ski trips and Elvis.

We had to grow up too fast. I barely made it of of college before my dad retired. My mom died soon thereafter at 61 -- 6 years younger than this crazy woman was when she gave birth. While no one can predict how long they'll have their mom, some of us are luckier than others. Cancer took mom from us much too early. Still, I had over 20 years with her; over 40 years with my dad.

No matter what kind of life will those boys have, they'll be lucky to have half as much time with their mom. Having twins at 67? What a selfish thing to do.

The 5 Men You Should Have in your Life at all Times

When it comes to practical advice every woman needs there's no better reference book than The Sweet Potato Queen's Book of Love by Jill Conner Browne, (which was followed by The Sweet Potato Queen's Wedding Planner/Divorce Guide -- two books under one cover -- just turn to the back cover and flip the book upside down like the Spiegel Fashion/Home Catalog).

The Sweet Potato Queens started several years ago when Jill and a few of her best friends donned "big hair" red wigs, green sequined dresses (with stuffed torpedo bras, of course) and majorette boots and had their own float in the annual Jackson, Mississippi St. Paddy's Day parade. The craze grew from there and prompted her to write several books about those wacky women, their children (Tater Tots) and husbands/boyfriends (Spuds). www.sweetpotatoqueens.com

The books are funny and fast reading with each chapter an individual story or lesson. You know how important that is to moms -- you can read entire chapter before your kids start sticking their hands under the bathroom door like cats trying to find a mouse.

Additionally you will discover what kind of food to eat when you're happy or sad, what food to take to funerals, how to make "Knock You Naked Margaritas." Recipes are included -- I can personally vouch for the margaritas...

You'll also learn negotiating skills by using the magic words guaranteed to get any man in your life to do anything, better known as "The Promise." Hint: it rhymes with 'Go Bob.' The Sweet Potato Queens claim that the mere promise of such can make men do anything, leaving you only with the promise which doesn't have a specific deadline. I know it's kinda dishonest but I worked with a woman who used "The Promise" on the old guy in accounting so she could get her commission printouts early and never ever had to follow through. Guess he was just excited of the thought. Anyway, try it  -- it works.

Perhaps my favorite chapter is on the five men you should have in your life at all times. The theory is based on the fact that women spend much of their lives looking for that one man who can meet all of their needs. He probably doesn't exist, so the key to a happy and satisfying life is to always have the following 5 men in your life:

1. One you can live with
2. One who buys you things
3. One who can fix things
4. One you can dance with
5. One you can have sex with

The good news is that 4 out of 5 of them can be gay.

So You Think Your Childhood Sucked?

I'll never complain about my childhood again after reading The Glass Castle: A Memoir by Jeanette Walls (she's a regular contributor to MSNBC).

Unless you were raised by psychotic, nomadic parents who forced you to live in abandoned houses, sleep on cardboard mattresses and eat maggot covered ham from the garbage you have nothing to complain about either.

If you're worried about how many millions your company is or isn't worth or that you'll never be able to afford that second house just for the kids to play in you should read this book. It will give you perspective.

2007 - 1957 = 50

Holy Hot Flashes! I'm turning 50 this year. In a few short months I'll officially be a "senior" eligible to join the AARP.

How did this happen? I just turned 40. I don't feel old. Well, except when I see things that are deemed "retro" or "vintage" and I either owned them or did them. That includes watching 20-somethings doing the Y M C A. Hey, isn't 50 the new 30?

Anyway, I made a promise to myself back then that I would learn from the first 40 years and not have similar regrets at 50. So looking 50 square in the face, here's what I know:

• You were never as fat as you thought you were, but hear me now and believe me later, gaining one or two pounds a year or so at 30, 31, 32...means 20 hard to lose pounds at 50.
• Only airbrushing and Photoshop can give you the body you picture during spin class.
• Using Iodine and baby oil for a suntan is a stupid idea. That tanned face and chest that once made you look "healthy" will turn into freckles and spots and lines that you will try to pass off as "laugh lines."  They are wrinkles. They are not funny.
• Breast-feeding is great for your babies, bad for your boobs. 
• Be thankful for your siblings. They are the only link to your childhood when your parents are gone.
• Be thankful for your nieces and nephews. They are the only link to the continued torturing of your siblings.
• Everyone sings along with the car radio. No need to stop doing so at stoplights. Steering wheels make good drums.
• Good red wine and high thread count sheets are worth the extra money. So is good nail polish.
• Younger men rock.
• There's not a better feeling than hearing the words "it's benign."
• There's not a stranger feeling than looking in the mirror and seeing signs of your mother.
• Don't believe what people say; believe what they do.
• There's a statute of limitations on a crappy childhood. Get over it. Forgive and move on.
• It's just hair, cut it.
• Try anything twice, just to make sure.
• Wearing your pajamas down to the continental breakfast at a motel while on a business trip, knowing that you'll never see any of those people again, is a liberating experience. Applying that attitude to your daily life sets you free.

So 50 -- I'm ready, I'm waiting, but for a little while longer I'm not in that club, so keep your membership card. I'll see you in October.

Gimme Back My Crack

OK, so perhaps no more procrastination should top this list of my 2007 resolutions seeing as though I missed the deadline for the official posts, so my second one is getting my crack back.

I'm tall, I'm long-waisted and I spent most of 2006 trying to stretch my shirt down and yank my pants up to meet in the middle. The low rise trend doesn't help either. I already did that 35 years ago. I remember making hip huggers in Home EC. We would  have to cut the zippers down to about 3 inches so they would be low enough. We solved the back crack problem by wearing body suits with crotches that snapped. We were also teenagers with pre-childbirth hips and stomachs.

Now when I try to find jeans that fit,  my stomach looks a bit like Poppin' Fresh dough popping over the waistband. A body suit would just make it look like Poppin' Fresh polyester (or for you youngsters "microfiber").

So in 2007 I am on a quest to find pants and tops that don't require constant adjustment. I want style, comfort and to think about something other than flashing everyone behind me. I want my crack back.

Ho Ho Ho, Where Does my Money Go?

Christmas shopping's not what it used to be. I'm not talking about mall vs specialty vs Wal Mart vs Mom & Pop vs Internet. I'm not talking red and green, I'm talking red and blue -- states that is...

Making buying decisions means making political contributions because many companies are big supporters of either the Republican or Democratic Party.

For example, buying an i-Pod helps support Democrats, unless you buy it at Best Buy, in which case part of the proceeds go to Republicans. Next time you shop at Costco and wheel out that five gallon jug of salsa, the fake ficus tree and all the other stuff you bought after dashing in for a case of microwave popcorn, you've just tossed some coins into a different pocket than buying the same things at Sam's club (I think you can figure that one out on your own).

And what about all those Hollywood product placements? No subliminal seduction here. Remember "Breakfast at Tiffany's?" Audrey Hepburn's lasting legacy is her little black dress but was she also making a political statement? Well, that depends. In today's world If she got her dress at Nordstrom or TJ Maxx..she was supporting the Republicans. Breakfast at Tiffany's (or Waffle House or Krispy Kreme) Domino's Pizza for dinner and a session at Curves to work it off?...still Republican.  But if she was sporting a Dress Barn outfit and a bra from Fredrick's of Hollywood and opted for breakfast at Starbucks or Jamba Juice then headed to Bally's Total Fitness for some Pole aerobics? Color her blue (state).

And speaking of fashion, politics and product placement, I wonder which Democrat fashionista is behind the headband craze? It can't be a coincidence that they are back in style, just in time for pre-primary action. It must be well orchestrated plot to support Hillary for President. Is a nod of a head-banded head a nod for her? How can a Republican support her hair without supporting the wrong political party?

What's a Santa to do? I'll make my list and check it twice, then end up giving to the naughty and nice.

I'm thankful for another Thanksgiving with Barb

I spent today in the chemo room. My friend Barb (the shoes in the refrigerator woman) needed a ride to get her treatment and even though I was squeamish about the whole procedure, I offered to sit with her.

She's a veteran of nuclear meds and has been battling her breast cancer for over 10 years. She has a standing appointment every Wednesday at 10:30. All the nurses know her because she makes a point to speak to each and every one in the office.

She also knows a lot of the people sitting around the room in gray leather recliners but there are always new people joining the weekly group. Some have hair, some wear ball caps, others sport wigs. All are hooked up to a drip; all are fighting for their lives.

The lady in the corner sprouting her first signs of hair sits quietly with a pillow across her lap. The woman next to her reads a novel. The man two seats down is fast asleep. Two elderly women discuss Thanksgiving recipes from across the room. A woman in sunglasses and a fur vest hobbles in on bejeweled crutches. She complains about nausea. A nurse hands her a green freezer pop.

Barb and I joke with each other. We gossip. We ask the nurse for beer to go with the pretzels they gave her. We put up a good front. Anything to take her mind off of the radioactive poison dripping into her veins.

The woman next to us is watching a DVD of "Scrubs" on her laptop. This is her first treatment. She looks so young; so scared. Her husband, the coach of their 6 year old daughter's soccer team sits beside her. Barb (the self-proclaimed chemo room resident expert) cheerfully reassures her new friend, promising to be her moral support next Wednesday. I  swallow hard a few times to keep from tearing up.

I look around the room and think about the patients with their families on Thanksgiving. Some will be so sick from their treatments they won't be able to eat. I think about the spouses and children and the prayers that would be said around their table.

I say my own silent prayer of thanks...for advances in modern medicine, for the caring people who treat and encourage moms like Barb and her young chemo friend. I say thanks for my good health and for the continued strength and resolve of all those sitting around me, and most importantly, thanks for another Thanksgiving with Barb.

Moments that make you say "Duh!"

You’ve already heard me confess that I wore my sports bra backwards…and made some really tangy Toll Houses. Moments that make you say “Duh!” We’ve all had them. Mine, however, seem to be coming with greater frequency.

Last week I exfoliated my teeth with Mary Kay Microderm Abrasion; sprayed deodorant in my hair and walked all over the house looking for my car keys (I was holding them).

My friends say they can feel my pain. One gal put two contacts in one eye. Another found her lost shoes in the refrigerator. My sister-in-law mistook a magic marker top for a pretzel nugget and nearly choked to death in front of her students.
   
A couple of years ago I had to drive my neighbor back to the grocery because she was too embarrassed to go in and tell the manager that she left a full shopping cart in the parking lot right next to where she had pushed it to her parked car before driving home with an empty trunk.

Have you ever stood in the shower and couldn't remember if you'd already used conditioner or which leg you just shaved? Moments have make you say "Duh!"?

What the heck’s the matter with us? Are we too busy with our kids? Over-committed? Stressed out? Did that evil Halloween candy finally spin us into sugar overload?

Nope, I think we're just going through “Mentalpause.”

It's the Most "Scariest" Time of the Year

It was Halloween night. The small kids – the Power Rangers and Princesses were long since back at home dividing up their candy and playing “Let’s Make a Deal” with their siblings.  The night was perfect. The kind from horror films…a little chill in the air, enough wind to rustle leaves and blow a few down the sidewalk.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

We told my stepson that if you can drive and shave, you’re too old to trick-or-treat.  He was at a party several miles away. A few minutes before the bewitching hour of midnight, I got in my car and made my way over to the party to pick him up, carefully watching for any ghosts or goblins, real or costumed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

I pulled up to the party house and sat in the car listening to the radio. Two French maids, Madonna and a pirate came bounding out of the door. For a moment I worried..... where was S?  Then I saw him…Napoleon Dynamite…he waved and started for the car.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Right when he hopped in, the clock struck midnight, the date changed to November first and it happened…the most horrible and frightening thing I’ve ever experienced.  That voice, those awful sounds! It wasn’t Vincent Price, oh the screeching, the scary music, or Bella Lugosi… my heart was racing and my palms were sweating …no, it couldn’t be real, not now, it’s not time…

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The sounds continued. In stereo. A woman’s voice, bells, horns….. the ghost of Bing Crosby!!!!!

I sat in horror as we heard Delilah play the first Christmas song of the “season.”  Fifty five more days of all Christmas music/all day. Now THAT’S scary.

Zero/Schmero, what's in a number?

All the recent posts about clothing sizes amuse me.  It's true that Marilyn Monroe was a size 14 and that size 0 is the new size 4, but are we all shrinking? And what does it matter what size we wear anyway?

I sew for a living and I can tell you, the sizes have changed over the years to make women think they're wearing a smaller size.

For example, in the 60s a size 10 measured

• Bust 31"
• Waist 24"
• Hips 33"

A size 14 (remember Marilyn) measured

• Bust 34"
• Waist 26"
• Hips 36"

Now compare today's pattern sizes...

Size 10

• Bust 32.5"
• Waist 25"
• Hips 34.5"

Size 14

• Bust 38"
• Waist 28"
• Hips 38"

Now...think about the ready-to-wear sizes...do you think there are any dresses out there marked size 10 that would fit someone who measures 34/26/36? Nope.

Even by today's patterns a size 6 measures 30.5/23/32.5. Take those numbers down proportionately to the 0 and 00 measurements (which don't exist in the dressmaking world) and you'll get a 26 inch bust and a waist in the teens that only Scarlett O'Hara could achieve.

Get it?  It's all smoke and mirrors. We've been tricked into thinking we wear a smaller size and a lot of us are obsessed with that number. When I design clothes for clients I never tell them what size I made...why start the maelstrom?

I sold wedding dresses for a few years and those sizes (and bridesmaids too...you know, you've all had to experience that delight) are based on the true couture chart. Some girls would FREAK out if I told them they measured a 10 or 12 or whatever because at Ann Taylor or Banana Republic they wore a 4 or 6.

We had a secret code for the really vocal girls...we'd order the real size they measured, with a notation of "ATR" (all tags removed). When their dress came in from the manufacturer there wasn't a size tag to be had. The bride gleefully slid into what she thought was a 6 (really a 10) and everyone was happy. Now isn't that silly?

For those of you who've had trouble finding the zeros and double zeros (which as you can see is really a size 4 or 6) I suggest you find a good seamstress until the fashion industry adjusts the size charts again and premiers a new sub-00 size.

Gee, wonder what they'll call it? "Nano" is already taken.

Bless Me Martha, I Have Sinned

I have a confession: I served my out of town guests homemade chocolate chip cookies made with vinegar, molasses, corn syrup, anchovies, onions, salt, garlic, cloves, chili peppers and shallots. In my haste to make a full course meal I grabbed the Worcestershire Sauce (left on the counter from the artichoke dip) instead of vanilla.

I know…but hey, they are both brown liquids. I watched it pour into the teaspoon then dumped it into the batter. I never thought twice until I sampled a hot cookie and noticed a savory twang unlike any Toll House I’d ever tasted. Meanwhile, the kids started downing the cookies and nary a complaint was heard.

So what’s a mom to do? Do you confess immediately, causing a bunch of teenagers to spit, gag and run for the bathroom, or do you let it pass since the “damage” was already done?

I did the same thing I did when I served a birthday cake that had been re-engineered and re-frosted to eliminate the part the cat jumped up on the counter and ate just minutes before the party and when I sprinkled lemon pepper on a cake instead of those little colored balls and used a pastry brush to sweep it off…

I put on my Martha Stewart game face.

Living in Silicone Valley

One day in spin class I couldn't figure out why my sports bra felt funny. Then I realized in my haste to get to the gym I put it on backwards. Sadly, it still fit.

Actually the only reason I need to wear one is to make sure my nipples both point in the same direction, hopefully front and center.

Oh and to keep them from getting pinched in my armpits when I'm doing chest presses. I seem to be the only one in the body sculpting class that needs to worry about that, however. All the other breasts in the room look like toilet plungers sporting spandex.

Am I the only one around here who hasn't paid for boobs?

Sure, I could use a pick-me-up. I can tie them in a knot; I can tie them in a bow. I'd like to be able to wear cute tops, backless dresses, bathing suits without padding...

But there are things that are much more important in life than vanity, like being able to get yearly mammograms that don't have to be read through a Ziploc bag full of goo.

My mother would agree. She was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 14. She lost her breast, she lost her life.

Implants? No way! I'm happy I still have two real breasts. Two healthy ones. (so far)

Welcome to Mom's Cafe

I keep looking on my mommy job description and I don’t find “Short Order Cook” listed anywhere. Either it falls under the category “All Other Duties as Assigned” or things have changed since I was a kid.

My mother NEVER took a “what-do-you-want-for-dinner?” poll. Never. She fixed dinner every night after working a full-time job. Good dinners too…meats, veggies, desserts. Once in awhile, like birthdays, we got to vote on the menu. The rest of the time, we ate what she cooked.

Fast forward to the new millennium. Dinnertime has become “dinertime.” Kids are telling moms what to fix and most of the time, siblings don’t agree, so they fix something different for everyone. Welcome to Mom’s Café.

When I got remarried, I became a short order cook.

I wanted to please my step-kids. They had suffered enough (that’s another post), but trying to cook dinner was frustrating.

See if you can follow the logic of their food choices:

Hamburger in tacos – yes. Hamburger on a bun – no. Meat in spaghetti sauce – no. Plain lettuce in a salad – yes. Lettuce on a taco – no. Baked potato – yes. Mashed potatoes – no.

Turkey in a pile  – yes. Turkey between bread slices– no. Fruit? Froot Loops. Calcium? Nesquik. Veggies? Catsup. Get the picture?

Oh, and did I mention that they are teenagers?

For the longest time I felt like I was doing the damn hokey pokey. You put the lettuce in, you take the lettuce out, you put the lettuce in and they shake it all out…

I would work to make several dinners at once, only to have them rejected, ground to bits in the disposal.  I resented the gagging noises and faces and uneaten dinners. I lost my temper more than once.

Then I did what any self-respecting chef would do – I shut down the diner.

I started making things I liked. I added yucky stuff like mushrooms and mustard. I cooked fish and dishes with more than two ingredients (not counting salt). I cooked broccoli and carrots and served exotic foods like brown rice and whole wheat bread. I stopped buying Spaghetti Os.

When they didn’t like something I'd prepared for dinner I pointed to the microwave and handed them a pack of popcorn.  At least they got some roughage. And, if I was lucky, they’d even throw the used bag away (that too, my friends, shall be another post).

What Color is My Hair?

Have I gone white? Have I gone ashen?  Is it the color of a used Brillo pad? It's been so long since I saw my natural color that I don't know.

I was looking at some old photo albums the other day. Smiling back at me was a chestnut brown haired teen sporting a Dorothy Hamil do. Oh yes, I remember now, I used to be a brunette.

For the last 20 years my hair's been slathered, lathered, pulled thru an Esther Williams looking rubber cap with a crochet hook, bagged, baked, foiled, broiled and frosted.

I'm a blond confection.

Last week my hairdresser tried a different recipe which included highlights, lowlights and some layers. I look like calico cat in a Farrah  Fawcett do.

Oh well, it's just hair. It will grow. I'll live to sit thru another foil and broil session.

Or maybe I should just stop the madness, quit the bi-monthly blonding ritual and go natural.

Nah.

La la la la la I don't see you

Listen up all y