I'm Gonna Bitch-Slap Envy Right out of my Hair

The countdown has officially begun: seven days until I begin yoga teacher training. Entries from my journal include such phrases as “I feel in a way that yoga has given me back my voice” and “I feel very powerful.” Until last evening, when I became paralyzed with anxiety and doubt. I CAN’T EVEN DO A HEADSTAND. Those kind of thoughts are invading what was my calm, tranquil, ready mind. WHAT AM I THINKING!!!!! I feel like I just graduated from sixth grade and am getting ready to enter a masters’ program in physics.  I’M NOT READY!

Part of it is a dirty little secret: Envy, which has been my companion for more years than I like to think about. He’s always by my side, bitch-slapping me, whispering in my ear, insisting that I compare myself to that long drink of hot water standing there with the hot guy and perfect children getting ready to board their yacht for a quick trip around the world.

They don’t call him one of the seven deadly sins for nothing. He’s nipping at my heels even before my training begins, but I’m on to that green-eyed bastard. I’ve forgotten more of Dante than I ever knew, but he also had Envy’s number: envious people had to totter along (probably in stilettos and with one arm tied behind their backs) with their eyes sewn shut with wire. Ouch – that would really smart.

I know that the hot babe might also be eyeing me with envy. Her husband might be a controlling jerk (yes, I know you’re thinking of the sick fuck who murdered Cecil the Lion), one of her kids might be really sick and she might be dreading the trip. She might want to trade places with me in that moment because I obviously don’t live on kale and mineral water, I’m laughing with friends and I don’t have to worry that pirates are going to overtake me on the high seas.

I work hard not to compare myself to others – it’s soul-sucking and can be especially hard during yoga practice when I feel envious of the young, thin, lovely lasses who flow so gracefully through class, as if they were faeries dancing on my lawn. Then the double-whammy hits: envy makes me a bad yogi!  Shame on me! And then the triple play: if only I’d been more athletic when I was younger, if only I had pursued gymnastics or dancing or running instead of wine and vodka.  My running career consisted of two events years ago:        

• I occasionally worked out at a gym with a humorless woman who relentlessly walked the Stairmaster. She was desperate for a fourth person in a relay race, thought I was being modest when I said I didn’t run and browbeat me until I agreed. So my friend Krissy and I showed up at the race, each wearing shorts and one half of a pair of tights, a la Flo Jo. We thought we were hilarious. Not so the Stairmistress, who was pissed when she saw us and even more so when I took 72 minutes to run a quarter of a mile and then laughed and said, “I told you I couldn’t run!”
  

The beautiful Florence Joyner.

•             My friend Mitzi and I decided to compete in a mile race at work. For exercise, we ran to Taco Bell and stuffed ourselves, then plodded back to work, complaining bitterly the whole way about how full we were. We also thought we were hilarious when we didn’t have enough money to pay for our feast and tried to bargain with the cashier; the guy behind us finally threw the difference on the counter. He was not amused.

But I digress. Just one more reason I’m not ready: my mind doesn’t travel in logical circles and I haven’t had to study or memorize things since the flower children were in power.

However, I’m moving forward. I’m reading a book called The Gifts of Imperfection, where the author says, “If we want to know why we’re all so afraid to let our true selves be seen and known, we have to understand the power of fear and shame. If we can’t stand up to the never good enough and who do you think you are? we can’t move forward. 

Yeah, baby - I'm moving on.

Just call me Yogi (or Boo Boo)

On the cusp of my 63rd birthday, I have signed up for yoga teacher training. This is a blog I posted on the site of the studio where I practice and where I begin my training next month. I hope to document my journey - I've been away from writing a blog for a LONG time. I hope my loyal fans are still out there.

“…and when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you achieve it.”

-          Paulo Coehlo

Frankly, as a good friend would say: sometimes the universe has its head up its ass. It’s not a good time for me to take teacher training, to say the least. My husband is unemployed, I have a daughter in college, my job does not pay well, we have debt, the thought of being in the studio at 8 a.m. on WEEKENDS makes me crazy, I'm too old, I suffer from anxiety and am losing my mind and memory more every day...... and what if I fall and break my hip?

So of course I signed up.  I’ve been feeling euphoric, panicked, absolutely ready for something new in my life, utterly convinced that I’ve made a ghastly mistake and everything in between. At first I signed up thinking it didn’t matter if I ever teach: I just want to find some missing and undiscovered parts of myself.  On reflection, I’ve discovered that I want to be a teacher. I want my students to feel all buzzed and blissed out when they leave the studio or my porch or a lake or wherever I choose to teach. I’ve come to the studio before from a really bad day and with a chip on my shoulder and have left feeling at peace because of my yoga tribe. They give me more support than a good pair of Spanx.

Bonus: I am actually willing and eager to work for it, as opposed to some previous unfortunate behavior on my part, which was to want something REALLY bad, wait for it to come to me and be pissed when it didn’t arrive, all nicely packaged. This, unfortunately, will not stop me from whining during training:  it’s too early! It’s too hard! It’s too hot! Sweetie peed on my homework! Wendy is so mean! I’m hungry! Everyone is better than I am! I can’t do this! How did I ever imagine I could do this? I’m not spiritual! I won’t graduate! I didn’t sign up to learn a foreign language – utta-say what?

Say YES!

“And suddenly you know: it’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.” Thank you, Meister Eckhart.

Dedicated with much love to Stephanie Young, a yogini who lights up the world. Here she is in all her glory.

Cocktails and Moonlit Nights: Parts 2 and 3

 

Part 2:  During the Vacation

Waiting for the plane to paradise. Yes, that's a stuffed seahorse peeking from my dress.

Two things you should know about my sister and me: we think we are hilarious, and it doesn’t take a lot to amuse us.

I offer this story from many years ago as an example: we strolled through a mall wearing badly applied makeup: imagine one of those hooker-looking Toddlers with Tiaras had applied it in the middle of a tantrum because her girdle was too tight. To top off the look, we pretended to be toddlers as we ate our Hostess chocolate cupcakes.

Then we visited the makeup counters and made good use of the samples. Saleswomen showed respect in those days! One of them tenderly tried to wipe a bit of chocolate off my face but gave up and put on her brightest smile: “There, that shade is so flattering! Why don’t you head right over there and get a spritz of perfume?”

Vacationing in the Dominican Republic was even more fun. Activities and excursions were offered 24/7! However, who needs any extra activities when you have a beach or three pools to choose from AND the buffet is always open AND the alcohol is free? Plus we each brought thousands in small bills, and for $5 a pop, we were reminded several times a day how muy Bonita we are.

This young man made $5,000 on the trip!

We took part in only one activity: what we thought was water aerobics. Three people appeared by the pool, waving their arms, singing, and performing choreography such as step-ball-chain to canned music. We made a beeline there: keeping up one’s appearance is not as easy as it might seem. Step-ball-chains are kind of difficult underwater, so we just kept moving: jumping and waving our arms with abandon – we were dancing in paradise! Until we noticed people on bar stools in the pool looked as if they were watching a funny movie; some of them looked embarrassed. The big clue arrived in the form of the dancers leaving after about five minutes. It wasn't THAT embarassing.

People love my sister: not only is she very funny, but she radiates kindness. She was undoubtedly a Dali Lama in one of her previous lives. She also speaks Spanish and was adored by resort workers who were used to hearing only, “More beer, POR FA VOR!” and “My husband has vomited in the bed – can you clean it up?” Because I was with her, they loved me too: we were Barrrrbarrrra and Susanna, the big happy muy Bonitas.

On the beach in a designer outfit my youngest daughter made for us.

Big, happy bonitas on our way to the beach after our morning apertif.

As you have probably guessed, we pretended we were twins and dressed accordingly. Toddlers dressed alike look cute (unless they’re in a horror movie and you KNOW they will carve someone up later in the movie with a straight razor, and let’s not even talk about those red outfits Michelle Dugger made her kids wear that time). Women of a certain age who dress alike:


Live like the sisters in the old movie “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?”

“Blanche you're not gonna sell this house. Daddy bought this house, and he bought it for me! You don't think I remember that, do you?”

Live in a run-down Victorian with “wildflowers” growing all around and windows with the cardboard taken off when spring arrives

Have 93 cats (not counting the strays), who mark time patiently until the old bags weaken and can be taken down

Losing their marbles together in a nice home so that when one dies, the other won't remember and will just think, "Oh, Susanna just went to the bathroom. She'll be back."


Although I look very happy in the picture below, I laughed the most the evening after I sprained my ankle whilst fetching a drink from the bar.

Before the Fall. What was in those drinks?

Barbie procured a wheelchair for me and served as my transportation coordinator. Which reminds me of again of "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?"


Blanche: You wouldn't be able to do these awful things to me if I weren't still in this chair.

Jane: But you are, Blanche! You ARE in that chair!

We have to leave the next day, and as she’s wheeling me back to our room after dinner and a few drinks in the lobby bar, she insists that I moan a bit. By the time we reach our room, I sound as if someone is using a Crème Brule Propane Torch on my gums. We are laughing so hard that one of us pees our pants. That, my friend, is the essence of a good vacation.

Part 3: After the Vacation

Endless emails about the fabulous time we had and how Seabiscuit (el Biscotti) had to go to rehab after his week of debauchery.

 

You are not imagining things: there is another set of twins in this picture!

 

Cocktails and Moonlit Nights: Part One

I heard of a couple who thinks of vacation in three stages: anticipation, being there and cherishing memories.


Anticipation:

On February 24 I received an email from Barbie, my sister, with the mysterious title “an offer.” It started with “Sugar Pea” and within the body was an offer indeed: she wanted to take me to the Dominican Republic the last week in June. She made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

You can see why I had to say yes.

I leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow, and will be traveling incognito, as always.

Our other companions.

Now that it’s down to the wire, I have started my demented worrying. Yesterday I woke up and my little toe hurt: I was sure it would turn into gangrene and I couldn’t go. What if I wake up with an agonizing toothache on Sunday? What if I’m in a car wreck on the way to the airport? What if my dogs are kidnapped? This evening (Saturday), I couldn't reach my youngest at the pool, where she works: I immediately thought, "Shit - if she's been kidnapped, I can't leave tomorrow!"

My packing behavior is also the same: I’m going to pack light! But first I have to throw everything I own into my suitcase because you never know about freaky weather or the effects of eating and drinking heavily: sure, those pants look pretty good on me today, but how are they going to feel at the end of the week? Did I mention it’s an all-inclusive resort, which translates into “it’s okay to be a glutton because I paid good money for this!” Actually, I didn’t: my very generous sister is treating us to a week in paradise.

Stay tuned.

The Dingo Ate Your Baby

“So you’re having a basal cell carcinoma removed from your face? That’s too bad; one of my aunts had that and they had to scrape off most of her nose and remove her bottom lip. She looks terrible. I hope you have a reputable doctor. What kind of insurance do you have?”

“Oh, you'll love the beaches in South Carolina! Just be careful driving there - a friend of my cousin’s husband got into a terrible accident on the way to that same place. She had to stay in the burn unit of some hospital for months – she was burned, like, all over her body. She used to be so-so in the looks department, but now….well, you can imagine. I heard her husband is cheating on her. A tacky person might think, well, who can blame him? But I don’t necessarily think that’s true, and God knows I wouldn’t spread that rumor.”

“Congratulations! I hear you’re having a baby! How far along are you? Oh, that’s too bad - you’re at that stage where so many women miscarry. If I were you, I would just stay in bed for the next two months. You can’t be too careful. And I wouldn’t even tell anyone before you get that test that tells you, you know, if the baby’s…….right.”

Do any of you bitter buzzkills recognize yourselves in the above conversations? What the hell is wrong with you? I heard one such story today from a friend and overheard another nimrod in the hall the other day yammering horror stories to a guy about to go in for surgery. So, I’ve put together some guidelines for you..

“My sister is having surgery next week and I’m really worried about her.”

Don’t Say: What’s wrong with her? Man, I hope she’s got good insurance. My friend is living in a hovel downtown because her husband racked up so much in medical bills – if you ask me, his drinking had a lot to do with him being in the hospital. And he died anyway – I can’t believe the hospital is still trying to collect from her! But I’m sure your sister will be fine. What did you say was wrong with her? ”

Say: I’m so sorry to hear this and I know you must be worried. How about if I take dinner to her family the night she comes home? And let me know if you need me to watch your kids while you’re at the hospital.

“My sons are going to hike the Appalachian Trail! I know they’ll have a great time but I’m still a bit anxious.

Don’t Say: Hell, I don’t blame you! Remember that movie Deliverance? I’ve heard parts of the trail are just like that. I hope they are packing guns. And carrying those pellets to clean the water – I’ve heard of so many people getting stuff like diphtheria or polio or something and dying right on the trail. And sometimes people eat the bodies. Seriously, I read that somewhere.”

Say: That’s fabulous! They’re young and this is the time to do it. Try to convince them to keep journals and please keep us updated as they go.

“My daughter got the lead in the school play!”

Don’t say: You’re pretty excited for a junior high production – it’s not like she got on a reality TV show or something. You know that most kids never make it big – I’ve heard of so many girls waitressing and hooking while waiting for their big break. You really need to prepare her for the real world. But really, that’s good news. Maybe I’ll try to come and see it.

Say: That’s great – I bet you’ll get the vapors watching her on opening night! What play, and when does it open?

And as for the proper response to the buzzill in any situation - I don't even have to tell you, do I?

Say: The Dingo ate your baby.

Please feel free to share your own versions of such good Samaritans who have made your day. I'll share my particular favorite:

Love is a Many-Flavored Thing

If you could do one thing tonight to make your man happy, what would it be? Would you greet him at the door dressed only in saran wrap and offer him a perfectly made martini?  Would you send the children to the grandparents and cook his favorite meal - in the nude?  Come on - these are nice things, but what would REALLY make him happy?

A blowjob, of course. He won't even care that you haven't showered or waxed your moustache - because he loves you just the way you are - when you go down on him. However, he might not want to kiss you afterwards (ewwww!).

The people behind a new product called Masque™ have solved this timeless dilemma by offering women "orally dissovable (sic), flavored gel strips" that "will take the intimacy between you and your partner to a new level."  The company believes that it is "not only making quality products to enhance personal intimacy, but also changing the way people think and talk about foreplay around the world." Or at least in the U.S. and Canada. 

And they come in yummy flavors: mango (New!!!), chocolate, strawberry and watermelon.

Here are some FAQs from yourmasque.com (yes, I broke down and found the website after seeing an ad for it yesterday in Marie Claire - at the orthodontist's office, no less):

Couldn't I just use a peppermint or an altoid?

Masque doesn't overwhelm the flavor or cover it in the way a mint does.

Is masque just like a Listerine® strip?

Masque is similar to Listerine® strips in that they are both dissolvable oral strips. The similarities end there. Masque actively conceals the flavors associated with going down on your man.

Does it protect against STDs/STIs?

Masque does not protect against STDs/STIs. We encourage customers to use standard safe sex practices when using our product.

And my favorite question:

How does the product show up on my credit card statement?

The charge will simply appear as MASQUE in the descriptor line of your statement.

The product is sold in packages of three for $12; each package contains three strips - individually wrapped, of course.  I'm not great in math, but I bet breath strips, mints or gum are a much better bargain.  What REALLY gets me is that I didn't come up with this idea.  How could I be so stupid reaching into my tin of mints all those years and not thinking "wow, I never thought how selfish it is to give a  hearty blowjob and not use something like this afterwards - I am so self-centered!!!!!!"

Masque even has a blog; I thought it would be rather spicy but here is the first entry as of this writing: 

Did you know that the most common birthday in the US is October 5th? Did you also know that October 5th is 9 months after New Year’s Eve?

And Masque has "Events"  such as "Masque girls hang out with Flava Flav backstage." Which makes me wonder what they reply when people ask "Say, what does a Masque girl do?"

A friend suggested that men might benefit from a similar product. So I'm putting out the call - what should we call it and how should we package it?

Reasons I'm Fabulous

There are so many reasons to admire me: I'm smart, I'm funny and I've been told that my knees are quite fetching. I'm also a good mother, a faithful wife and a loving and loyal friend and sister. However, please please please don't tell me you admire me because I've adopted children! Especially if it's followed by "....of course, I could never do that - you don't know what you're getting!"  You make it sound as if I did it out of a sense of noblesse oblige vs. simply wanting to raise my own children to grow up exactly as I want them to be. And being the sensitive type, I also hear "I have a better toy than you do" underneath their words, even if the person has four grown children who never visit.

No, I didn't know what I was in store for.

A disclosure: Yes, I would have liked to have gone through the childbirth experience, complete with blowing up real good and slapping the hands of strangers who felt the need to touch my belly.  And breaking down when well-meaning strangers felt compelled to say things like "my aunt was about as pregnant as you are when she miscarried. Don't eat any turkey - it spoils way too quickly." Although as one of my friends pointed out years ago, I get gassed up to get my teeth cleaned, so actual childbirth might have been traumatic for me. No, neither John nor I felt a loss that we have not passed along our genes. As we say in our house, we come from a long line of alcoholics and horse thieves, not to mention having bad eyes and generous rations of madness passed down from relatives who like to keep things real.

In no particular order, here are comments I've heard over the years:

"You're a saint!!!!" or a variation of something like "with all the kids in the U.S. who need homes, how could you adopt internationally?"

"What will you do if it doesn't work out?"

"I bet you love them just as if they were yours."

"Do you have any children of your own?"

"Why didn't you adopt special needs children? They are the ones who really need homes."

"How much did she cost?"

"Where did you get her?"

"Does she speak Chinese?"

"Will she speak Chinese?"

When standing in line at the grocery store, I am often tempted to get back at all the strangers who have accosted me over the years. I  imagine myself pouncing on an unsuspecting woman, standing in line with her child to buy some bread and a roasted chicken because she is too tired to cook after a long day at work.  "So, how long did it take for your afterbirth to come out when you had your little boy? Did you eat it? Because I read that Tom Cruise said he was going to eat Suri's placenta and the cord! How gross is that? What are you making for dinner?"

Or "I bet you had to do in-vitro to get your twins. How much did that cost you? And then I bet you had a C-section. Poor thing: your bikini days are over! I've heard that Vitamin E works well on that gigantic scar you must have."

But I refrain, because I was raised better than that. Just like I don't ask questions like "so why did you park in a handicapped spot and then run in here wearing those fuck-me stilletos? Have you no shame?"

One more thing, while I am on my soap box:  Please don't call my girls my forever kids - the phrase makes me want to puke. They're just my kids.

Stuff me with Lemons and Pass the Gravy

Things for which I am grateful:
(written over the course of several hours on Thanksgiving day)

It's early afternoon on Thanksgiving day and I don't have to be anywhere; nor am I expecting visitors.  This year, for the first time ever, it's just my nuclear family. I slept until after 10, and we're all still in our pajamas.

I picked fresh herbs from my garden (sage, oregano, rosemary, lemon thyme) to put under the turkey skin and stuffed it with lemons and onions. Other than that, I prepare it just like my mom did: soak cheesecloth in butter, wrap it around the turkey and baste frequently. The skin comes out so crisp that, just as when I was a girl, we strip the turkey bald and eat the skin before the turkey makes its appearance at the table. For gravy: remove the cheesecloth; move the turkey to a platter and leave cheesecloth in pan. Add some water and boil the cheesecloth, scraping up turkey bits as you go. Add some flour to thicken. We call this rag gravy.

After more than a quarter century, I learned something new about my husband: he likes green bean casserole. Despite thinking it vile, I made one for him.

Last night I made applie pie while my youngest daughter (sans braces) made Nigella's chocolate pots. We spend six hours at the orthodontist office yesterday and she is no longer a metal mouth. I told her that we're going to allow her in family pictures now that she's pretty. Three people in the office said, "oh, she's been pretty all along!" I need a big emoticon over my head.

Back to the chocolate pots: I forgot to tell her to pulse the food processor gently when she poured in the milk and cream, so half of the choclate scrumptiousness ended up on the counter.  No matter; we'll still have a smaller version of a tasty treat with fresh whipped cream. She made my mother's lemon meringue pie today, which almost makes you cry when you take your first bite: it's that good.

My husband and oldest daughter have taken over the kitchen, chatting companiably, after I helped put things away. My turkey carcass is already bubbling for turkey soup (see background of picture). I remember asking my mother one day why she didn't make it anymore; she said "because I don't have to." Unlike her, I don't have five kids (thank you, Jesus) and don't have to put $100 in cash in four envelopes every month as my grocery money.

I wanted to shower, but the dishwasher is running so I had to settle for washing my face. Now I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine, go downstairs and maybe watch "Little Fockers."  Here is a treat for you, along with my best wishes.

Agnes Toone Lemon Pie

 People used to say that my mom made pies like other people make iced tea because she made it seem as if no effort at all was involved.

Sift together:

1 ½ C sugar

6 T cornstarch

½ tsp salt

Blend gradually:

½ C cold water

½ C fresh lemon juice (first zest the lemons)

When smooth, blend gradually:

3 beaten egg yolks

1 T butter

Stirring constantly, gradually add 1 ½ C boiling water.  Bring mixture to a full boil, stirring gently.  As it begins to thicken, reduce heat and allow to simmer, slowly for no more than a minute.  Remove from heat and stir in 1 tsp grated lemon peel.  Pour into baked pie shell.  Cover with meringue.

Meringue

Note:  Eggs separate much better when they are cold; however, the whites should be room temperature when you’re beating them for meringue.

Pre-heat oven to 325.  Whip until frothy:  4 egg whites.  Add ¼ tsp. cream of tartar, and whip until stiff, but not dry.  Beat in, 1 T at a time, 3 T sugar.  Beat in ½ tsp vanilla.  Bake 10 – 15 minutes.

Marvelous Mom has Left the Building

My kids started back to school last week. How did they grow up to be sophomores, and when are they going to get the hell out of my house and give me some peace? 

They have turned from carefree kids who stayed up late, slept in and endlessly discussed how bored they were: 

to sullen teens who already resent me. They don't appreciate me asking them (in the nicest possible way) "how do you think you're going to get a scholarship with a B on a math test? Dad and I are going to be lucky if we get Alpo to eat when we retire, and you think we're paying for your college?"

It was so much more fun when they were younger and all I had to do was quiz them on their spelling, give them their baths, read them stories, nag at them "just brush the teeth you want to keep!!!"  - that magical time when they thought I hung the moon.  That I was the bees' knees.  That I was the funniest person on earth. I was mommy, hear me roar! I couldn't even have privacy in the bathroom. The one in the purple wig would come in while I was trying to have a nice poop, stand at the door and say "Mommy, do you want your privacy?

"Yes, angel, I do - thank you."

"OK," she'd say as she shut the door, came and sat on the edge of the bathrub and laughed as she looked at me with adoring eyes. Because in those days, privacy meant US.
After 6th grade it got REALLY hard - you know that show "Are You Smarter than a Sixth Grader?" Well, I'm not when it comes to math and science. Or history. I learned that stuff on cave walls and haven't had to put it to use much. They've learned not to ask questions though: enough "are you seriously asking me that question?  What is WRONG with you?" puts them off their game. It's not mommy anymore; it's mom or mama. Too often words go unspoken, such as when I ask them personal questions.

"How was your day?"

"Fine."  ("Bitch, why are you asking me that?")

The Nesting Loon - Tales from the South

Remember George Bailey - the richest man in town? That's how I felt at my Tales of the South premiere on July 19. Well, to be honest, I didn't feel that way until later. That night and the previous week, I went round and round the bend: the world might be falling further into chaos, but what about ME?

My tale was of my two-year madness while waiting to hear that our youngest daughter was waiting for us in China. (That six-month old baby disappeared, and in her place is a teenager - enough said.) I am still high from the response of the audience: they laughed in all the right places, shed tears in others. Friends in the audience supported me both through that long wait and through this one, because I also went a bit barmy at the thought of appearing in front of an audience. 

Years ago I worried that my baby might be ugly; this time I obsessed over how my looks. I wanted to look casual and chic, as if I had been to a clambake on the beach and didn't have time to change for a formal dinner party. I would show up with windblown hair and my cheeks kissed by sunlight, laughing and apologizing for my casual wear. The women in their designer gowns would wonder "how does she pull it off? Except for her slightly fishy smell, she makes us look like real bowsers."

After days of agonizing, I wore a $12 sundress from Half of Half.  Because it was sleeveless and short (attire usually reserved for watching television or working in the yard), I HAD to tan - just as I did all those years ago in my nesting phase. However, slapping some tanning lotion on my legs wasn't enough:  I went to a place similar to a car wash where you stand in a booth and are blasted by chemicals. (I also read about places where I could have a Professional blast me with chemicals - it's called Airbrush Tanning. I am not making this up.)   I felt as if  I'd come from a day of installing asbestos while chain smoking Camels. However, after I staggered into the lobby, I found out that included in the price was a second round.  I can't turn down free stuff! So I went back two days later. I put on my little protective cap but forgot to cover the back of my head, so part of my hair got tanned too. I thought it looked kind of punk.

I got a real haircut (vs. my $6 cuts at that place where the clowns stand by the side of the road in the heat, luring you in with great deals. I could write a whole blog about how much I hate clowns, so even I am curious as to my motives on that one). My real hairdresser (who forgives me when I get $6 cuts and trim my own bangs) offered a a generous gift: on my way to the Starving Artist Cafe, I can pop in and she will pouf my hair. Because she knows that no matter how good the cut, I can't take care of it. The last time I used a blow dryer, I smacked myself in the forehead with it (I am not making this up either).  To top it off, I got a brow wax:  I look much better with two distinct eyebrows. Because I'd gone so overboard on my dress, I gave myself a pedicure.

What made me feel like George Bailey the next day was thinking about the many friends who had shown up for moral support - two long tables filled with them, my current husband and my daughters' friend from pre-school, Billie. (The girls were at Red Cross Camp.) They all beamed with happiness for me - had you seen them, you might have thought each of them had won the lottery. Most had been through my initial journey, and here there were, all these years later, still listening and resisting the urge to say "Snap out of it! Can you think of someone besides yourself for one minute!!!!"  I sat next to a friend who suggested that I take a big swig of wine right before going on to calm my nerves; you couldn't tell from her demeanor that she has a child in the hospital.

I raise my glass to all of you - I would be writing from the asylum without you.

A Mermaid's Tale

Addendum:

I've been thinking all day about about an incident I left out of my original post. The first full day of vacation, my youngest buried herself in the sand, which for some reason prompted me to go into Hulk Hogan mode. I kept hurling myself down on her in that wrestler's move -- although I was not springing back up. I was cracking myself up while she obviously thought it was too lame to even remark upon - she just kept rolling her eyes. I might have been literally cracking myself up though: a full 14 days later, after a pound of BC powder, I still feel like I cracked a rib. Which reminds me of doing the same thing several years ago at the Clinton Library: the girls were rolling down the hill and kept saying "Come on, mom! It's so much fun!" Again I couldn't resist: I brought my hands to my chest (to cut down on wind shear), rolled down the hill and suffered for two weeks.

The moral of the story: don't roll your chickens before they are hatched.

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I wish I'd saved the blog I started in the middle of our beach vacation last week - I had my laptop on the table outside and couldn't even read what I was writing because the sun was so bright. It had something to do with bliss.

Now that I'm back to reality, I can't recall the exact feeling - I published it by accident and frantically called my daughter to come NOW and delete it. It might have had a spelling error or something, and I can't afford to lose any faithful fans.

The funniest image I have from the trip is me, rolling around on the beach in my old-lady bathing suit, as shown below. It's a one-piece with a skirt almost to my ankles.

The waves were very strong the whole week we were there. They battered and bruised me, and in the end took something precious from me. At one point they almost succeeding in ripping my left arm from its socket; at another point I almost chipped a tooth; several times I was spun over so many times I didn't know which way was up. A couple of times I felt as if I'd been punched in the face, which was painful but an effective way of clearing my sinuses. Then I would head out again - this is my idea of fun. On more than one occasion, I almost staggered to the safety of the beach, only to have the waves cut me down at the knees. I can't spring up gracefully like I could in my youth. First I have to make it to all fours, get my balance and then do the old heave-ho. This particular time I was knocked down and then just for fun, the waves hit me again and again so that I was literally rolling around on the beach, flailing, in shallow water. John and the girls missed it, but I hope someone who was feeling kind of blue saw me, because I laugh every time I think about it.

For a little night music, we headed to the beach to listen to fiddler crabs play their tiny fiddles; a crowd-pleaser was Some Enchanted Evening. They played their little crab hearts out until tourists with flashlights hunted them down and accidentally stomped them to death. They died doing what they loved.

We also entertained ourselves with a new family tradition: squeaking in the sand, which involves shuffling around in circles and making the sand squeak. We even learned how to do it backwards. I couldn't tell whether onlookers were jealous or thought us pathetic. Certainly no one asked us to teach them the moves.

I did something I've always wanted to do: parasailing. The sea was supposed to be brimming with life that day - sharks, turtles, rays - although all I saw was a dark hump in the ocean that might have been a turtle or a ray or a patch of seaweed. I told my youngest daughter that I should have nicked her a few times so we would have sharks circling below.

My oldest daughter thought it bizarre that we risked our lives on some frayed rope handled by men who spent eight hours a day with the sun beating down on their heads.


My friend Lynette, who has known me since my 20s and takes certain liberties with me, drove twice from Pensacola to visit. She also experienced a great loss on her second visit: the use of a couple of her toes, which she broke while frolicking in the waves with us one evening. We got up to find a scribbled note on a paper towel saying she would love to stay but had to seek medical help.

I was reminded that I have a habit of posing like this with my girlfriends, even when we're not at the beach.

As to what I lost at the beach: my wedding rings. I forgot to take them off for our last night swim. As I was howling in the sea at my loss, my girls held me tight (as much as they could, since we were still being battered about) and comforted me, while my husband dived repeatedly to look for my rings, reminding me that this was a loss I could bear. I hope a mermaid found my rings and treasures them as I did. Maybe she'll return them to me one day.

As for me, at that moment I realized what I had not lost. And I hope the mermaid who inherited my rings is as lovely as the two below.

 -- this is dedicated to my husband John and my girls, who remind me each day of my bounties.

Am I Ready for my Close-Up?

I’ve been feeling very Eyore-ish lately:  grouchy, touchy, under-appreciated and basically unhappy with my lot in life. Not tragically unhappy, where I could get some sympathy and maybe food and presents. Not even unhappy enough to whine about.

Then I received some validation from a source other than my dogs, who love me way more than is healthy.  No, my family didn’t hold an intervention in which they furiously berated each other for not realizing that they’d be lost without me. And I didn’t get a raise at work. 

My validation came in an email from Paula Morell, asking that I read an essay of mine for Tales from the South (http://www.talesfromthesouth.com/index.html) at the Starving Artist Café in Little Rock. My first two thoughts:

Holy shit, I’m going to be on NPR!

When Sally Field won the Oscar (best actress AND best head piece) for the Flying Nun and said something like “You like me, you really like me!”

Instead of wondering what to make for dinner, I’m looking for a media consultant. Before that, though, I have to figure out what to wear before a radio audience and how much voice lessons cost. I want an elegant, yet casual look and a smokey voice: Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil vs. an extra from Deliverance. I could write a book about how much that movie disturbed me.

Worrying about how I will sound makes me think of how David Sedaris makes fun of his own voice and how, being NPR people, we’re going to be the best of friends.

“I should have read Six to Eight Black Men,“ he’ll whimper over the phone from a hotel in the heartland. "My piece about their city being a magnet for porn actresses didn’t go over at all! They hated me!”

“Now, Blisters,” I’ll say. “I thought it was hilarious. I listened to it while I was preparing one of my fabulous dinner parties for my other NPR friends – the Crème brûlée almost fell because I was laughing so hard! By the way, I’m mailing you a small manuscript that I hope you’ll be honest about. “

I know the paparazzi is sure to come for me. I hate the thought of having to be “on” all the time.  Instead of hitting the girls at the store when they whine, I’ll have to throw back my head in a playful way, as if thinking “these girls of mine say the darndest things!” And forget going to the beach: I don’t want my thighs and buttocks to end up on the cover of the Inquirer where you have to guess whose they are. I'm just going to have to go incognito.

Frankly, my big worry is how many of my friends I'm going to have to give up for my new celebrity BFFs.  Sure, they've been loyal through thick and thin (to tell the truth, I'm a bit of a high-maintenance friend), but are they ready for being under a magnifying glass because they know me?  One thing is sure: I've GOT to get new dogs.

Help, my mother is crazy and she can't get off my back

My teenagers have taught me a few valuable lessons lately. I know -- you want to puke -- I hate sentimental crap like that.

It's Okay If You Don't Want to Make Friends and Influence People

My younger daughter (we'll call her Perle Mesta) has one true friend from back in the day (we'll call her Tia) and has made several more her freshman year of high school.



You can see what drew them together.

The joy of seeing her with her friends has been somewhat tempered because the delight is accompanied by a pang that my oldest daughter (we'll call her Gwyneth) has not invited any friends to our house, nor has she been invited to sleepovers, parties or just to hang out. I frequently used subtle approaches such as, "if you want to invite friends over, that would be great! If you want to go to a movie with a friend, I'll drive!" You would think I would already have learned this lesson: while I would literally collapse without my friends, my husband describes himself as an "anti social worker." I just could not accept that Gwyneth could be happy without sleepovers and such, even though she's assured me that she's fine without them. I knew that of course she was in denial - if I need friends, everyone does. Three days ago she told me in the nicest possible way to bug off: she has friends at school but is perfectly happy with her own company. A friend of mine laughed when I told her last night because she has been saying the same thing for years: "I know you worry, but she is perfectly happy."

(Can you tell that I am a high-maintenance friend?)

Gwyneth in her younger years.

Making Cs at School Does Not Mean You Will End Up Living in a Box on the Street

Unless my life drastically changes, my kids are going to have to get scholarships to go to college. Because I think they are of superior intellect, I hound them about their grades - for their own good, of course. If they get Cs, I treat them like social pariahs. I go through stages:

• When I was unemployed and checked their grades obsessively, I would attack them the minute they got home from school - and this was before I read about the Tiger Mom. (In my defense, I never called them garbage, just shiftless and lazy.) I could not believe that they were not making straight As and colleges weren't already calling, offering full scholarships, a car, a clothing allowance and an apartment for when their dad and I visited.
• I'd swear that I didn't care: "I'm not going to check your grades anymore! I'll just wait a few years: either you'll be in college or you'll be working at a fast-food restaurant, serving your friends who are home from college on spring break. I don't care!"  
• Threats followed by pathetic bargaining: "Don't think you're going to flunk out and live at home! I'm looking forward to my golden years; I don't need some punk-ass living in my basement. Let's make a deal: I'll give you $100 for each A!" 
• Pleading: "You're too young to know that grades MATTER now. You're not in Oz anymore, Dorothy."
• Depression: "I'm a failure as a parent! I don't deserve to have children! I shouldn't even be raising the pups!" Hiding from friends for fear they would brag about their no-neck kids. Trying to score Valium from tired-looking women at Kroger.

 When we got their grades this semester, I was so mean that I made my youngest cry and she basically asked me, "What's wrong with average?" I was totally ashamed and couldn't answer her.

It helped that a friend told me about a friend who went into deep debt because he wanted a degree from Harvard -- a teaching degree. His friend is now making $30,000 a year and probably planning a trip to South America so he doesn't have to pay back his crushing debt.

Keep Your Kids On Their Toes

Perle Mesta had two sleepovers last weekend: one here with her friend L. and then she and L off to spend the night with A. They went to the mall, where I was to pick her up on Sunday. She called her dad to let him know she was there, but when I texted, I didn't get a reply. Of course, I knew she had been kidnapped and was being used for medical experiments. But instead of going to crazy town, I decided to go to the mall and do some shopping (I was looking for a blue spring cardigan) and either I would bump into her or she would text me. I wasn't there long before I spotted the three of them, strolling arm-in-arm. They turned around almost immediately, and the look on my child's face was priceless, as they say: I couldn't hear her but read her lips: "Oh my God it's my Mother."




Before the mall incident.

It was great entertainment, but I also learned a lesson: it's not a bad thing for both of them to know that I might appear anytime, anywhere -- their Guardian Angel who can ground them. Which reminds me of a true story: Tia spent the night at our house many years ago, and she and said daughter had been back in our bedroom (because they loved our water bed) for a long time. I decided to spy on them - were they talking about boys yet? Instead, I discovered them going through a dictionary. I think they are as wise (and lucky) at choosing friends as I have been.

As I write this, Gwyneth told me that she has invited a friend over on Sunday. Sometimes you win.

Happy Holidays!

Many of you will think I am tacky for writing our annual Christmas letter this way, but unlike a lot of you, I am BUSY.

The maid had to go see her dying mother or something, so not only have we had to clean our own house, but we had to put up the Christmas tree and decorations too. Last year her son fell off the roof while putting up all our outside lights -- he threatened (unsuccessfully) to sue us, so I don't know why we keep her anyway. She did promise she'd come by sometime the week before Christmas and bake cookies for us to give away -- we think homemade cookies are always appreciated.

Once again, John was passed over for promotion at work. The cretins he works with and his so called "manager" are so jealous of him they can't stand it. So he continues to at a job for which he is CLEARLY overqualified and nags me about getting a real job and cooking something other than ramen noodles with fried bologna. Like sweeping up hair at a salon 10 hours a week is a breeze. (I was saving the hair to send to some beach where a tanker of olive oil hit a reef or something -- a guy on the news said it was good for moping up oil, and I thought it would count towards my mandatory community service. But here's a free tip: don't use a big bag of hair to mop your floor when your dishwasher leaks!!!! It will make a foul, disgusting mess, no matter what the talking heads say).  However, John and I are going to try to patch things up over the holidays at a couples-only retreat in Greenville, Mississippi. We got a great deal - $60 a night for the hotel. The brochure said something about "taking up serpents," so I'm thinking it might be one of those reptile farms. Which are kind of creepy but interesting, too: I saw an albino alligator one time! Anyway, we'll have some time to share our problems with other couples. As my fans know, my husband can't get enough of socializing, especially with strangers so desperate they want marital counseling.

Girls before they went bad.

You might be wondering; what about your daughters? I know some of you have heard of my struggles -- they live to make me crazy. Their grades have been falling steadily in high school, and PLEASE - no more of that "they're struggling and you're the parent" crap. The guidance counselor keeps calling and talking about "gang activity."  We were a bit tickled, to tell the truth: both of them started dressing a lot better - no more of that snotty preppy look they had going.  Since they were tiny tykes we've been spinning tales about back in the day when we rode with the Demon Spawn of Flatbush. Sure, our black leather chaps are a bit tight, our vests resemble bolero jackets, and we've switched from Yamahas to Segways, but we still turn more than a few heads. Especially at Teachers' Night.

(Note to fans: I wanted so much to find a suitable image to insert here, but searching for "overweight couples wearing chaps on motorcycles" sent me to some sites I'd rather not visit again.)

Wow -- I was gathering wool there for a moment -- thinking of how we almost had that rumble with the Blouds and the Cripes before they went running home to their mommies!

Back to the girls -- unfortunately, they are spending the holidays in detention. We found out after the fact that the "gangs" they hang out with are totally lame. They usually just drive up and honk for them, so we hadn't actually met any of them. Those loud noises we were so impressed with turned out to be crappy cars with even crappier mufflers. Turns out my oldest one tried to steal several expensive slide rules as an initiation into the Cute Angles, a group of girls so geeky the regular math club wouldn't let them in. My youngest was caught stealing fruit to serve at a soiree given by the No Shows, a group so vile they had been banned from the Drama Club. She would have been given probation if her aim hadn't been so good: she hit the police officer right in the eye with a Granny Smith. You can only imagine our disappointment and shame at their choice of companions.

(I know it sounds callow, but is this not the best excuse EVER for saving money on presents! Not only do they not deserve them, but they're not even here to open them if they WERE under the tree.)

It looks as though Aunt Lucy is going to have to move back in with us:  the woman cannot hold a job and I don't know why she keeps going back to working in technical support. She thought she was just practicing tough love when she screamed at a second-time caller, "Users are losers, you lowlife motherf___ing earwig! May bedbugs nest in your pants! May all food you eat turn to rat turds in your mouth! May jackals tear out your entrails and eat them in front of your children! Even the squirrels I shoot from my porch know to save their work now and then!"

I'm not happy about this, but we continue to feud with our next door neighbor about our lawn ornaments and silk flowers -- she thinks she's so high and mighty with her "native plant" and "habitat for butterflies" crap. When we tell her we don't mow our lawn because we also want to save the planet, she scoffs. Nothing I relish more than a good feud. I get a real kick hearing her complain to the neighbors about her morning paper always landing in her fountain. Oh yeah, I'm keeping it real.

We're still a family who tries to have dinner sitting at the table at least once a month, because studies show that's the best way to stay close or some such crap. The girls know they can always talk to me, but seriously, when is the last time you actually listened to a teenager - they yammer on and on about themselves.

Our family advice to you is always take the high road; our family wish is a blessed and happy holiday season. And as always, please don't give us your lousy fruitcakes, cookies, jams (even if you call it curd) and homemade liqueur -  nothing says "we wish you a merry Christmas!" like some cash stashed in a tasteful Christmas card.

p.s. can someone pick up the girls on the 28th? Because we'll still be improving our marriage at the alligator farm.

Verizon, the Sequel

I just got a great letter from a guy named Jeremy McCarthy, Director of the Preferred Customer Team at Verizon. My first thought was: how do they treat their non-preferred customers? Do their phones explode if they go over their minutes?

Jeremy told me that I need to SEIZE THE SAVINGS. As Director, he has personally gone over my bill and found that I need to either maximize my current plan or change my plan because I'm paying $31.75 in "total overage charges."

The right solution is at my fingertips: I need to call one of their customer service people, and I don't even have to extend my contract!!!!!   Jeremy personally appreciates my business and looks forward to keeping me connected, now and for years to come. Is it just me, or does that sound ominous? Now I get the nagging feeling that I'm serving life with Verizon. They either get you in the small print or put Brad, Customer Service boy from hell, on the line and you agree to anything to get him to shut the fuck up. Pardon my French.

So, keep up the emails -- I'm not going to be using my phone much.

Open Letter to Verizon Wireless

Dear Verizon,

I just spent 64 minutes on the phone with two of your customer service people. It was such a long conversation that my husband and I took our pups on a long walk during half time of a Razorback game. My dogs don’t like you either. And it’s my birthday weekend.

A few months ago, my 13-year old daughter and I went to a local Verizon store, bought her a new phone and signed up for unlimited texting. This was for two reasons: I was tired of whacking her when she went over her minutes, and one of my sisters and I love texting each other really stupid messages about the superiority of our animals and how Dante’s Peak was a silly movie but worth seeing because of Pierce Brosnan being such a hunka hunka burning love.



We came out of the store all warm and fuzzy: we could text with abandon!
We did not get a very good deal (because although it was not our choice to switch and we pay a whopping bill to Verizon each month, we’re considered vile reptiles, otherwise known as Alltel customers), but it would have cost too much to change providers. (It reminds me, in reverse, of the way the Little Rock School Board is so fond of hiring superintendents, firing them, and then buying out their contract for oodles of money. You guys really stink but I’m stuck with you and have to pay you vast sums of money). I thought that when you sucked Alltel into your vast death ship I became a Verizon customer – that’s what my bill says. I’ve been told several times in your stores that I’m “an Alltel customer”, and your representatives always spit on the floor afterwards as if it puts a bad taste in their mouths. “I would SO love to get you in a Mercedes, but your past wireless provider makes you worthy only of this two-toned Pacer.”
 


We’re a family of four, all with phones, but only two of us text. At last I come to the heart of the story: my bill today showed that we had gone over on our texting minutes. Apparently we stood around in your store for 20 minutes before seeing anyone and then spent about 30 minutes signing up for unlimited texting – but the dog apparently peed on our order. Your rep tonight acted as if it was just another tricky day at Verizon. He never went off script (which had no bearing on what I was talking about) and put me on hold probably 10 times for long periods. Although I'm pretty sure he was in front of a computer, I kept imagining him skating down the hall to check the Manual for Alltel losers, maybe having a beer or two on the way back, jesting with his colleagues about the live wire twisting on the phone.



I repeatedly asked to speak to his manager; he repeatedly refused – he didn’t really refuse; he just kept coming back and saying things like, “Well, I could give you a 10% discount on the charges you shouldn’t have had in the first place”, or “I could wash your dog for you.” Except he wasn’t as clear; he would give a long spiel about some plan I wasn’t interested in, such as giving me 40 free minutes a month to call someone in a gulag in the former Soviet Union. One of his special offers (seriously) was to inform the Mother Ship that I had a complaint about the store where I signed up originally. Really? You’d do that for me? He was relentless about keeping me from his supervisor; she would only confirm what he’d done, but I was more so: I told him that I’d wait on the phone all night if that’s what it took. But when she came on, she agreed that my situation stunk and sounded beaten down – it took the wind right out of my sails. And by that time I was convinced that I was getting cancer by listening to the endless spiels while on hold.

A side note: I generally go to the office on Chenal in Little Rock. I’m not sure whether they have a sadist for a manager or whether all your stores operate this way: why do you make your employees stand on their feet all day? It seems a bit of a sweat shop-ish thing to do. I know what you’re thinking: that episode of Seinfeld.

As much as I’d like to put the blame on you; I am the moron who renewed our contract. But next time we’re up for renewal, we’re gone.

p.s. I am posting this letter on my blog before even putting in the mail to you – I have at least 10 loyal fans!!!!!! And some advice about customer service 101: satisfied people maybe talk to 4 people; those who bear a grudge tell about 5,000. And trust me; my story will get better each time I tell it. Especially if I call next month and they tell me that there are no records of me calling.