Bite Me, Life!

Resolutions, or Whatever....

2012-01-01T10:52:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again. When we make silly resolutions, slap our too-full bellies, think about never drinking again, swear we will feed the poor and rescue people by the side of the road, resolve to give up laughing in a way that resembles a stark raving mad whinnying horse, and in general--despise our present selves for some unobtainable future self. It's sort of like being put into hell in the person of a teenager who only sees what they HOPE they will be, and not what they actually ARE.

Why do we do this to ourselves? From whenceforth cometh this self-loathing? For that is what I think it is. I can remember being a young teen and looking at some hairstyles in "Seventeen" magazine and thinking, wistfully and urgently; "Well, if I can just get some ROLLERS, and put them in THAT way, then, damn, I will be beautiful. Or, maybe just prettier." It had a magic about it. Like not stepping on cracks in the sidewalk, throwing salt over your shoulder (boy, does that date me!), or wishing on a star.

I just read an article in today's Sunday "Boston Globe" (this being New Year's day, 2012) about making resolutions, how human it is, how far back in history this goes, and how ultimately self-defeating it is. Apparently, there is something about just the making of a resolution which keeps us from meaningful change. Don't ask me what the "something" is because I didn't finish the article. That's a resolution I mean to make--to finish things I've started. (Like the two pairs of knitted socks for my husband which are sitting in a basket because some stupid LADY who works in a knitting store told me I had been knitting the wrong way for over 40 years. "Surely not 40," I whispered, full of self-loathing.) So those socks are just sitting there while I stare at them, flushed with defeatism and the conviction I will never knit again. I resolve not to make a resolution about finishing things I've started.

So what's an aging broad to do? Sitting in the UCC church today listening to absolutely mind-blowing beautiful Gospel music that made me want to get up and dance (and why didn't I? Let's resolve to dance in church this year, just not the Catholic Church....), I thought--with my heart and not my brain--"I want more music in my life. More liveliness. More dancing." I sat there some more, and when Rev. Andrea Ayvazian talked to us about letting go of our wounds and grief and regrets, I tossed a stone into a big empty metal cauldron listening to it clank with all the other stones, representing the griefs and regrets of others. "I want to let go of guilt," my heart said. "I want to let go of worry." Deep in my heart I felt that rattle of my own stone and the stones of others.

It seems to me, from the vantage point of being newly turned 66 (gasp, wheeze), that this is a good time to let go of things and also invite other things in. That's my take on the resolution business, which I am trying to give up: Simply invite into my life some activities I want more of--music, dancing, friends, and being outside. And let go of things which keep me from living fully--guilt, remorse, fear, and worry. I have been known to worry about our neighbor's dog, for God's sake, that she wasn't getting enough water in her crate. Also known for worrying about: the state of the world, conservative Republicans, climate change, my thighs, my low bank account, my eyes, my grown "kids", the health of my friends, and the lack of birds at my feeder. (Was it something I said? How about I buy you another feeder? Isn't this taking worry to a ridiculous extreme?)

So, without putting any time to this or sense that I have to make things happen now in the New Year, I am just going to do a little slidey dance which incorporates some cooler more lively things, and at the same time, I'm throwing some crap over my shoulder as I dance. Want to join me?

Integrating the Inner Italian

2011-12-09T07:58:00.000-08:00

My husband and I have just come back from a refreshing one day, one night away at our favorite Gateways Inn in Lenox, Mass. I'm not quite sure how such a short stay can manage to rearrange my neurons so that they are far more pleasant than normal, but I'll try.

Imagine a very large room, beautifully decorated, with a gas fireplace in the corner and a deep tub with jets to soothe your aching muscles. Imagine sinking onto said beautiful, immense bed and taking out one's kindle to read truly trashy romances. (I have confessed to this before, I believe; I do not, almost never, read current adult fiction. I find it far too depressing.) Imagine the comfort of having one's husband of 44 years (gasp!) nearby, not far away at work, not on the computer, just there--available for hand holding and other good things, which the trashy, steamy romance could certainly lead to. Imagine this aging broad lowering herself carefully into the tub (well, maybe better not to imagine this part...), pouring in mineral bath liquid, and winding up with so much foam that I could totally have done a nude scene without annoying the Catholic Church or any other censors.

Then imagine going downstairs to sit on high stools at a bar--something we almost never do--and staring at the sparkling bottles containing more single-malt scotch than you could possibly imagine. Seriously. There has to be almost $50,ooo worth of liquor back there, maybe $100,000. (And everything on the shelves is polished with furniture polish every three days, in case you are interested.) Fabrizio, co-owner of the inn, suggests various malts to us, telling us which is more "peaty" than another. All I know is which ones make me cough the most. "Peaty" does not mean anything in my vocabulary. In the list of drinks, Rick notes one 25 year-old scotch which costs $875 per SHOT. Seriously. Fabrizio tells us about the man who came in, perched on a stool, and proceeded to have two shots of this amazingly expensive brew. "So, he had $1700 worth of malt at one time?" Rick gasped. Fabrizio nodded. "And then what do you do after that?" my husband persisted. Fabrizio spread his hands in a familiar Italian gesture, pursed his lips and said, "Enjoy."

What a concept. Enjoy. It seemed like a blessing for the entire time of our stay. Enjoy the bed. Enjoy the meal cooked by his wife Rosemary (who trained with the famous Italian cook, Marcella Hazan), including a beef tenderloin so tender it could be cut with the side of your fork. Enjoy the other guests in the small dining room--a man who works for a record company and at one time helped manage both Alex Rose and Courtney Love (who was not remarkably stable at the time, big surprise...). Laughter, wine, and good stories ensue, and the basic word is, "Enjoy."

It reminds me of another word which is frequently in my mind--"savor." It is a word that Fr. James Martin speaks of in his wonderful book, A Jesuit's Guide to (Almost) Everything. The whole concept of "savoring" is to let life's experiences rest in one--to almost rest on one's tongue, if you will. We will not gulp down experience, or gobble people and events, but just--taste them, savor them, and enjoy. It leads to a different stance in life, I do believe. We're not just consumers, rushers-through of our days, but people who wisely take things as they come, enjoying them when we can, and--if some events turn out to be painful, which they inevitably will--there is always help at hand. But then, I'm deeply religious, so my stance is not for everyone.

Enjoy. Savor. Good words for this season of excess and hurry, but also a season of friends, family, home baked goodies, fine wine, beautiful music (I've developed a taste for 16th-century Spanish Advent music, thanks to my brother's recent concert), and maybe a Midnight Mass or two.

And so I hope for all of you that this will be a time of savoring and enjoying; that you will feel as refreshed and nourished as we did after a day and a night away of supping on wonderful food, bathing in foamy baths, being together, and just celebrating this beautiful time of year.

Aging Broads and Droids

2011-03-21T06:39:00.001-07:00

Hello, fellow techno-boobs. This aging broad succumbed to a wild impulse last week--brought on most likely severe light deprivation over this ghastly winter, and possibly a lack of fine red wine--and bought a Droid Veizon phone. What WAS I thinking of? I only do a few measly texts per week to my "kids", and usually send them off half-baked with wandering letters scattered across the pages, so that they have to call me and gently ask, "What DID you mean, Mom?" So to have this vibrating hunk of electronic gadgetry in my hand that speaks to me in a Martian voice--"DROID"--when I turn it on (hell, that's enough to make me have to use the bathroom and go back for a third cup of rich coffee..), and then offers so many possible apps and functions that it makes my mind wobble.

For example: trying to text my son who is in L.I. visiting his girlfriend, I sent a text saying I'd meet him at the bus station tomorrow after three. Somehow my pronged finger touched the wrong button, or pressed too hard on the right button, and my poor offspring continued to receive the same text ad nauseum. Over and over and over. Did I know how to stop it? No, indeedy do, I did not. I had to turn off the Droid and go fan my face, trying to assemble some semblance of sanity. Perhaps some progesterone would help.

Then I turned it on again and checked into the News and Weather section. An old "Berenstein Bears" book came to mind, when Mama bear (in her oh-so-cute androgynous flowered blue hat) decided the family was watching too much T.V., so they would turn it off for a week. Of course, the predictable ensued: Papa bear was found sneaking down at night for a T.V. hit, or lurking in the electronics section of the Mall, getting his TV fix. When asked how he would know about the weather, Mama pointedly opened the casement window and said, "Stick your hand out, baby," or something to that effect. Did I need to check the weather on my Droid when a quick glance out the window would have shown that it was snowing on the first day of Spring? No, I did not. But I did.

Then I went to the News Stories, containing enough bad news to send me straight for the Single Malt Scotch bottle: Libya in flames (I actually felt we should have gone in about two weeks earlier, but it was good to have the Arab League invite the U.N. in); Japan looking devastated; and more. I have to spread my shaking fingers about ten times on the teensy screen to get the print large enough for this aging broad's eyes, but finally I did it, enjoying reading about death and disaster as I sipped coffee and put off work, yet again.

Will this make me a better person? Probably not. Will my offspring call with barely concealed anger to tell me to stop sending them endless loops of texts from last year? Yes, they will. Will my darling husband patiently try to walk me through the various functions? Yes, he will. Then I will put down the tiny device which rattles me with its alien voice, open a book with pages that spread out, and probably light a candle somewhere. I secretly belong to the world of "Little House on the Prairie" (with, of course, indoor plumbing, advanced dentistry, antibiotics, and perhaps some percocet for joint replacements), and like the idea of reading aloud by candlelight. Only, those cold beds in the attic with the roofing nails tipped white with frost are not something I want to become acquainted with. With regret, I bid Laura goodbye, turn on my Droid again, and think about texting somebody far away who can't be angry with me when the same text appears over...and over....and over again.

Tell Me To Do What???

2011-03-17T07:33:00.001-07:00

Ok, I have had it with gurus. Up to here. Both the spiritual kind and the health and physical fitness kind. Watching GMA this morning, the ever-present Dr. Oz was on (and he's a good guy, you can tell--anyone who does a whole show on what you can tell from human feces has got to be good, right?) telling us about our circadian rhythm and the optimum times for eating meals, snacking, and going to bed. Huh? Did I miss something? Isn't this what PARENTS used to do for us, and now that we are grown, do we really, really need this intense and scratchy oversight of our personal lives?

So, here's what we're meant to do: Get up at 6:30 a.m. each day (Oh, please, I stopped doing that when my kids graduated from High School; I am not a pretty sight at that hour of the day, and have been known to heave things off of the deck in disgust...); before you go out to exercise, he tells us (because this exercise burns fat and not the calories from just-eaten breakfast), do #1 and # 2. Really? Do I need to have you in my bathroom? I thought that ended when I was four years old. Then we eat breakfast at 7:30, after heaving our bodies around in some form of pre-dawn torture; make it 'til 11:45, have a high fiber snack (I assume he does not mean twinkies which have sat on my shelf for twenty years and look just as fresh as the day they were baked...), then lunch. Thankfully, he did not tell me what to eat. I probably would have thrown a stoneware plate through the plate glass window (something I have been known to do in the past...). Manage to contain yourself without adult oversight until supper at 6:30 p.m. Really? What about the folks who don't get home until 7:00? Leaving that question dangling, he then advises us to go to bed promptly at 10:00 p.m. Ok, I can see how in an alternate universe this would be a good idea, but not in this universe!

There's something so annoying in all of this--the idea that we cannot manage our adult bodies and lives on our own, thank you very much. And whatever the hell happened to common sense? Ok, ok, I know that many of us binge out on huge hamburgers and think flipping the remote control qualifies as exercise. But I don't. I push my body up the road when I walk our Jack Russell; I've been known to do the Wuss's Yoga Routine; I cook delicious things for all of the people I love who live in my house; I try to be in bed pretty early and not read a delicious novel until 12:00; but gimme a break--I am not going to follow this guy's pattern for a healthy life. I'm using my common sense, the smattering of rules my parents laid down in the pleistocene, and respond to the needs of my family, including the pyschotic cat who throws up almost daily on my bedspread. What would Dr. Oz have to say about THAT? Maybe she needs more fibre....I'll get back to you on this. Damn. Whatever happened to just having fun in our lives, without hurting too many people, including ourselves? Thomas Merton once spoke of throwing our "awful solemnity" to the winds, and that's what I'd like to do here. Just-throw-it-away. Have fun instead. You'll live longer, I know it

Oh, the 50's!

2010-06-08T07:12:00.000-07:00

As I peered in the grimy mirror this morning, plucking my aging eyebrows and attempting to look 30 again, or perhaps 40, I thought about how long I have been trying to look "good." Do others out there have this painful realization?

It started in my early teens, as the vision of beautiful movie stars flitted across my vision: Rita Hayworth (ok, she was a LOT older than I am), Jayne Mansfield, and of course, Marilyn Monroe. How did they get their faces--not to mention their gorgeous bodies--to look so luciously perfect? I started with a small Maybelline mascara box--red. It opened to a narrow mirror on the top lid and a small cake of solid black mascara below, with a little groove for a brush. Oh, heaven! I remember spitting on the brush (who knew about hygiene then?), rubbing it on the mascara, and spreading it on my lashes. How killingly dashing. I was clearly well on my way to Marilyn Monroe-hood.

Then there was the bra. Is the bra. A torture device invented by some deranged person long ago. Never possible to actually drop one's breasts into it and fasten the closures behind. It had to be dragged around one's waist, fastened, and then sweatily shrugged up to enclose said breasts. Thank God there was no flesh sneaking past those rigid panels!

Then came the girdle. Did I need one at the slim age of 14? Clearly not. But I thought I did, and it meant I could wear stockings and fasten them at the top with those little nubby things that are only enchanting when someone is undressing you, preferably slowly.

Have we progressed since then? Have I progressed? Nope. Here's the drill. Wash face with expensive Patricia Wexler facial wash. Pat dry. (Rubbing might encourage wrinkles!) Spread on hideously expensive thick pink cream--also from Patricia Wexler--and wait for it to sink in. While it is sinking in (at least a ten minute proposition), spray water and conditioner on recalcitrant, short, curly hair, plus something expensive and stinky from Marshall's cosmetics section. Unwind hair dryer, which has almost plunged into toilet, and start to blow dry, using an enormous brush to straighten said too-curly hair. After 10 sweaty minutes of this, push into an assemblage of style and spray on some carcinogenic spray to keep it in place.

Pluck eyebrows, squinting busily into the grimy mirror, wondering if I should order one of those magnifying mirrors from catalogues for old people which contain products for hammer toes, urinary incontinence, and bathtubs which swing out vertically for the mobility-impaired. Sigh. Stroke black onto eyebrows to thicken them; afix glaze (my daughter uses vaseline) to keep thinning eyebrows in place. Dip eyeliner brush into green eye color and paint it at base of upper lashes as well as delicately below eyes. Try not to notice how much hand trembles. (Did I drink too much wine last night? Or is it just general debility...) Put a dash of glowing cream eye color above the green. Spread mascara carefully.

Now expensive Patricia Wexler pink cream is dry. Then spread P.W.'s day cream with factor 30 in it over face. Hmmm--is that a new splotch on my left cheek? Remnant of sunbathing in the Caribbean at noon wearing factor 2 suncream decades ago? Dot pale concealer under eyes and spread gently. Then take expensive Aveda toning cream and spread over face. Almost done. Line lips carefully and put on expensive Aveda rose lipstick, wondering if I should invest in one of those creams meant to plump out aging lips.

Are we done? Oh, say it ain't so! Not yet. There's the underwear, the bra (same problem still encountered), pants, and shirt. Then tape the vulcan-salute separating left toes, snuggle into sandals, and--what did I forget? Oh, right. The perfume. I know. Fragrance-free meetings defeat me. I know others suffer from my scent, and I feel for them, I do, and try to be sensitive to this. But for someone who all her life has felt she is unacceptable--that major construction work is needed to look even modestly acceptable--dabbing scent on wrists and neck is part of the essential reconstruction job. It makes me feel loveable. Just a tiny bit.

And the soul? Well, that's for my other blog: www.itsthegodthing.blogspot.com

Bite Me, Holiday Expectations!

2010-01-04T09:05:00.000-08:00

Hello after a long absence, mostly due to a crushing deadline with my novel about a bipolar girl alive during the Salem Witch trials, The Father of Lies, but I'm back--brain a bit reamed out, and body fluffier from sitting too long in a chair.
I tried something different this year in our annual Christmas gathering with pots of food and goodies. We agreed first of all not to exchange any presents ("No, Presents?" my 19 year-old daughter exclaimed mournfully) which took away a lot of the pressure. (Will they like this? Will they think I'm OK to give this? Would they really rather heave this over the bridge into the rushing river because it is such a depleted and sad gift....)
I also did not send out Christmas cards, much as I love them, because they are such a time-suck. I recommend signing up for www.jacquielawson.com for her terrific animated cards, which can be sent for any occasion during the year. They are imaginative, cool, and original, come with music, and are full of motion--rather like the wizard photos in the Harry Potter books.
The third thing I did was open my hands and let go of my expectations of our family gathering: that we might put to rest uncertainties and tension; that everyone will be pleased with me; and that we will sally forth full of good cheer and bonhomie. Alors! We picked up my frail, aged stepmother (who still manages to be astounding and cranky with a certain Sicilian sharpness) and ferried her down for the gathering. Just helping her up the stairs made me realize how blessed I am to be steady on my own two feet; how easy it is for me to navigate stairs, changes in levels, and more.
When we sat down to supper, I just tried to listen for a change, instead of insisting that I have the last word or be right about everything (a theme in my natal family). Interestingly enough, by doing that the "I" that is "me" simply receded into the background. Somebody else was present, named Ann or Annie, but that person just occupied a chair and looked at the marvelous people assembled around our table: my two brothers (we're all in our 60's now!); my nephew and his lady from California; my younger brother's brilliant wife; my older brother's long-term girlfriend, musician, and speaker of French with her two girls; my husband (known for being witty); and my niece who, with great practicality and vision, manages a large apartment complex, as well as being an avant-garde musician.
So much talent at one table! And by the simple act of letting go and falling backwards, just a little, I was able to truly see people and appreciate how hard they work, the deep goodness within, and the wild humor which binds us together.
It was a good Christmas. Jesus was born in the stable, the Magi have come and gone, and the star I follow now has more to do with the brilliance of others than my own flickering brilliance.

Bite Me, Gay-Haters!

2009-11-19T14:28:00.000-08:00

Ok, I tried to keep this sort of light and funny, but in the light of a recent hateful ruling passed by the state of Connecticut (the jowly Governor seemed to be right on-board with this one), I have to rant. Really. And bless Steve Colbert who brought this to my attention with a hard-hitting and hilarious show about this. According to Steve, this ruling prevented a man in Connecticut from retrieving the dead body of his LOVER. Somehow, loving someone of the same sex when they are dead seemed to be part of the whole gay-marriage imbroglio, where people trumpet the "one man-one woman" rule, as if hoardes of animals (somewhere over 300 I read) never get it on with species of the same sex. As Steve pointed out, we musn't even have cemetaries where gay couples can be buried side by side. Only one man and one dead woman are to be allowed. He also had a riff about "gay zombies" which was wonderful, but which my feeble and shattered brain has lost.
Why so afraid, oh, jowly-chinned governor with the little mean eyes? How can it possibly effect you to have either same-sex marriage or same-sex deaths and cemetaries? Somehow, in our need to pander to the fearful Christian right and folks who support DOMA, we have let cruelty seep into our veins, our mouths, our eyes. As a wildly liberal Christian, I always find it sustaining that Jesus not once--not ever--said anything against homosexuality. Lots about the evils of money. Lots about the evils of rigidly adhering to rules which are impossible to follow. A great deal about letting go of fear and anxiety. So I'm about ready for some light-imbued mystic from another dimension to crash through the doors of this culture and say, gently but firmly, "Fear not." And, "Peace be with you."

Bite Me, Dating Scene!

2009-10-25T12:29:00.000-07:00

I must confess that I am not in the current dating scene nor have I been in it since I was twenty years old, which was a gazillion years ago. I've had friends who divorced and then tried getting back into the dating scene, including one thing which amazed me--High Speed Dating. It's sort of like musical chairs with potential dates; you sit at a table with one guy (assuming you're into guys, that is), talk rapidly about anything you can think of (I would probably blather about my dog) , and when the buzzer sounds, you leap to the next table for another intimate encounter. Wow. Talk about spending time trying to get to know someone! Whatever happened to that?
As a child of the 50's (with a grandmother who was an actual, certified Victorian of great innocence, charm, and education), I was led to expect that one should put a little time into this business of getting to know someone. Especially someone with whom you might lie down in bed--or the grass--and investigate the perils and the marvels of human love. I actually wound up marrying the man I dated when I was sixteen-seventeen (gasp!), and by some magical alchemy and luck, we're still together. We took some time. Emphasis on some.
Each Sunday I read with fascination and trepidation the Globe Magazine spread on dating called, "Dinner With Cupid" (or, "Dinner With Stupid," my husband jokes) where they match up a guy and a girl, they meet for supper and wine at some cool place, and try and figure out if they have anything in common at all--other than belly buttons and screwed up feet. So they go out: they assess each other immediately; they judge each other's sense of humor, looks, friends, interests, sex appeal, and work. How can you possibly get to know someone in the space of 2-3 hours over a dinner? Did it work that way for you? I think this is basically insane, and we need to go back to the concept of actually getting to know someone. As in that fine old tune, "Getting to know yoouuu..." I'm not for going back to the repressed sexuality of the 50's, but I'd like to see people taking their time--savoring their dates--and being willing not to make a judgment in five minutes.
A dear friend of mine, after his divorce, met his current love-to-be, and they dated for four months before becoming intimate. Astounding. Not sure when the first kiss occured, but here's what's novel about these souls--they took their time.
Here's to savoring getting to know you--here's to holding back on judgment--here's to enjoying the unfolding of another human being, petal by petal, like some slow-blooming delectable rose. Bite me, speed dating!

In Praise of Small Dogs

2009-10-22T14:31:00.001-07:00

Ok, I know this isn't a rant. "Praise" somehow doesn't go with "rant." But I'm not in a ranting mood, particularly when I view the object of my current affections--a small (12 pound), longhaired Jack Russell terrier named "Nita."
I used to be very scornful of anyone who owned a small dog. (Hell, I used to be more scornful in general before life and events scraped a little mercy into my soul.) How could they cradle that disgusting, furry creature in their arms, bringing them up to KISS them (ugh!), murmuring sweet nothings in doggese--"Wittle sweetums! Wittle yum-yums!"
But a few years ago my generous sister-in-law presented us with a white dog with a brown eye patch who unerringly tasted the moods in our house: if someone was sad, Nita would plant her front paws on our chests and lick our eyes. (This should be an "ugh!" but, trust me, it isn't.) If we were a tad manic, she'd out-manic us by performing what came to be known as "bullet-ass," running around the house, bounding over the sofas, and careening under the kitchen table, with her ass tucked under. It didn't matter how bad a mood you were in, bullet-ass would kick you out of it.
Then there's the wordless murmurings and furry kisses. I admit to inventing some new sound which I can only approximate as, "Wmmm-mmm, umm-meee," repeated at cozy intervals as the dog cocked her head and seemed to appreciate it. I hate to admit that I probably kiss this dratted dog more than any other significant other in my life. (Sorry, Rick!) There's something so loveable about a creature who does not ask for love, who puts up with great dignity a deluge of kisses and odd murmurings.
So, bite me! I am besotted of a tiny creature who has no language and cannot read Proust. Or directions. Or open child-proof bottles. But she sure is an expert on love.

Bite Me, Pseudo-Girdles!

2009-10-05T12:30:00.000-07:00

All right, I've reached that age. It used to be that my mother-in-law would assess my hip width with a strict gaze, making little motions with one hand, pursing her lips, and then saying--"You know, Ann, you've got good hips for child-bearing!" Happy to know that, mom-in-law! And these hips did happily accomodate two babies. But somehow, we have gone from the fruitful-of-loins category to the needing-to-be-reined-in category. I rammed up against this a few weeks back when I was shopping at my favorite high-end store which I can no longer afford to shop in. I think I had managed to find some garment under $100 (perhaps it was one sock, not even a pair), when the saleslady gave me an assessing look, and with a little purse of her lips mentioned that, "I wear this tightening pair right under my dressy pants, say, if I'm going to a wedding or something." What in hell was she talking about? "Tightening pair?" "You mean GIRDLE?" I replied in a bitter voice. She shook her head. " Not really that, just--tightening," she made the same motion with her hand as my mother-in-law had done years ago. But this time it was clear: the width of my body was no longer to be celebrated and acclaimed--it was to be reined in and reduced.
Hell, I know I shouldn't be going downstairs to make chocolate chip cupcakes. Or oatmeal scones. Or Earl Grey tea with cream and one sugar. (I have my limits, after all!) But this "tightening" thing triggers all sorts of warning signals. Such as; scenes of ladies in the late 50's standing stock still on an exercising stand with some sort of elastic tubing whipping back and forth against the butt, hopefully to reduce it. And all without any effort on our parts! Second warning signal: Memories of real girdles which were made with some sort of fossilized mamoth skin, devoid of elasticity and rigid on the body. Meaning--don't eat or drink when wearing this baby! I'm sorry, those days are gone, simply....gone. We know that a smaller stomach would probably be a good thing, for all sorts of reasons. But I've developed a fondness for my second stomach, my marsupial pouch. Sure, I've almost forgotten what it was like to sit down and not have my front half fold into separate layers, with a whisper of sound. But the good news is this: come to my house any afternoon and I am sure to have something freshly baked to go with tea. You get taken care of as do I. We share tea, talk about our lives--the parts that work and the parts that don't--and lave ourselves with fresh goodies and companionship. Forget the tightening thing--it's for people who care. And people who are trying to look like something they aren't any longer.

Sexy Older Men, Unite!

2009-09-10T13:52:00.000-07:00

I am getting tired of smooth-faced men in movies and on the television, as if all of us women out here were in our twenties and looking for amorous partners of the young persuasion. I'm not sure when this happened--when I stopped looking at gorgeous young men and turned my gaze, instead, to older men, preferably with a lot of gray on their heads, and with faces seamed with laughter and years of personal history. It is unutterably entrancing to see a man with a lived-in face: I can almost trace the lines with one finger: there, those are from your first divorce; there, those around your mouth are from laughing at your toddler going fishing in the toilet bowl one day; there, that dent in your chin is from clenching your teeth when you had a teenager driving on the freeway; and there, on your forehead, lines of concentration, from working long hours, studying, and just--showing up, day after day after day.
That's what I find sexy. A lived-in face and a lived-in body. And someone who remembers the same generation of music that I do, similar jokes, and foods that no longer grace the supermarket shelves, like cereals with Sergeant Preston decoder rings. It makes me feel at home.

Kindergarten Boot Camp

2009-09-04T06:52:00.000-07:00

From watching my kids go through school, I've been aware of the increase in high-stakes testing throughout the grades, starting in elementary school. I've always thought standardized testing to be a piss-poor way of assessing kids' abilities, but things have fallen to a new level (don't get me started on No Child Left Behind) with kindergartens and what is currently happening. In last week's Boston Gobe magazine, I was horrified to read about kindergarten kids being not only assessed for "kindergarten readiness" (what? You can hold a pencil upright without falling over?) but judged on their performance in "class." Recess now only occupies 30 minutes in many classrooms, says the Globe, and 2-3 hours are spent on instructing kids in reading, writing, and being tested in said areas. Wow, what the hell happened?
Here's my theory: having just finished a book set during the Salem Witch trials of 1692 ("The Father of Lies", 20011, HarperCollins), I am saturated with Puritan culture and all of its wonderful abilities to bring out the best in children. I think we've never left this behind, no matter that we have girls piercing their bellybuttons, and TV shows with gyrating participants. This need to probe the depths of our children--to assess whether they are "worthy" and "saved," a frequent occurence in 1692, has not left us. We just dress fancier and flashier, have more cash, but certainly don't drink more. (Little known fact about Salem: lots of drunkenness occured there, and I won't mention bestiality....) Why the hell can't we let kids just be....kids? And get on with the business of climbing ladders, sailing down slides, twirling on ropes, playing tag, and all of the other wonderful activities that let children develop into the great people they will be? Why must we continue to measure, assess, and weigh? Puritans. Still alive. In us. In our culture. Bite me, testing firms, destroyers of childhood!

September & New Jeans

2009-08-31T07:36:00.000-07:00

Somehow, being the techno-boob that I am (can I text? Noooo), I've managed to either erase or disappear my second post about jeans, called, "It's the Jeans Thing." It was mildly amusing but not over the top, and this gives me the opportunity to do more with it.
September always meant new jeans at our house. We'd set out, appropriately attired for a shopping trip, and go to a department store which was my idea of heaven: sweet-scented soaps for beloved grandmas; hosiery (say that three times slowly--it sounds sexual or at least connected to food) folded in crisp tissue paper in sleek boxes; lawn furniture, assuming one had a lawn; glassware; classic coats for women; and jeans. You'd try on one or two pairs, seize one, pay in cash, and drive home. I'd put the folded pair in my bottom drawer and wake the next morning, full of anticipation, padding over to the drawer to push my nose into the new jeans. Besides the scent of brewed coffee and a clean baby's neck, is there anything more evocative than new jeans? It speaks of beginnings, starting over, the next grade in school where you would actually get to be a "big kid," and the comfort of after school clothes once we came home. You'd wear said jeans until you either outgrew them or wore them out, which I did frequently due to my wild habit of sliding down the slate roof of our tall barn. My mother must have channeled Bruno Bettleheim, for she never took me to task for my shredded jeans.
But, I ask you! The Boston Globe Magazine a week ago featured a fashion section (why does that word make me feel weary and in instant need of a glass of wine) on jeans designed to flatter your odd body; disguise those thick thighs, the pooching-out stomach, the short legs, the flat butt, or whatever appendages this society deems unacceptable. That's why the word "fashion" makes me want to drink wine, because it is a cover word for--"you are unacceptable as you are. Let us fix you up, baby!" But, get this: the jeans ran from $138-$158 dollars PER PAIR. That would have bought us enough jeans to see us through to adulthood in the old days. Do you know anyone who can afford that for jeans? And in this time of deep recession, no matter that the pundits tell us we are scooting out of it? Tell that to the jobless people, to the woman who is losing her home down the street. Don't get me started.
By making jeans so damn expensive, our culture has taken away the joy of new jeans--the sweeet smell, the crisp folds, the sense of promise inherent in that blue color. It's more like investing in a stock portfolio than enjoying your five senses.
So, here's to new beginnings; here's to September with the swallows massed on telephone lines, ready to sail south; here's to children waiting for schoolbuses, their feet tapping in anticipation; here's to parents heaving sighs of relief at gettting their houses back.
Enjoy September--enjoy your new jeans at a reasonable cost--and Bite Me, Fashionistas!

Bite Me Life #1

2009-08-28T14:55:00.001-07:00

Is anyone else out there as frustrated as I am by modern life and the things that are supposed to make it easier, better, sexier, and more fulfilling? Just on a small note: making rice tonight for stir-fried bay scallops with Asian sauce, I stuggled to open the damned rice. What happened to the good old bags which you opened and then fastened with a twist-em? But no! Some suits in a dimly-lit office decided to do away with a perfectly good system and substitute something meant to be an improvement. Now it has a slide-em opener and closer. You know how it goes: You seize the rice bag firmly in your left hand, get a grip on the scissors (rather dull), and cut away at the rice bag. Try and open it. Nope! Cut again, lower, and still no result. By now I am beginning to sweat and wishing I knew some wild Croatian swear words which which would insult the parentage of this particular rice bag. Finally, in a sweaty rush, I pull open the rice bag and grains scatter onto the floor. The mad Jack Russell terrier appreciates this and cleans them up. Then I try and close the bag again. No score. Nada. Get out that green twist-em and whip the bag into shape, stick it into the closet, and pour myself a glass of chilled Chardonnay.
It's just that I feel I have failed--not majorly--but still failed in mastering rice bags. I think life is hard enough--what with growing kids, in-laws, various insane relatives, cars which spew carbon, houses which slump when I am not looking, not to say my retirement fund and the need to pay for college education. Do I NEED to worry about my prowress with a rice bag? I ask you.