Playing the Game

Maverick and I have a pretty good system for managing two full-time careers and raising two young daughters. We split the morning routine, each taking care of one kid; and in the afternoons, he gets the girls from school, entertains them for a while and then feeds them. When I get home from work, I finish up the nighttime routine of homework, baths, books and bed.

I do the laundry, he takes the dry cleaning. I do the lunches, he does dinner. He manages the finances, the house maintenance, pest control, the landscaper and the pool. I do the shopping, miscellaneous errands, and daily house straightening. I do the scheduling of doctor’s appointments, vet visits, dental cleanings, babysitter and weekend plans. He does all the “daytime” things that I can’t get to and I do all the other things he deems is “my job.” We share the dog responsibilities and taking out the trash. …And so on…and it works for us, usually.

Every so often we get into a pissing match of my least-favorite game, called “Who does more?” Every married or cohabitating couple plays. All you need to get started is to pick out something in your relationship that feels uneven and you want acknowledgement for. There’s no minimum to how small the uneven “thing” can feel. It can be as insignificant as who cleans the orange juice ring left in the sink.

One player goes first and calls out, “I do everything around here! I did X today and Y and Z!” The other person counters with, “What? I did A, B and C! Not to mention that yesterday, I also did X and Y and Z!” The game continues until one player “wins” by beating the other player down to beg for mercy, ask for forgiveness or thank the winner profusely for all he or she has done.

As competitive as I am, for the first twelve years of my relationship, I always went for the win. Sometimes, I’d even continue “playing” long after my Maverick left the game. Now, I’m just tired of playing it and often accept defeat for peace.

The last few days, Maverick has been grumbling about me under his breath. We're playing the "Who does more?" game in silent mode. I know what he's thinking but I didn't engage him in the conversation. I didn't want to. I'm tired. I'm busy. I've been dizzy. I'm just not in the mood to play.

Finally this morning, Maverick started round one. However, instead of the opening line, he began by uncovering a new strategy to the game. He jumped right in without the usual banter and went right for the kill with the "Martyr" card. The martyr card played out like this:

Me: “I’m going in late to the office so I can register Camryn for kindergarten today.”
Him: “Why didn’t you just ask me to do that?”
Me: “Because I can do it. I thought I'd take care of it first so I don't have to bother you with doing it.”
Him: “Why not? I do everything else around here.”

So now, instead of trying to make me feel guilty and/or thankful for how much he does, he’s offered to willingly “do it all” to play his martyr trump card. And of course, the martyr is an automatic win.

The truth is we both have to do what we have to do to keep our family and house running. We have to stop keeping track and just get it done. Sometimes I do more, sometimes he does more. I hear the same game being played daily with all my friends. And we’re all tired of it, yet we can’t seem to find a way to stop the pattern.

Next time, I’m going to try ending the game before it begins. I’ll say: Maverick, you can pass go, and collect your $200. Thanks for playing. Oh, and can you pick up my prescription while you’re out?

Shopping frenzy

Maverick called me at the office to say he was taking away my credit card. Apparently, he said, I don’t know how to control myself when it comes to shopping. As I pleaded and explained and poorly attempted to keep control of my plastic, in the back of my mind, I know he can be right, sometimes.

Not too long ago, Starr and I were doing some out-of-town shopping. We hit a stretch of unique shops and the two of us started salivating. My saliva was caused by hunger. It was mid-afternoon and neither of us had anything to eat all day, but Starr was drooling over the clothes she saw displayed in the window.

After promising her that the stores would remain open afterwards, we grabbed a bite to eat and drank a bottle of champagne over lunch. Feeling warm and bubbly from the cold bubbly, we hit the boutiques.

We looked like two kids in a candy store. We practically ransacked the first shop, throwing things around and stock piling clothes in the dressing room. Tops and skirts and dresses flew out of the curtain while my poor friend, Jenny, carefully hung up the discarded clothes for us. While Starr paid for her finds, I scoured the jewelry counter and strung several necklaces around my wrist and tossed them on the checkout counter for a last-minute photo finish of a clothes horse-race.

And that was the first shop.

By the third or forth…or maybe the fifth or sixth boutique…I think I lost count….I realized I also had lost my head. I walked into this store, still rearing to go on the high that everything was on sale, everything was in my size and everything looked great. (And how often do the stars align that perfectly?)

I stood over a pile of beautiful 50% off scarves and was trying to pick out one or two to buy. But I had found six that all looked great and agonized over which ones to put down. So I moved over to the sweater table and picked up three or four cute things. Next, I found another necklace, so I made my way over to the cashier but couldn’t bypass the shoe section and saw my weakness…crystal studded flip flops and found several pairs I wanted…I looked at all the stuff in my hand and started to hyperventilate.

I realized I wanted everything in the store, right now. I’d hit a bonanza. A magic treasure chest filled with beautiful clothes, and shoes, and accessories just for me. I looked down at the packages I was carrying…I added up what I had spent already (justifying to myself I had just bought my own birthday present, Mother’s Day and Hanukkah presents at this rate and it was only March). My pulse was racing and I started hyperventilating.

I realized I was in a full-fledged shopping frenzy and had to walk myself right out of the store to catch my breath. As I stood outside in the cold air, my breathing finally slowed and my blood pressure returned to normal. Jenny, not knowing anything was wrong, came outside to comment that she had never seen two girls do as much damage as Starr and I had. In two hours, she said, we’d spent what she’d spend in a year on clothes. She said she was fascinated by us. But I felt disgusted and ashamed.

I didn’t spend a dime afterwards that day. I did however, continue to enjoy shopping vicariously through Starr, who even managed to find something fabulous at an airport boutique on the way back into town. I’ve been trying to be better since then and not buy whatever strikes my fancy when I see it. It’s hard still sometimes, especially when I see cute $5 t-shirts for the girls at Target. Okay, I admit, I still get them the cute $5 t-shirts when I see them at Target. Now, I just try to pick out one or two instead of one of every kind.

With all the recession talk, I know I should tighten my belt and do better with less. I can cut back on another pair of flip flops or another pair of earrings for a while. I’m good with less shopping for now, just as long as Maverick doesn’t ask me to cut out my daily Starbucks. I have a feeling that request is coming soon too. Especially since we just got a new espresso maker.

What should I wear?

I’m going to a bar mitzvah. What should I wear?
I’m going to Santa Fe. What should I wear?
I’m going to a BBQ. What should I wear?
I’m going bar-hopping for Friday night happy hour. What should I wear?
I’m going dancing on a Saturday night. What should I wear?
My house is burning and I need to leave immediately. What should I wear?

It seems like the “What should I wear” game is one of the most overplayed, exhausting, and intoxicatingly addicting games my friends and I participate in. Every event seems to require at least one of us asking what we should wear. Or what are you wearing? Is jeans okay for a Friday night? Do we have to get dressed up for dinner in at your house? Is sweats acceptable on a Sunday afternoon? Do I have to come to your pool party wearing an actual swimsuit?

When I was a kid, I didn’t care what I wore. As long as it was comfortable. I probably took that mantra to an extreme, and actually got into trouble for wearing my pajamas to school. But it was so much easier then than it seems to be now. Even with a full closet of clothes, I’m in a constant struggle to find the right thing to wear.

Styles change. My size changes. My tastes change. Styles change again. My closet is an ever-evolving rotating door of clothes that comes and goes before I’ve had the chance to get my wear out of any particular item. The absolutely right-now perfect top doesn’t seem to hold up two months from now. The pink cargos went the way of pink flamingos in our front yard. The overalls I loved so much have been donated after eight years of hoping to make a comeback. It’s very frustrating how often fashion changes ever-so-slightly that last year’s version looks so much like this year’s, but not enough to pull it off. I’d rather just chuck it than worry about who’s noticed that I’m wearing “so last years”. And honestly, I care about this stuff as much as the average girl yet it still eats me up.

Plus, I never can seem to get ahead of the fashion and actually have the right thing to wear, so I’m constantly at the mall looking for perfection. Of course, I never find it when I’m looking for it. Only when I’m in a rush or shopping for a gift for someone else.

I try not to kill myself with keeping up with the styles and stick to my tried-and-true favorites. Most of my clothes are my staple favorites that you’ve probably seen me wear a thousand times. They’re like the PJs of my childhood. Three kinds of items are my standard-issue uniform. I can wear strikingly similar black or white t-shirts and never get tired of wearing them. I have twenty variations of the same t-shirt shirt: v-neck, deep v-neck, scoop neck, boat neck, three-quarter sleeve, long sleeve, gathered, cap sleeve…. I should buy an additional color or two when I refresh the uniforms but I wind up moving those to the back of the closet and focusing on my favorites.

I also have my standard issue sweats. They’re shoved in a drawer with eight other pairs, but I always seem to reach for the same gray pair over and over. Now they have a hole right below the knee, thanks to Casey. But instead of tossing them, I’ve decided to roll them up, hip-hop style.

Flip flops round out my third standard-issue uniform. Pink, white, black, red and every color in between. I have flips with rhinestones and flops with bows. I have crystal ones and stone ones and plain ones and denim ones and high heels and low heels and some I have multiple pairs of the same kind. I have a whole basket of flip flops and can wear a pair every day for over a month with out duplication.

What's your standard issue uniform?

The terrible twos of puppyhood

At 4am this morning, I was standing in my driveway, staring up at the full moon and the bright night sky. No, I didn’t sleepwalk my way outside nor awake from a bad dream. I was watching my new puppy, Casey, pee. Even at that ungodly hour, he was so awake and chipper. He sniffed in endless circles until he found just the right blade of grass with the right scent to leave his mark. Then he followed it up with a healthy poop. Of course, I have to watch each poop to ensure it’s the right consistency, much like a new mother inspects her newborn’s poop.

And that got me thinking about how much a new puppy is like having a new baby. For the longest time I had a magnet on my fridge that read, “Once you have a baby, you can’t give it back.” Unfortunately, at times, I wish this weren’t also true for dogs.

I love my dog, don’t get me wrong. I love that he still looks like a large, fluffy cream-colored marshmallow. He’s a love bug. He loves me to scratch his belly. He’s fun to watch as he chases a bug or can’t maneuver going down the stairs and falls. I love his silly antics. I love watching him run: his back legs run almost perpendicular to his front legs, his ears flop and he has a lopsided smile on his face with his long tongue hanging to one side. Often, when he’s running directly to me, he can’t slow down fast enough and crashes into my legs. He’s hilarious.

I love how eager he is to please me. How I can train him to sit or come when I call. I love how he loves to hang out with me all the time. He’s great company. He doesn’t talk back. He’s a great listener. He keeps a good secret. I love watching him have fun with an empty paper towel tube. If only I could find such joy in something so simple.

On the other hand, I’m tired of getting up to walk him every night. Damn it, pee in your crate or hold it, I think when he wakes me. He also likes to dig in the dirt and bury things. Usually as I’m walking out the door, dressed for work, I have to stop and clean muddy paws and then my own muddy pants. He finds everything I don’t want him to find and eats it, like my dirty panties in the laundry basket. He’s like a Mexican jumping bean now, jumping up on my couch too. Each time I push him off. Then he jumps back on like a broken record. On, “Casey off!”. On, “Casey off!” On, “Casey off!” You get my drift…

Casey chews everything. My baseboards, my rugs, the girls’ stuffed animals, my robe, my pants legs, my shoes, and most deliciously, my arms and hands. Apparently, I’m a delicacy. Maverick and the girls are tasty treats but not so much as his favorite person, me. And when he gets fixated on teething on me, I have a hard time keeping my cool with him…it hurts! When I reprimand him, he thinks it’s a game, which leads to more human chewing. So much so that I toss him outside for a reprieve, which leads to freedom in the back yard and digging and dirty paws again. It’s a nasty cycle.

It’s reminiscent of all my new-mother suffering I had to endure when Maya came, especially the first few months. Luckily, one human year is equivalent to seven dog years. So this stage should be end much more quickly than with a human baby. However, that also means Casey is almost two human-years old. A toddler. Great. Now I’m beginning the terrible two’s. I’m in trouble.

A star chart for lip plumper

I decided tonight that I need to make myself a star chart, just like the one I had as a little girl. My mother made it for me and it tracked certain responsibilities I had to do on a daily basis. Do my chores, get a shiny gold star. The chart was intended to reinforce good behavior, so a certain number of stars equaled a wonderful prize, such as a new Barbie or some stickers.

I'm frustrated because I can't seem to get going on certain things I know I need to do for myself. I wonder if the star chart would help motivate me like it did so many years ago. Like remembering to take my eye makeup off at night. I want to do it every night. I know it will only take two minutes, but when I’m ready for sleep, two minutes feels like two extra hours, and all I want to do at that point is get into my bed. So, yes, I skip it many nights.

Honestly, I really don’t care if I wake up in the morning with raccoon eyes. It shouldn’t feel like such a big deal, to admit that I stink at being a responsible woman who takes care of my skin as well as I should. But admiting that fact make me feel like I’m wearing a scarlet letter. No woman in her rightful mind says it aloud either. And when we do admit it to our close girlfriends, we giggle at the relief to know we’re not the only ones.

There are those girls who wouldn’t dream of sleeping with their makeup on. Those girls have hour-long rituals of mud masks and toners, lotions and potions and bottles of hopeful magic. Those girls have drawers full of the latest and greatest in skin-care who-ha and all the latest rage they learn about from their shiny Vogue magazines. I’m definitely not one of those girls.

Sometimes, however, I long to be that girl… who sits on a chaise in front of a well-lit mirror, in a long silky robe with kitten heel slippers at her dressing table, dressing for dinner. The woman who has oodles of time to pay attention to herself. I am that woman when I’m on vacation. Then, I allow myself a whole hour and a half to get dressed in a beautiful marble hotel bathroom, vino in hand, jazz on the radio. I take my sweet time to pluck, shave, trim, inspect, moisturize, glamorize, spritz, curl my lashes, flatten my hair and otherwise enjoy the rituals of womanhood.

But in my reality, I wash and brush with one hand and tear my puppy Casey off my robe with the other. I’m an on-the-go kind of mothery-professional-sort-of-career-girl who wears cargo pants and flip flops to work just because I can. Dressing, like I do on vacation, is a luxury. In my daily life, reality is only getting the fuck dressed and out of the house, kids washed, brushed and fed, shoes on, backpacks packed, and oh, yes, there’s lunch to be made this morning too, plus I’m ten minutes late. I’m tossing the waffles in the sink that my kid asked for and microwaving a second breakfast of pancakes that she didn’t because she changed her mind. I’m getting the dog walked, poop scooped, and sufficiently hydrated and energized. I’m running back into the house, maybe once, usually twice, because I’ve forgotten something. All before 8am.

So when I say looking in the mirror while applying mascara is a luxury, you can see the picture. But there are some things I should do to take better care of myself, like remove my makeup at night. For once, I should make myself a priority again. Because only then will I take an extra minute to do something nice, and god forbid, healthy, for myself.

I had that brilliant epiphany the other weekend. Tonight, though, days later, after all that self-insight, I still have yet to do anything about it. I figured if I reward myself for completing the goal, not only will my chart be filled with lots of gold stars, but I’ll teach myself a new, good-for-me habit. My skin will thank me for it too. And then I can reward myself with that cute lip plumper I saw online at Sephora, because I always wished I had a pouty mouth. Then, as my motto goes, I will deserve it.

My girfriend Lexi

The other day, I had a long conversation with my friend Lexie. I thanked her for being one of my best friends. She’s always there for me when I need her. Sometimes, I rely on her to calm me down when I get all out of whack. I have a tendency to overreact, over-think, over-analyze, over-process, over-over-over everything. Talking to her helps bring me down from the ledge (or cave) I want to jump off of or crawl into. She helps me sort through the clutter and find reason. She reminds me that I’m not Superwoman or Woman of the Year, and that’s okay. She holds my hand when I start to panic that I can’t finish it all, be the best, find perfection, and overcome every challenge I throw in my own way.

Through our conversations, I realized how much I’ve been able to breathe deeper lately and not care so much about everything. Not sweat the small things. In planning my girls’ trip this year, the group is debating where to go. Planning a girls trip should not be so difficult. Usually I care and I care a lot. This year, I realize it doesn’t matter where I go, if I’m with my girls. I’ll even go back to the place we swore off in the first place. It just doesn’t matter because I know I’ll have fun. Lexie, however, was asked to stay home. If she can’t contribute to the conversation, she’s not welcome in it.

Being as laid back as Lexie has wonderfully therapeutic benefits. If you don’t put too much time into agonizing over every single detail, decisions are easier to make. It doesn’t have to be perfect, the best, the greatest. It doesn’t matter so much because it will all be good. Wherever we decide to go. Letting up on just a little frees up quite a bit of stress. Allowing others to help—or take charge of things, even—doesn’t mean it’s not going to get done right, as I always believed. It may not be done just so, like I would do it, but it will get done in another equally good fashion. I sort of like the vacation from it, actually.

Lexie reminds me that life is too short. I have to enjoy the life I was given. The body I live inside. The mind’s space I occupy. The cards I was dealt. She helps me dispose of the unproductive thoughts and focus on what matters. It’s much more productive for me to focus on a few important things at once than endless unimportant things all at the same time. I’ve learned from Lexie to stop fixating on the bad stuff I can’t change and work on the good stuff that I can make great. I’m not saying I’m all the way there yet, but I’m sure trying.

I’m lucky to have Lexie in my life. Hope all of you have your Lexie too.

39 is better than 29.

Today is my 39th birthday. I was dreading it, but now that it’s here, it’s not feeling quite as painful as I imagined. A few weeks ago, when I was wallowing in my dread of this day, I wrote a about ignoring my birthday. Today, feeling happier, I thought I’d follow up with some good news about turning 39. In no particular order, here’s why 39 is better than 29:

I smell the roses. A decade ago, I was so busy chasing my dreams and trying to fulfill my life’s purpose, I never stopped to enjoy it. Once I reached a hurdle, there was always another one around the corner. Something else to tackle. Another goal to pursue. Now that I’ve reached the major life milestones, career, husband, family, home, I allow myself the opportunity to sit back and appreciate all the good things in my life.

Acceptance is easier. I’m more accepting of my strength and weakness. I tried for three decades to improve my weaknesses with marginal improvement. Now, I’m focusing on making my strengths shine. I am who I am, good with the bad. I have to accept that, as I’m doing more so now, than constantly trying to better myself at the sake of my sanity.

I’m more comfortable in the grey. Life for me was always black and white, highs and lows. Life revolved around drama and I thrived on it. Because without drama, life moved in the grey. The mundane, boringness of everyday life. I didn’t like being there. I wasn’t comfortable in it. I always needed ups and downs to keep me going and something to look forward to. A dinner date. A vacation. A deadline. Now, I’m more okay with just being.

I’m calmer. If you know me, that’s huge progress. To relax, to do nothing, to just be. To take things in stride. To not over think. To not dwell. To not read into something that wasn’t there. To take things at face value. To not question everything. Even when my body was still, my mind would race at every moment. Now I have more peace in my brain and in my life. Grey is a good color on me now.

I have better relationships. My connections to my family and my friends is what gives meaning to my life. My bond with those that I care about runs deep and is my lifeblood. In my teens and twenties, it was about volume, now it’s about quality.

I’m thankful. I’m thankful for every one who’s impacted my life positively and hope I let you know it. Often. Because if not today, then when? Why wait to say I love you when I’m thinking it now? Maybe I’m mushy. But I consider that one of my strengths.

Lucky me

I’m not easily fooled. I read between the lines and know what you’re hiding. I can read your facial expressions and know what you’re not telling me. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. But apparently, you can pull a surprise party over on me!

Surprise parties are the best kind of parties. There’s no involvement on the recipient’s end. Everything is handled for you. You get to show up and just enjoy. You get the honor of being celebrated. You get to bask in the love of your friends. You get to dance around like a wild woman and not worry about being judged. You get to sit at the head of the table and make toasts. You’re allowed to get mushy and tell your friends how much you love them twenty times. You get to blow out the birthday candles (Unless your cake has sparklers, thank you very much!). You get to eat a beautiful cake. (Unless someone drops it and then there's a second beautiful cake!) You get to open wonderful surprises in beautifully wrapped bags. It’s a wonderful thing.

The beauty of a party in your honor is while your friends are celebrating you, you can celebrate your friends. There’s no better feeling than in knowing how much time, energy, thought, effort, and love was all put forth for you. I’m so very lucky for my dear, wonderful friends who took the time from their very busy lives to make me feel so incredibly special. I’m so very lucky for my dear, wonderful husband who has redeemed himself from spilling the beans at my 30th birthday surprise twenty feet away from the door. I’m just so very lucky for you, and you know who you are. Thank you.

Hip hop and tics-a-lot

Do you have a personal tic that you subconsciously know you have but never realized others were aware of it? Damn, it’s embarrassing when you finally learn that you don’t do such a good job of covering it up. Or worse, is when you learn that you do it more often than you thought and your girlfriends all see it but never mention it to you. (until it’s time to laugh at you!)

I used to wear glasses on occasion. I should have worn them more often than I did, but I was vein. I didn’t like how they looked nor did I like when they slid down my nose. But more importantly, I didn’t like how they looked. Instead, I wore contacts. However, the contacts constantly dried out my eyeballs. I used to blink often, or stare straight ahead in an effort to fix them. I knew I did it. I just didn’t realize how often I stared bug-eyed at my friends or fluttered my eyes until I was called out on it, while they laughed mercilessly.

Yeah, yeah. I can laugh at myself with the rest of you. But a month later, I gave into Lasik surgery. Of course, now I have the last laugh with my better than 98% of the world 20/15 vision…but anyway, I digress…

So last night, I took a hip-hop class with my girlfriends. I absolutely loved it. It was just as I imagined it would be. The instructor was young, flexible, and amazing. I however, am not. I looked more like a fleshy robot and I didn’t even care. We laughed a lot, both at ourselves and at each other, and I can’t wait to go back (albeit alone!) to the next class.

On the ride home, I was asked why I wanted to learn hip-hop. It’s not like I’m going to bust a hip-hop move on a table at the Greek restaurant, right? No, I explained that I want to learn how to be fluid in my movements. Because there’s nothing fluid about me, except maybe my frequent need to pee. Hip-hop is beautiful dancing to me—plus it’s such fun, not to mention a great workout.

Ironically, the instructor was also Maya’s hip-hop teacher. Furthermore, we’re learning the same routine. So now, I’ll be not only humiliated next to the other women in the class, but I can be shown up by my seven year old. Now I understand why Maya has two left feet. She gets it from me. And we’re left-handed which makes learning the moves all the more confusing and backwards for us.

At lunch today, I shared my experience with some girlfriends. One asked to see the routine and I willingly obliged. The other, who has danced on many tables beside me, laughed about how I always hang my tongue out in some fashion when I dance. It’s a part of my “look”. Ha ha, we laughed, but inside I cringed because you know what? Damn it, she’s right! I guess I was subconsciously aware that I do some weird thing with my mouth—twist my lips and who-knows-what with my tongue. I’m sort of mortified. I think I just make lots of funny faces in case anyone is watching me dance. This way if they think I look hilarious, they’ll also think apparently I think I’m hilarious too. Maybe I do it to distract anyone from actually looking at my body while I dance. Either way, it’s just another tic in a long list of mine that I possess.

Oh, and did I mention I also seem to snap my fingers while dancing too? Maverick shared that nugget not too long ago, while I was dancing around the house. Now you may get the picture why I’m looking for some help.

Vacation calling etiquette

My recent post regarding whether it's okay to call a girlfriend while she's on vacation has received a great response. Thank you! I'm truly enjoying this blogging experiment, doing some writing like I've always wanted to do, and developing my own creative outlet. And as an added bonus, I get feedback from my readers and friends, which I absolutely love. (Even when you tell me some of my posts are bitchy!)

So I have two requests of you, my readers:

Comment on my blog. If you read something you like (or don't!), respond to it. Say what you think. It's a shame when I'm the only one to hear your similarly funny stories. I want to share it with all my girlfriends. You can respond with your name or you can respond anonymously. Just get engaged, share your comments and join my tribe.

Vacation phone calls, or not! Would you like to be called while on vacation? Should I expect that you may be calling me? I just want to know your stance.

Tonight, Jamaica told me, "Definitely not. I will not call you on vacation. My mind will be far away from here!" That's cool. Now I know that unless I'm having a true girly emergency, when Jamaica's away, do not hit #8 on speed dial!

Then, another girlfriend hit me with: "Of course, I want you to call! You think I want to sit around for three days,with my husband, by myself ?"

Here's my answer: If I'm traveling with the family, call away. I can probably use a break from the choke-hold of kids asking me to buy them something else or from the exhaustion of trying to do something fun while the kids are bickering and would have really been satisfied had I just let them play their DS's until their brains melt and ooze from their ears.

But if I'm alone with Maverick, don't bother calling. There's no way I'm answering because most likely, I won't care where my phone is. It's that simple. So tell me, so I'm clear. Do you keep your phone on, fully charged and close by when you're on vacation?

Cosmetic surgery, vaginas & Charlie the Tuna

It seems like there's been a lot of conversations lately about cosmetic surgery and other enhancements. One girlfriend has been gung-ho about trying Botox and/or Restylane. She often bitches about her lines and creases and has several friends who started down the needle highway already. She’s just too damn scared to turn herself loose on that road; but every time she hears another success story, she inches closer to the entrance ramp. I told her I’d probably consider something cosmetic at some point, but I think that once you jump on that runaway train, it’s hard to get off.

I’ve seen girlfriends get good boob jobs and bad boob jobs. Tummy tucks, lipo on the thighs and buttocks. Nose jobs, tattooed eyebrows, collagen injections, face and eyebrow lifts. Whatever floats your boat is cool with me. It’s your body and if it helps your self-esteem, I support you.

But there is a point of too much. If you don’t believe me, spend a day at the Boca Towne Center. Aside of great shopping, there’s an endless stream of overdone women to giggle at. You can see tons of too-tiny waists on lollypop heads with faces sewn back on on too tightly and lips that look like the Charlie the Tuna guy on a Starkist can.

Today, as I was sitting at my desk working on a mundane spreadsheet, I got a hilarious phone call from a girlfriend. She called to share that she just heard a radio commercial for the crowning glory of all cosmetic procedures. The king of the hill. Top of the heap. Hey, number one…

Vaginal rejuvenation.

Say it with me…vag-in-al re-juv-e-nation. Yes, ladies, for several thousand bucks, you can have the procedure that tightens your vagina and perineum to help increase your pleasure during sex and stay young in every way.

I’m laughing now and not sure how to make more fun of it than that. I’m partly laughing at the term, vaginal rejuvenation. It reminds me of another funny vagina word—vaginal dentata, or women with toothed vaginas. Various cultures have folk tales about women with toothed vaginas, frequently told as cautionary tales warning of the dangers of sex with strange women and to discourage the act of rape.

To further that thought, in the bizarre-but-true category, a real product was invented called Rapex. It looks like a female condom, but with one stunning difference: upon penetration, 25 hook-like barbs attach themselves to the skin of the penis, and the device is then transferred from female to male and can only be removed by a doctor. The idea is that the rapist’s pain would disarm him long enough for the victim to get away, and would require him to turn himself in–evidence unmistakable–in order to avoid permanent damage.

Not sure where I was going here, aside of the laughing I’m doing alone at my desk, but consider this lesson on vaginas over.

Twittering now too

It's official. After exactly one day, I'm hooked on twitter. It's so much fun to release my one-sentence ramblings rather than writing a whole blog post. I promise not to stop blogging, but enjoy the Twitter Tidbits too! If you like, you can click the link "Follow me on Twitter" to really keep up. It's fun. Oh, and you can follow Ashton Kutcher if you want to also...but his tweets don't make much sense to me. :)

Vacation from friends

When you go on vacation, it’s usually to escape the headaches and stresses of everyday life. The job, the spouse, the kids, the bills, the carpooling, the traffic, the grocery store…whatever. But what about your friends? Do we go on vacation to escape our friends too? Sometimes, the obvious answer is yes. But if you have a girlfriend with whom you speak to regularly and she goes on vacation, does she really want you calling for the daily gabfest just like when she’s not on vacation?

I encountered this situation recently. I would never think to call a girlfriend on vacation because when I’m on vacation, I like to pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. If I want to check in with you, I’ll call you. But another girlfriend called our vacationing friend. I wouldn’t want my vacationing friend to think I was not a good friend if I didn’t check in to see how everything was going. Would I look like a bad friend if I just asked about your trip when you return? Luckily, my vacationing girlfriend called me before I spent another day debating if I should or shouldn't call.

Of course, I missed my friend while she was away. But I don’t know if that’s enough justification for calling. I figured if she didn’t feel like talking, she could let my call go straight to voicemail. But then she’d have it hanging over her head that she needed to call me back at some point and that creates stress. But if I call and she doesn’t want to talk, but answers anyway, I’m still creating stress. Either way, it’s a lose-lose scenario and I’m perpetuating the vicious cycle of why we go on vacation in the first place, to reduce stress.

Unless, of course, she wants to talk while on vacation. Should we clarify up front, before you leave on vacation, whether we should talk while you’re gone? And if so, will you be calling me or should I call you? Maybe we should just text? Or go on vacation somewhere with no cell signal. The rules aren’t clear and clearly vary by girlfriend. What’s your rule? Let me know, so I don’t stress.

Hip-hop-laugh-a-lot

Since I was a little girl, I’ve loved to dance. The house I grew up in had a giant, furnished basement. As a kid, I’d lock myself downstairs, turn the Bee Gees up on the turntable and dance the day away. Sometimes, I’d bring a large mirror down there to watch myself. I’d use an open door to swing myself around on like it was my dance partner. Once, my mother stored a highly polished wood dining room table down there and that became the perfect surface to practice spinouts on my tush like a Dance Fever girl. I’d throw myself down and spin out with an arm raised in the air with the a flourish, ta-da!

I’d sing and dance and put on a show for nobody in particular. But in my fantasy, I was always a very famous, very glamorous, very rich, popular and gorgeous Hollywood starlette who made the crossover from successful films to Broadway to Billboard’s Top 20 Hits. Not to mention my movie-star boyfriend, Tom Cruise!

That’s when I was my happiest. Dancing around like I knew what I was doing, first to Andy Gibb and then Saturday Night Fever and later to Grease, Fame and then Flashdance. Dancing around in the privacy of my own basement (with a very large, appreciative audience in my own mind) always put a smile on my face. I clearly remember feeling flushed and out of breath, as I took a large bow and accepted my standing ovation. It was my way of escaping out of reality and into my perfect fantasy of actually having a gifted dancing ability.

Truth be told, I really can’t dance. I can move my hips and pull off a convincing dance in a crowd. That’s when I’m at my best now. I’m the girl who can shimmy in a chair and look good doing it. But getting up and dancing doesn’t translate as well on my own two feet. I do it anyhow because after all these years, it still feels amazing. Put a few drinks in me, and I’ll tear up a dance floor. Who cares how I look to others if I can’t see straight? Even today, I still dance around the house when no one is looking. I dance with my girls and luckily, they don’t know any better than to laugh at me.

One of my favorite dance shows is “So You Think You Can Dance?” After watching the first season, I got hung up on wanting to learn how to hip hop. Maverick laughed. I’m so klutzy and uncoordinated. How could I learn to do hip-hop well? I showed him my hip-hop moves. He laughed again. So did I. But deep down inside, I really meant it. I WANT TO LEARN HOW TO HIP-HOP. It’s all about exaggerated moves and popping. I think I could do that. Maybe…

So finally, I found an adult hip-hop class. I refuse to get down on the floor and do the “corkscrew” or the “worm-whatever” but I am very excited to learn how to bust a move. Hopefully, I won’t bust a bone. My girlfriends are going with me. I don’t know what that’s going to be like but I can guarantee it will be worth it’s weight in laughter. Maybe I should down a few shots of tequila before I go.

It's my party, so I will cry...

My birthday is around the corner. Not a major one, just the one before the big one. The big 4-0 is taunting me. It's leering at me in the makeup mirror every time I peek. It's sneering that I can't stop the clock. Forty is going to come in just over 365 days and nah, nah, nah, nah, nah...there's nothing I can do about it.

I admit it: I'm scared shitless of getting old. I never realized it, or never really thought about it for that matter because "getting old" seemed so far away. I can look in the mirror and still see my fourteen year old self imagining myself as a grown up. Now, I look in the same mirror and can't believe this is what I was waiting for.

I want a refund. This wasn't the show I had hoped to see. I believed everyone who told me I looked so young for my age and that I always would. Maybe I do look young for my age, but inside I feel like an old soul.

It's not just vanity that drives my disdain for this birthday. No, I thought I'd have gotten so much more accomplished by this point. I remember when my 30th approached, I was so calm, cool and collected about that birthday because I had reached so many goals I had set for myself.

I had graduated college, done some traveling, was excelling in my career, happily married and on my way to owning my first home. Hitting thirty was a hurdle I leaped over with flying colors.

Maybe 40 is so hard because I don't feel like I've had any goals in the last decade. The last decade. That's a long time, ten years. One quarter of my whole life and nothing worth noting. Yes, I've had two wonderful children. I don't discount that. But having kids isn't much of a goal. It's a matter of having some perfectly timed sex. Plus, my body is so fertile like the banks of the Nile, Maverick's sperm just needed to be dusted over my willing-and-able slutty egg to reproduce. My egg hung out the red light and screamed that my uterus was open for business. So, even that was not much of an accomplishment of a personal nature.

And if you still need more justification, my big 4-0 present to myself is a surgery. Not fun botox or lipo, or even a tummy tuck. No, I get to treat myself to a full hysterectomy. Say goodbye to my uterus and other lovely women parts. Say hello to heat flashes, and hormone therapy. Oh, can't wait to meet that sexless, hairless, vaginally dry woman! She'll be a blast.

My point is, if it's my party, I will cry. I really don't want to acknowledge this birthday,or even the next one for that matter. I'd like it to pass over and not exist. Like an off-leap year. It's much more fun celebrating my friends' birthdays. Especially for the ones who are older than me.

Unconditional love

This weekend, I fell in love at first sight. I saw him at once upon entering the room after quickly noting the other boys. Our eyes locked into a death grip and you could feel the laser-beam energy emulating from them. The rest of our surroundings melted away and all that existed in that moment was he and I. I crossed the room to him and he ran to me. I raised my arms and reached for him and we intertwined in a hug that felt like a lifetime coming. I knew right then and there that he was the one for me. I had waited so long to meet him and once I was there with him, everything in the world felt right. Next, he brought his face up to mine…

…and licked me. Yes, this weekend I brought home my new puppy, Casey. And yes, it was love at first sight, I’m not exaggerating. From the car ride to the airport, from the plane back to the car, in those first few hours we made our connection and formed a permanent bond. Me to him and him to me. I’m in love with his puppy breath, his oversized paws, his tiny, sharp teeth and his fuzzy fur. He looks like a golden marshmallow and has a personality to match. I’m in heaven.

Of course, my almost-seven-year-old had something to say about this new love. She commented that I’m paying so much attention to him and treating him like a baby. I replied that he is in fact a baby, only 8 weeks old. She corrected herself that I treat him like a human baby.

Obviously, a little jealous, but if you think kids grow up fast, try raising a puppy. By the time you turn around, they’re full grown. And cute of course, but surely not like a puppy. I can’t get enough of the puppy phase of watching him crash into walls, uncontrolled spinouts and slides on the tile floor, endless curiosity regarding every nook and cranny of my home, chasing his tail, trying to catch a lizard, attempting to navigate up the stairs, and even watching his sheer joy as he chases five kids in the backyard.

And the thing about a dog is he gives you unconditional love. Where else do you find that? Surely not from your children who swear to disown you when you embarrass them. Or from your husband who gets pissed when you don’t do things exactly as he would. Every human relationship has conditions that must be met to receive love. With a dog, just feed him, play with him, love him, and take good care of him and his heart is yours forever. It’s a beautiful thing.

So maybe I’m choosing to overlook the three am walks and the poop on the floor because I didn’t get him out soon enough. I know I’m overlooking the chewing and vet bills and all the other responsibilities that goes along with having a dog. To be home to walk him and make sure he’s looked after when I go on vacation. Cleaning his teeth, his ears, his coat. Vacuuming up the tumbleweeds of fur. Training him to be an upstanding dog who listens to commands, sits when asked and doesn’t hump the guests. It’s just like taking care of another baby, which I swore I never would. At least the human kind.

Alas, it’s just one more task I’ve added to my daily to-do list, but it’s worth it. If you’re still not convinced, stop on over and to meet my new boy. He’s already warmed over some of the neighborhood chickens who ran from dogs before. In fact, they’re going to be our newest pet sitters next time we go away. Feel free to get in line...I know we'll need it.

The 140 word post

What do men bitch about more?
The nagging or the lack of sex? I wonder.

Boy, I threw you all for a loop with this post--looking for the rest of the story. Sorry. That's all I had to say. Just one line. The thought crossed my mind the other night, so I asked the question and hoped for your response.

I want to tweet on Twitter. It's the perfect, 30-second solution for me. My avid readers ask why I don't post here more and my answer is always the same. I love to blog. But sometimes I feel like I only want to give a 140 word thought. That's all the words twitter allows. I don't want to write paragraphs and construct a story. I want to say what's on my brain that very second. I want to write what I'm thinking and not tie it to examples. Now I get it. I've caught up with the idea of Social Media in a Web 2.0 world.

I'm going to twitter now too. I'll help set it up on your computer for you, don't worry. Let me know what you think.

Kiss your man

The other day I was astounded to learn that many of my friends didn’t kiss their husbands anymore. I’m not talking the polite-on-the-cheek kind of passing kiss. I’m talking the deep, passionate, tongue-mashing-tongue French kiss kind of kiss. The kind of kiss that probably draws each couple together in the initial “oh yeah!” of courtship. The kind of kiss girls all dream of sharing when we were still young enough to fantasize about what that kiss would feel like but not old enough to try it. Or if we did try it, it was sloppy and awkward with teeth scraping and confused tongues lashing about trying to connect at a unison speed.

I love kissing. Short kisses, long kisses. Fast kisses, slow kisses. Kisses on my neck and behind my ear. Kisses on my lips. Teasing kisses. Long, luxurious, leisurely kisses. Fast, passionate, desperate kisses. I like to kiss a lot. Maybe that’s just my nature but as surprised as my friends were to learn that I kiss Maverick that way after work still was in the same vein for me to learn that they did not.

It got me thinking about how does that make your man feel? And what else have you given up along the way. I know when months stretch into years in a relationship, it’s easy to let those things go. Careers, kids and responsibilities get in the way and we make time for more pressing needs. But if you think back to what brought you two together in the first place, wasn’t passion a major component of your connection?

Sure, we all looked for the boy from a good family with a good upbringing and a secure future that could provide for a family. Someone who took notice of our hopes and dreams, with whom we shared interests in common and a made us giggle like school girls. But wasn’t chemistry and passion and sex and kissing a part of it too? And if so, why do we let that integral part of that connection go so easily?

We’re great at finding all his flaws and pointing out and bitching about what’s he’s not doing for us, or how he doesn’t do what he used to do. But what about what we stopped doing for him? Let’s face it—as much as we still need to hear we’re beautiful and desired after all these years, he still needs to feel handsome and sexy too. Our men don’t just go to strip clubs to look at the girls, they go for the feeling they get when they’re slathered with the female’s attention too. And truthfully, he’d rather get it from you, I’d bet.

So go brush your teeth, gargle with Scope and lay a wet one on him. Now. For no reason. You may be pleasantly reminded just how damn good it makes you feel, too.

Living with the junk

Years ago, when Maverick and I were building our first home, an friend told me it took her 10 years to buy living room furniture. I thought she was off her rocker. How could it possibly take that long to get around to it? That would never be me, I insisted to myself….

And now 8 years later, I find my living room empty, aside of the pool table that fills the center in a feeble attempt to deny myself the fact that I still don’t have furniture yet either. Just last week, I had company in for a visit and that finally prompted me to redo my guest bedroom.

The weekend before my friends arrived, I was aghast at the realization that they would be sleeping in a room still filled with my old college furniture. And truth be told, some of it was even older than that. It was embarrassing that after all this time, we were still “making do” with the junk we brought with us to this house. Now it was time to move on.

So I ran around like a lunatic, found new bedroom furniture and redecorated the room. It looks terrific. Now, of course, I’m looking around the rest of the house, ready to “fix up” everything else that needs to be finished or even started for that matter.

I walked from room to room, tearing my house apart in my mind and thinking about all the things I would like to do if I had the opportunity to start over (with a chic decorator, of course!) As I passed by the family room TV, my first thought encompassed the beautiful new flat-screen television I’d place there. Then I noticed the CNN news anchor talking about the rate of foreclosures and the stats of how many people have lost their jobs and their homes….

It was depressing news. I shut off the TV and thought about how my good my life is, and realized that all the other things can wait. I’m thankful for the nice things I have, along with a beautiful home that we’re not in jeopardy of losing. My life is not as hard as others have it right now. I can live with the rest of the junk for a while longer.

Lost freedom

Driving with my kids, I had to laugh as they listened to their I-pods while playing their Nintendo DSs. They don’t even realize how lucky they are to have these fabulous, portable toys to play with in the car. When I was a kid, all my brother and I had to do in the car was fight, usually about who was going to sit in the middle of the backseat.

When I think about all the things our children have that didn’t exist when we were kids, I could be envious. Even with all their cool toys though, there’s one thing that we can never give our kids that we had and that’s worth all the gadgets in the world. It’s freedom.

As a kid, I remember running around my neighborhood for hours and my mother didn’t feel the need to be outside with me. We used to run in the woods, build forts, pick blackberries, play ring-a-levio or tag. We'd ride our bikes all over and then throw them down to play inside someone's house for a while. We never though to call home. We just knew to be home by dark or when the neighbor stood outside at dinnertime and whistled to his kids like a dog. Even as a tween, I was allowed to walk down a semi-major road to the 7-11 or take a bus to the mall or go to the movies with my friends and just be free.

No one worried that we were going to be snatched away by a stranger in our own driveway. No one worried that the boogeyman was hiding at the playground. Play dates and sleepovers with friends were no big deal, even if my parents didn’t really know their parents. It was a different world.

Now, I’m not even comfortable allowing my girls to play hopscotch in the front of the house without supervision. And sadly, it’s not because I don’t trust them not to run off into the street. You just never know anymore who’s lurking in their car or watching them exit the building at school.

Even without a cell phone, we were afforded so much more freedom and trust than we can give our kids today. And for that, I feel sad for them. That we have to be so guarded and protected and force them to understand potential dangers of this world much earlier than we would like.

Everything is always so structured now, including their free time. I think there’s some life lessons to be learned about interacting with others, especially when a parent is not around to mediate. Too often, we jump in too fast to “help” instead of letting the kids work it out for themselves because we don’t want to listen to the bickering. Maybe next time, I’ll give them the latitude to work it out on their own. It’s the smallest bit of freedom I can give.