Frozen, Plastic, Waxy Women

One of my guilty pleasures is buying the gossip mags that come out every Friday. I gave up most all of my unhealthy vices like fake baking, smoking and carbs, which will hopefully save me from having to nip/tuck my ears to the back of my head one day. Don't get me wrong. I'm all for a little surgical help, especially since mother nature can no longer hold my breasts in their full, upright and locked position. Under wire and padding give the illusion that they are in the anatomically correct place on my frame, but when the Wacoal comes off I go back to having tribal tits—sigh.

Okay, back to my point. I'm absolutely all for plastic surgery, until you begin to actually look plastic. There are women in Hollywood that have foreheads so slick and shiny I'd be willing to bet you could bounce the rays of the sun off them and start a fire. I have my suspicions that's how the wildfires get started out there. I mean, really, think about it. Wildfires occur with such regularity and predictability that I'm thinking the LAFD needs to check Nicole Kidman's Botox schedule. If you've been on Botox for years and suddenly stopped, would your face start looking like a Sharpei? Things that make you go hmmm...

So called trout pouts are another oddity to me. They remind me of wax lips...you know the ones. Do men really find that look attractive? I think plastic women have to plump up their lips because their skin has been pulled tighter than a snare drum, and their lips have disappeared into a thin, thin line resembling a Muppet mouth. Once they have injected a sufficient amount of collagen or fat (which sometimes comes from the patients own ass fat) into the lips you get the so called trout pout, which I find befitting because the women look like a trout in it's final death throes gasping for air.

I am still learning to love myself no matter what skin I'm in. I have been as heavy as 250 and as skinny as 125 in the last five years, which just means I'll need a complete body overhaul in the very near future. Skin definitely does not snap back after age forty, and being stretched as much as mine has! I just hope when I am done healing I still look like me, and not some frozen, plastic, waxy version of a woman desperate to cling to her youth.

Shopping with Mom

I was practically raised on Neiman Marcus, so when my mom suggested we meet there yesterday, I was giddy. I hadn't set foot in the store in about five years. When you are a stay at home mom you really don't have any occasions that call for designer duds, but I'm a firm believer that an afternoon at Neiman's is good for the soul! 

We met outside our entrance. I'm quite sure we've never entered the store through any other door...outside, fourth level parking deck. I don't think they've changed the handle on that door since it was hung many years ago. It looks just the same as I've always remembered it—familiar, worn, weathered, and frozen in time. It's just about the only thing that hasn't changed. Things on the inside have moved around a bit like shoes, jewelry and the ladies lounge, but it's still every bit as elegant.

Dressing for Neiman's is a must if you expect to get any service, and mom didn't disappoint. She looked regal, refined and more beautiful than ever. They say men get more distinguished as they age and women just get older. Anyone who believes that should take a look at my mom. At forty one I am still humbled in her presence. 

 After a stroll through the Manolo's, Louboutin's, Prada's and Weitzman's we lingered in the skin care and make up before a leisurely lunch in the café. The café used to be intimate and quaint with white tablecloths and fine linen napkins. It was the kind of place you could still spot sophisticated women in Chanel suits and white gloves having lunch. That classic atmosphere was what gave the café it's charm, and now it's just like any other eating establishment in town with modern décor, hard stiff back chairs, and zero appeal. The food is still good though, and the company second to none. 

The prices for wares at Neiman's has earned it the nickname Needless Markups. I cannot argue with that. You really don't need to pay $650 for a pair of sandals—I don't care whose name is on the label. Mom did instill in me the importance of quality, and that it's okay to spend money on something that is classic, timeless and will last forever. That is my mom...classic and timeless. The lessons and wisdom that she has passed on to me I now pass on to my children, and in that respect she will last forever.

A Writer Writes

A writer writes, huh? Well what if a writer has nothing to say? Some days, there are plenty of words to fill a page, or pages. Then there are days when you have absolutely nothing to share. Today is one of those days, or is it? When the girls are in school, I spend about 30 hours a week alone. I'm not what you would call a social person, so it's hard for me to make friends. Making new friends to me is equivalent to a first date. It's awkward, uncomfortable, and you feel obligated to dredge up the history of your life in order to make polite conversation—no thanks. I'm the kind of person who would much rather spill my guts out on the blank pages of a journal than in the ear of someone who has enough problems without having mine dumped in their lap. Fortunately, I can count three women (you know who you are) who will listen to my bullshit, and offer up some good advice when it's necessary—thank you. So today, my house is a mess, there are bills to pay, dogs to walk, a blog to post, and a book to finish. The garbage truck outside reminds me that I must collect the can from the curb. The hum of the dishwasher means there will be dishes to put away later. The timer on the dryer is buzzing calling me to fold clothes before they become a wrinkled mess. The silence of the telephone and the absence of e-mail is perhaps the loudest noise I hear. I am alone, with few friends after all. Could I reach out? Would any one of them be there for me if I did? Yes, of course they would, but I choose instead, to fill a blank page...because a writer...writes.

Toy Torture

My girls have the week off due to a mid-winter break. Needless to say it's hard for me to concentrate on my book, but they have provided me with some great material for my new blog. I don't bother picking up the toy carnage left in their wake anymore. They know that when they are finished playing crash test baby that it needs to be put away. Crash test baby straps herself into her stroller, and then launches like a fighter jet off an aircraft carrier head first into whatever gets in her way: door jam, kitchen island, fridge, cat, and occasionally me if I'm not paying attention to launch codes. The girls squeal in delight as crash test baby survives another collision—is that bad? I figure it's not as bad as when they used to play Suicide Barbie.

Suicide Barbie often takes herself to the top of "lover's leap" (our foyer balcony) and hurls her broken hearted self over the edge to splat on the hardwood below. Sometimes Ken joins her in her foolhardy leap, a romantic gesture I suppose, and their plastic parts wind up in a twisted contorted lovers lump in the floor. Sometimes the barbies are clothed, sometimes they are naked. Once Barbie was found dangling in the foyer, naked, swinging by her neck from a doggie leash. It was like a little Barbie crime scene. Apparently, the girls had moved on to other forms of toy torture, and it was left up to me to give Barbie a proper funeral. Again, is that bad?

I didn't know anyone growing up who didn't have a Magic 8 Ball, and my girls are no exception. I think, however, that they misunderstand the proper use of the thing. Magic 8 Ball is supposed to be stored in a safe place until you have to know whether you will marry your true love, Joe Jonas, one day. Then you respectfully and oh so carefully take your Magic 8 Ball from it's specially chosen location, hold it gently in your hands, and reverently ask your question, right? Well when Samantha came down the stairs last night with a big red welt on her forehead, Ruth Ann fessed up that she had "accidentally" hit Sam in the head with the Magic 8 Ball. How do you get hit in the head with a Magic 8 Ball?! I just shook my head and giggled. Somewhere from the other room, Sam was singing softly...if only I had a brain.

I Go Commando

I suppose there are worse things to have to be awakened by in the middle of the night than underwear. A few nights ago it was vomit, which I can handle. Well let me tell you, the Princess with her tiny little pea and fifty two mattresses has got nothin' on my little girl whose underwear wakes her up at midnight. I'm a light sleeper (a curse bestowed upon me the minute I gave birth; before that I could sleep through a freight train plowing through the living room) so when lights came on down the hallway, I got up to investigate.

Like 5-0 the questioning started...what's the problem? What do you mean they feel funny? Well, how many are you going to try on? No, they're all the same honey. What's wrong with that pair? The color's not right? The yellow ones? No, I don't know where they are. How about these? Too tight? Too loose? What do you mean one side rides up? Here, try these...what...no they're your sister's. Yes, they are clean! No they don't have her germs. No good, huh? Well what do you want me to do? Are you sure? You're kidding me, right? UUUGGGHHH!

Ultimately, we came full circle, back to the culprit that had rudely jolted my daughter from her peaceful slumber. See? They're better now, she says happily. I smile as I make my way back to bed. I absolutely understand her issues with underwear. It's hard to find a pair that fit just the way you like. I mean, there used to be like, two choices when it came to shopping for underwear, granny panties or thongs. Now there are briefs, boy cut, bikini, french, skimp skamp, thongs, lycra, cotton, Spanx, and the list goes on. I gave up trying to find the perfect pair of underwear when I went looking for my favorite brand, and they were gone. You may as well have slapped me right in the face. Look, if somethings not broke, don't go trying to fix it, right? So, until they raise my favorite underwear from the dead, I go commando!

Vomit Radar

I'm not sure at what point after having children we mothers develop the vomit radar. I used to gag uncontrollably at the sight, smell or even sound of someone yacking up a partially digested meal. Once you have kids though, something in your DNA that had been dormant for years suddenly throws up (pardon the pun) a shield making you immune to vomit. Baby vomit is something new mothers become accustomed to straight away. Non procreating women and men have a panic attack when small newborn babies suddenly start erupting. Mom looks over to see baby Jane gushing a fountain of sour smelling, yellowish, half curdled formula, and squeegees and wipes the infant—never getting a drop on her perfectly manicured nails. Hell, I used to change clothes every time I got barfed on until I surrendered, and would parade around all day with puddles of dried vomit on my shirt. By the end of the day, I looked like I'd been massacred by milky white paint balls.

When kids mature, vomit takes on a whole new dimension. Kids don't develop their radar until age eight or nine, which translated means they never hit the toilet—ever. They will hit everything on the way to the toilet, and then dry heave over the bowl having left a vomit trail all the way to the porcelain bowl. I have devised many foolish attempts to keep the vomit in one area so that I don't have to rent the Rug Dr. after every bout of stomach flu that hits our home. Laying a towel by the bed seems like a bright idea until you have used every clean towel in the linen closet, and are faced with hosing off the chunks on the patio before they can even go into the washer. I tried to load the washing machine with chunky towels once, but it took eleven rinse cycles to get the unidentifiable food particles off the inside walls of the drum. My latest and greatest idea has been the vomit bucket. Vomit radar picked up a blip a couple of nights ago and I went into military mode. Once you've cleaned up vomit six hundred times, you want to avoid number six hundred and one.

My daughter whipped the covers back on the bed. DEFCON four...what's wrong? I feel it coming, she says. DEFCON three...get up! She stands up and freezes. DEFCON two...grab the bucket! She grabs, she hits her target. DEFCON one....get to the toilet! She manages to make it without one chunk hitting the floor! The process would be repeated several more times that evening. As my daughter faded off to sleep, she says to me, aren't you glad that I hit the bucket mommy? I smile to myself triumphantly and tell her, yes. Then my radar returns to DEFCON five, and all is peaceful once again.

My Friend Stephanie

My friend Stephanie told me the news today that her mother has Alzheimer's. Stephanie was my best friend in high school, and I have not spoken to her, until this day literally, in twenty years. It was like picking up an old guitar that hadn't been played in a very long time. Familiar, friendly, perhaps a bit out of tune, but the fit was still comfortable. Hearing her voice transported me back to a time when I could just be me and it was grand! When you're eighteen, you can do anything—or so you think. Stephanie and I made some damn good memories before we went our separate ways, and I remember her mother. 

I am deeply saddened for Stephanie. The road ahead will be paved with bittersweet tears, and a roller coaster of emotions that must accompany a daughter watching her mother's memory slip away from her. I feel a kindred connection with Stephanie. Alzheimer's has wrapped it's merciless grip on members of my extended family, and I can't help but wonder if maybe my beloved mother might be the next victim. Perhaps I may be afflicted one day and be cursed to forget the faces of my two beautiful daughters, without whom life would be unbearable to me. One can only hope not. My advice to my friend would be—make your memories with your mother now, as many as you can. Try not to dwell on the fact that your mom might not remember, you will.