Entanglement

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 reg...

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,...

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...

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 ...

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...

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 ...

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...