Fabulous Vixen

"Yes, Many Buddhas"

2011-08-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

I once visited a monastery outside of Hong Kong called "Ten Thousand Buddhas." Don't be impressed: it was more of a "Ripley's Believe or Not" museum than the Shrine of Lourdes. Right in the lobby, sitting cross-legged, was the body of a man covered in gold leaf. This was the founder of the monastery, who had declared that his body would never, ever rot, so the monks had seen to it that this miracle was properly displayed. There he sat, in a small plexigas box like a hamster, not rotting, although I suspect he had help with his hair and eyebrows, which were thick and luxuriant. He looked pretty rotten to me, but then, I wasn't a believer.

What was remarkable about this place was the seemingly endless array of small statues of the Buddha, each one in a different pose - ten thousand poses, to be exact. Shelf after shelf of the Buddha with his hands in the air, the Buddha inquisitively resting his head on his hand, the Buddha relaxing with one knee up and an arm thrown across it . . . on and on it went. They were everywhere you looked - you couldn't swing a saffron robe without knocking one over.

Finally, I asked one of the monks, who spoke limited English, "Why so many Buddhas?"

"Ahh, yes," he smiled and nodded, then said sagely, "Many Buddhas."

Did I miss something? Was this one of those baffling parables I'd seen on re-runs of "Kung Fu?" Before I knew it, the kind monk would be asking me to snatch the pebbles from his hand.

I think about that Zen moment when I pointlessly ponder human behavior: Why did they do that? Why is she being so insensitive? Why is he being such a dick?"

Then, I hear the voice of the monk solemnly intoning, "Yes, many dicks."

I don't think the point of the monk's lesson was, "People can be dicks sometimes." But what came through loud and clear that day was that sometimes you just have to accept what's in front of you, whether it's a gold-leafed non-rotting body on display, or statues of the Buddha in ten thousand poses, or dickish behavior.

There is wisdom and grace in the realization that, "Yes, many dicks."

The Vexing Paradox of the Empty Box

2011-03-06T12:43:00.000-08:00

Imagine a Venture Capitalist listening to a pitch for a new service: For a small fee, customers would have to wait in long lines during restrictive hours, adhere to the company’s rigid restrictions at the risk of being turned away, and still have no guarantee that the service they paid for would actually do what they wanted it to do.

The VC would silently shred the prospectus in full view of its author, then quietly buzz for security to escort the poor soul from the building.

Yet that’s exactly what the Postal Service expects us to do. But, to paraphrase the ad for a city that has adapted beautifully to change, “What worked in the 19th century should stay in the 19th century.” The P.O.’s creaky approach rules out an IPO any time soon. It may sound like a good idea to hang on to an institution because it’s been with us so long, but we tried that with things like segregation and not letting women vote, and, sorry to say, it just didn’t work out.

Nobody expects the Postal "Service" to be efficient, but recently, I was caught in the bizarre, Zen-like conundrum of trying to mail an empty box. What is the sound of one empty box clapping? The situation was a paradox wrapped in a riddle sealed with cellophane tape.

What I had was an oversized, empty box of Kodak film, a old-time camera store display piece for a shutterbug friend of mine. My friend requested I send it as is, rather than collapsing it and causing wear and tear on the seams. Simple, right? Yet, apparently, no one at the P.O. had ever encountered a hollow, three-dimensional, rectangular object before. To say the clerk was flummoxed is an understatement. Here is the actual dialogue:

Me: (putting Kodak box on counter) I need a box . . .
Clerk: You have a box.
Me: No, I need a box so I can send this box.
Clerk: (suspiciously lifting box) But it's empty.
Me: That's right.
Clerk: You want to send an empty box?
Me: Yes.
Clerk: You'll need a box.
Me: (mentally screaming) Are you Abbott or freakin' Costello??

Since the Kodak box didn't fit their standard shipping cartons, they kindly offered to sell me a much bigger one. How nice of them: the cost of the box and postage would have set me back more than twice the normal rate. Just to mail an empty box!

Did I mention they don't even sell those little foam peanuts you need to fill the space inside?

Heck with that, I thought, and set upon a banker's box with a cutter and tape. I built a box from scratch, slicing and sticking and winding up with a pretty good container. So there.

Or so I thought.

Sorry: it turns out the Post Office doesn't accept homemade shipping boxes if they have any markings left over from previous use.

Great. Box cutter and tape once again in hand, I sliced more cardboard and used it to cover the writing on the sides. Heaven forbid the mail carrier get confused and accidentally deliver it to "Weyerhauser."

By the time I had covered every outer marking with cardboard and tape, my poor empty Kodak box weighed more than a pound and change. If anyone ever wanted to annoy Al Gore with campaign discouraging recycling, this package could be used on a poster. (I already have the slogan: “It's Only Earth - Why Bother?“) It was the sorriest, most forlorn example of "Re-Use" ever.

I let my friend know ahead of time that this pathetic package was hurtling its way toward his home.

That is, if the Postal Service actually delivers it.

A Mixed Bouquet

2011-03-06T10:39:00.000-08:00

If you were to characterize human beings as floral arrangements, there would be no
question that some people are definitely a dozen red long-stemmed roses: elegant, consistently beautiful, the kind that are presented to winners. In other words, everything I'm not. Turns out I'm a Mixed Bouquet: chaotic, eclectic, and eccentric; you may find the occasional carnation, but it's perfect for brightening a room. (Mixed Bouquets can also be obtained cheap at the entrance to Safeway, but that's another story.) Once I accepted my less-than-Rosy status, it was easy to recognize other Mixed Bouquets, who can always be counted on for a good time.

Not that I have anything against Roses! Oh, far from it! We need Roses to
organize things, keep everyone calm, and gently tell us Mixed Bouquets when we're overdoing it. I've even written an elegy to them on this very blog (see "The Mysterious Powers of Bev"). Roses are great. Really.

Whew! Glad I straightened that out. Didn't want anyone to think I'm Rose-ist.

But what if there are people in your life who want you to be a Rose when you're
a Mixed Bouquet? It's easy to dodge Rose-seeking friends, but what if they're
in your family? Where do you hide? You can't just weed them out like so much baby's breath. Holidays become hideous "How-come-you're-not-a-Rose?"-a-thons.

So I did what any self-respecting Mixed Bouquet would do: I consulted a level-headed Rose friend. She advised me to just ignore the bad stuff and float above the fray.

Ha ha! You first! Nice try, Rosie, but here on Planet Earth, the rest of us become
exasperated with each other and lash out and wind up curled in a fetal position, weeping in abject misery. Till the next holiday, when the cycle continues: lather, rinse, repeat.

But there's nothing anyone can do about the fact that I am a Mixed Bouquet. My purpose is to provide color to an otherwise drab world; not matter how hard I try, I will never be presented to a sobbing debutante who just won a tiara.

Come to think of it, Roses may not have all the answers. Truth be told, you can now find long-stemmed red roses right at the entrance of Safeway.

Over there, next to the carnations.

That Ship Has Sunk

2010-06-29T19:41:00.000-07:00

Usually the expression, “You can’t play for both teams” refers to sexual preference, but not here. All the respect in the world to bisexuals, bi-curious’s, ambisexuals and/or omnisexuals: if you’re having sex, trust me, you’re in the game which means you win.

No, I'm talking about being shut out when I try to keep things friendly with the ex and his clan because I truly believed that treating each other well would be the best thing for the kids.

And then we could all join hands and sing “Kumbaya“ as we rode on rainbow unicorns into the sunset. But maybe you can guess the results of both those quests.

Is there an emoticon for "You're Not Welcome Here!"? Maybe one of those yellow faces with its teeth bared in a snarl?

To be fair, I was the one who had left their Darling Boy, so a certain amount of hostility from the “Other Team” is to be expected. But do they have to be such dicks about it? Which begs the questions: what is the point of making nice-nice with them anyway? Didn't I leave because I didn't like the way I was being treated? In "Star Trek" terms, I was using all my energy to maintain a force field against their photon-beam snarkiness. Shouldn't I be (last "Shatnerian" metaphor, swear) seeking out friendlier life forms?

Much like a hamster on a wheel, or a Cubs' fan, I was burning carbs but making no progress. I had no energy left for my "fans," the ones who "get" me, the ones who can see the rainbow unicorns, too.

Really, what is the point of trying to board a ship that's already sunk?

Have fun at the bottom of the ocean, suckers!

Mystery Solved

2010-04-12T13:16:00.000-07:00

Did you ever pass a place in your neighborhood - a home or business - and wonder, “What exactly goes on in there?” Maybe it’s the crazy lady down the street whose yard is full of weeds and yipping Pomeranians; perhaps it’s the shady bar that’s a late night magnet for chopped Harleys. Whatever it is, I’ll bet it reawakens your curiosity every time you go by, and you’re tempted, even just a little bit, to get a look inside.

Chances are even stronger that you don‘t act on that impulse.

Well, I’m here to tell you that I took a peek behind the curtain of a childhood Mystery Spot, and what I saw changed my vision of The Forbidden forever.

For me, growing up in the 70s as a “Valley Girl“ (or “Val,“ that denizen of the San Fernando Valley immortalized by Frank Zappa), that place was a Japanese restaurant called The Mikado. This was before there were sushi shops in every strip mall - heck, this was before there were strip malls. Just the sound of it: Mikado . . . so exotic . . . was it a quiet retreat for discreet businessmen, or a rowdy speakeasy like the ones I’d seen in the movies? All I knew for sure was that it had a red rickshaw out front and smoked windows. This was a far cry from the incandescent family restaurants my parents took us to, with their cheerful lucite light fixtures and their Early Bird specials. No, the brazen display of the rickshaw and the opaque windows tantalized me with visions of opium dens and blushing geishas silently sliding bamboo panels closed to ensure the privacy of pleasure-seeking clientele.

We passed by the Mikado every week in my mom’s Oldsmobile on our way to my sister’s art lessons. It was located across the street from the now-defunct Quigley’s Five-and-Dime (kids, ask your grandparents) and the North Hollywood Medical Center. (Also defunct, along with many of its patients; the word was, if someone you knew was being treated at the NHMC, send flowers because they were probably already dead.) But my eyes always gravitated to the Mikado, which sat like a spider, waiting . . .

Years passed, I moved away from the Valley, and visits home never took me past the Den of Mystery, so I pretty much forgot about it. That is, until one day when some dear friends from high school suggested, without hesitation, that we meet there for dinner.

Gulp: The Mikado? Did I dare?

Wanting to slake my curiosity before my friends appeared, I approached the storied spot with trepidation. As I pulled into the driveway, my eyes widened in disbelief . . .

The Mikado was now attached to a Best Western hotel.

Thinking there must be a mistake, I entered the perfectly bland hotel lobby. OK, a framed kimono was not exactly the proof of iniquity I was searching for, but still . . . I walked into an inner courtyard, around which all of the rooms faced. Except for where a pool had been turned into a koi pond and an arching Japanese bridge, it was about as exotic as an ash tray: cleaning ladies pushed carts full of fresh sheets and a tired family found their way into their room.

But what about the restaurant itself? Surely there must be signs of clandestine gatherings from the past?

No such luck. Three sushi chefs hailed my entrance and a polite hostess showed me to our table, where my friends had gathered. They did not seem the least bit spooked by the location and were even a bit bewildered by my cautious questions. Den of vice? White slave trade? The only thing mysterious was an adjoining locked room that said “For Exclusive Use of Hotel Guests,” and that was where they served the complimentary breakfast.

Finally, I confessed my childish suspicions of the fabled place. Lo and behold, each of my friends had a story about the Mikado, though none as lurid as I expected: one had been stood up by a blind date there; it had been the scene of an after-dance dinner, where another friend had gotten sick in the bathroom; yet another had snuck in with a fake ID and tasted Midori for the first time.

We shared stories and laughs until it was late, then we had to be home to waiting spouses, sleeping kids and jobs the next day, things we didn’t have when we passed the Mikado all those years ago. Although the truth about my erstwhile Mystery Spot had not matched my wild expectations, at least my curiosity had been satisfied. My friends and I had had a good laugh about “what exactly goes on in there,” and best of all, I no longer feared The Forbidden. You can quiver before those ominous locked doors, but maybe all there is behind them is a complimentary breakfast.

And for that I say: Arigato, Mikado.

Pay Attention at Your Own Peril

2010-03-19T01:23:00.000-07:00

Chances are, few people outside the medical profession or Wikipedia know what the pancreas looks like, what it does, or even where it's located in the body (my best guess: gut). The health food store offers a myriad of "cleansing products" for livers, gastrointestinal tracts and cholesterol-choked arteries, but not one herbal tea that promises a sparkling pancreas. Thanks to those obnoxious Viagra commercial (again, what is with those two bath tubs??), we know more than we need to about erectile dysfunction, but the pancreas is an organ (or gland?) that remains shrouded in mystery.

But just because the pancreas keeps a low profile doesn't mean it's not important. Far from it! It turns out that a healthy pancreas is real handy when it comes to the “staying-on-this-side-of-the-grass” business. You can sail through life without an inkling anything‘s wrong - that is, until your doctor uses “pancreatic” as an adjective. Then suddenly: You. Are. Finished. Nouns like “tumor,“ and “treatment” usually follow, and the prognosis is usually a matter of months, a period roughly the span of a reality TV star's "career."

If I were to design a personal banner, it would include a picture of a pancreas, because it sums up my philosophy: it's not the predicted events that get you, it’s the stuff that comes without warning that knocks you on your ass. I contemplated this recently when friends started worrying about the Mayan countdown to oblivion in 2012. It seems that, based on some pre-Colombian calendar, the world will come to an end in that year, and now people are abuzz with end-time scenarios. I pointed out the fact that these predictions came to light just in time to promote a movie, but that coincidence just seemed to prove that the signs are all there.

Sigh. Doesn't anyone remember that not one of the dire scenarios concocted by cuckoos - California falling into the ocean, Saddam Hussein being revealed as the Anti-Christ, alligators emerging from toilets to bite you where you live - has ever come true? Not once! These predictions merely played to our worst fears - well, it could happen! - and so we waited, quivering, shivering, for the ax to fall, to no avail. Just as that mute little gland, the pancreas, does nothing to call attention to itself until it’s too late, disaster has a sneaky way of blindsiding us.

Don’t believe me? Consider the Asian tsunami a few years back, or the earthquake in Chile. (I don’t count the collapse of the American economy in 2008, because any idiot could have predicted it; unfortunately, most of those idiots were too busy running things into the ground to be of much use.) When it comes to real catastrophes, you don't hear about the predictions until afterwards.

In the face of the failure of predictions, why not simply embrace the unforeseen? It's not all bad. Some events I never thought I'd witness have had their own charm: an American president speaking Hebrew (Bill Clinton saying “Shalom, chaver” to Israeli Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin); entire aisles in supermarkets dedicated to selling bottled water; Woody Allen’s appearance at the 2002 Oscars; the appearance of Janet Jackson‘s nipple at the SuperBowl; the uproar that followed.

Let's be really real: it’s inevitable that some bad things will take us by surprise; we might as well stop worrying about predictions of bad things that may never, ever happen.

Still, it doesn't hurt to keep searching the health store for a tonic that will make the pancreas sit up and sing. You never know.

"I’m Just Sayin’. . ."

2010-03-12T21:02:00.000-08:00

I’m not sure how it works exactly, but the magnetic strips on the backs of my credit cards consistently pull me into cute boutiques. Regardless of the physics involved, once I‘m there, I seem to have no shortage of excuses for buying adorable outfits: “It’s not like I’m going to find clothes like this at Target!” “Hey, I’m supporting a woman-owned business,” and my personal favorite, “At least my money’s not going to some godless corporate headquarters.”

Pathetic, isn’t it? Why can’t I simply look into one of the boutique’s magical, well-lit mirrors and just admit to my suddenly-slimmer self that I spend way too much money on clothes? I’ll tell you why: only the Dalai Lama is able to be that honest with himself about his appearance, but then His Holiness doesn't have that wide a range of wardrobe.

The economic implications of self-delusion are harsh; however, there is a form of self-delusion that takes an even greater emotional toll on innocent people, and that is the unsolicited observations of those I call "Obliviots". You know the kind: self-appointed "Truth Crusaders" who have deluded themselves into thinking that it is their missionto be cruelly "helpful" under the heading of "I'm just sayin'." Listen, when I fool myself into running up a credit card bill, that's one thing, but these pinheads justify running over people's feelings like it's nothing. They really think they can dodge the “How rude!” bullet by simply tacking the phrase “I’m just sayin’” onto their hideous comments. As if a disclaimer could actually soften the blow of a lobbed bomb like, “You look you haven’t slept in a week.” What kind of moron would claim ownership to such an onerous comment? The last thing I'd admit to is that"I" was the one who was "just sayin'" Yet the perpetrators of this verbal assault seem to think their honesty is admirable. Like, if you can’t handle it, well, that’s your problem, not theirs. What the hell?? It's not like your conversation comes with fast forward button where you can just skip past the unpleasantness to the end. (Don't we all wish??)

I suspect this is a by-product of our dialed-in, depersonalized techno-culture, where people forget they‘re talking to real humans with real emotions. Then again, I’ve listened to so many of these pinheads describe weepy rashes into cell phones while I was trying to enjoy my dinner out, I should be used to it by now. But they don't understand that the difference between loudly offering advice to movie characters and “telling the truth” to a friend/acquaintance/ unsuspecting person standing in line ahead of you is that whoever’s on the business end of your truth stick is actually affected. Yes, it’s true, even if you gamely but lamely qualify it with “I’m just sayin’.” Suck on that.

You know what? A taste of your own medicine to all you obliviots: The next time someone, anyone, tries to offer me an unsolicited “helpful” bit of advice, I will put my hand in their face and say, "I'll listen, but it's gonna cost you. Be as truthful as you want, but you'll owe me that cute top I've had my eye on. It's only $100. Oh, and by the way, go piss up a rope.

I mean it. I’m not just sayin’.

Discovering Love at Hooters

2010-03-11T13:50:00.000-08:00

At 17, my firstborn male child has weathered the slings and arrows of what I hope has been the worst part of his adolescence and emerged as a fine, upstanding young man. So it comes as no surprise that the beamish boy would want to celebrate his birthday by taking three of his best buddies to Hooters.

“H-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-TERS!” was their primal cry as we parked the car, but this turned to silent awe when we entered the Sanctuary of the Scantily Clad Females. (Or, as my BBFE refers to it, “E Pluribus Bosom.”) Contrary to my jaded expectations, I did not envy the ladies’ well-defined curvatures; what knocked me back was the wide-eyed reverence the guys afforded to the soft-spoken she-creature who took their orders. It was the kind of attention I had never seen my son give to, oh, I don't know, say, the woman who had given birth to him, maybe? All the time and love and energy I devoted to my darling boy, and I end up with a bad case of “waitress envy?” No wonder my ex-mother-in-law hated me!

Later, as I watched the female waitstaff serenade the birthday boy with the “Hooter-pokey” (I’ll spare you), I thought back on how he had greeted the world: I was ten days past my due date (all my boys were late - why should they have rushed things when they had deluxe room service in utero?); this meant I had to go to the hospital for a non-stress test and ultrasound every couple of days. By the way, if you ever have to have a medical test, get one with the words “non-stress” in it! You sit in a Lazy Boy chair, feet up, and press a button when you feel the baby kick. Too bad I was pregnant - a tall, cool drink involving rum and an umbrella would have gone down smooth just then.

The plan was to get the tests done, meet my then-husband for lunch and do a Costco run. No biggie.

That is, until the technician said those dreaded words, “I’ll be right back.”

There are a few phrase that people in white lab coats should never, ever be allowed to utter: “Try to relax.” “You may feel a little bit of pressure.” You get the idea. It turns out “I’ll be right back” is the scariest of them all, because it means “Whoa! This is way out of my league! Time to call the real doctor!”

My OB-GYN, Dr. Neal entered the room. (Isn’t “Neal” the perfect name for a ladies’ doctor? Please see my essay “Tales from No-Man’s Land“ for more details). He looked at the screen where the technician was pointing and said to me, “You’re having the baby. No, I mean, you’re having the baby today because you're almost out of amniotic fluid. We’re wheeling you up to Labor and Delivery right now.”

Ladies and gentlemen, but especially ladies, the shock of that statement rendered everything that happened to me afterwards as a hazy blur. Having a baby? Today? But we were supposed to have lunch and go to Costco . . . But, but, but . . .

But I do remember the overwhelming joy I felt upon seeing the baby's face for the very first time. There, in the delivery room, his eyes were wide with wonder as he looked around at all the bright lights - much as they were in the restaurant 17 years later, as he gazed at the beautiful ladies surrounding him. Images of our years together as mom and son flitted by in my mind. The joy of seeing him now was as sweet as that first glimpse . . .

Yet so many things had changed, and I couldn’t help thinking of what was no longer there: the hospital where he was born was torn down . . . the house we brought him home to has since been completely remodeled . . . the business my ex-husband owned was sold and the buildings plowed under . . . even the marriage itself was no more. One thing remained, though: the love I felt for that beamish boy, which was now even stronger than before. This was surprising and reassuring.

That, and the fact that Costco had remained the same, untouched by time.

Like all fantasies, this one in Hooterville had to end, and a bevy of breathtaking beauties of waved us goodbye, sirens in reverse. The boys gazed as long as they could at the dazzling specimens, as if to impress those images in their fertile imaginations. On the ride home, their male bantering swung from “Did you catch the Winnebagos on that blond?” to “She wasn’t that hot” to “Dude, I think she liked you!”

Somehow, though, the conversation turned serious and the young men began to talk about the qualities they wanted in a wife, and ultimately, what their children’s names would be. (Of all things! Who knew boys dreamed about this, too?)

My beamish boy had obviously given his choice a great deal thought. He said definitively, “I want to name my son ‘Chance.’”

Chance. How fitting, given the fortuitous circumstances that had shaped and sustained this remarkable person. I teared up, thinking of my firstborn male child beginning his own journey into parenthood, holding my grandson, knowing Chance would be a part of a world that I would never live to see.

At the very least, it was comforting to know that Costco would be there, waiting for him.

Surly Teens and Ostriches

2010-03-06T12:00:00.000-08:00

I recently visited Safari West, a wildlife refuge in Santa Rosa where animals can roam free and observe human behavior. At one point, an ostrich named Lena wandered over to our truck and began pecking at the Astroturf on the side step. She was undaunted by the lack of actual grass sliding down her rather long gullet.

“Can’t she figure it out by now?” we wanted to know, but the guide merely sighed.

“She does this every day.”

“Demonstrating her superior brain power,“ said BBFE (Rich, the best boyfriend ever). Our laughter drowned out the sound of her pecking, but it got me to thinking: is this behavior really restricted to massive birds whose eyes are bigger than their brains? How often do we humans futilely peck peck peck at something that will never yield satisfying results? “If I can make the perfect holiday dinner, our family will get along,” “That group treats me like crap, but I know can get them to like me,” “If I could just explain my side of things, he would understand.”

Round and round it goes, with only the hope of resolution but no results.

Peck peck peck.

Case in point: a certain son of mine is in the hideous throes of an adolescent malaise that can best be described as, “My-mom-is-the-cause-of-everything-I-hate-about-my-life-itis,“ hereafter referred to as Surly Teen Syndrome, or STS. The irony of this disease is that doesn’t affect the teen so much as it makes the lives of those around him/her miserable. My initial reaction to STS as a mom is to try to “kiss-the-boo-boo-and-make-it-all-better“: find what’s really bothering him and work things out. Trouble is, he’s got no desire to do anything different; this “Mom-is-evil” mindset frees him from examining how his behavior affects others. And one thing Surly Teens will do anything to avoid (especially boys) is self-reflection. That, and thank-you notes.

After stifling my next impulse, which is to swing him by the hair and throw him out the window, I revert to trying to “win him back” by joking him out of it, showing him that I’m still the nice Mommy he used to love to cuddle with, and not at all the wicked Medusa he now sees me as, all to no avail. But this begs the question: aren’t I essentially the same person I’ve always been? As his mom, I will always, always love him, no matter what, even if I don’t like how he acts sometimes. So why should I have to prove it?

But until recently, that’s exactly what I was trying to do.

Peck peck peck.

No more. I am comfortable enough with myself to recognize that my “please-love-me” response to his behavior is a desperate ploy, not genuine self-expression. Now I can truly relax in the face of the shrugs and grunts, because I know who I am.

One more thing about ostriches: the guide told us that if you’re being attacked by one, curl into a ball on the ground and remain still. The ostrich will forget what it was mad at in about thirty seconds and wander off.

So: the same "superior brainpower" that makes the ostrich peck peck peck in vain also makes it forget what pissed it off. Frankly, a little bit of forgetfulness might not be a bad thing: here’s hoping my Surly Teen’s short-term memory will become more like the ostrich’s, where the reasons for his attacks will eventually slip his mind.

Till then, no more peck-peck-pecking for Mommy.

Secrets to GirlWorld

2009-11-12T13:53:00.000-08:00

As of Friday the 13th, I am officially Mom of three teenaged boys (one of whom will become Bar Mitzvah, at which point, he’s technically a man - talk about scary!). There has been some confusion on their part as to how to interpret the bizarre, twisted way teenaged girls behave, so I’m offering this as a decoder ring to GirlWorld, where nothing is as it seems, even less is fair and the sooner you get used to it, the better. Allow me to pull the curtain back a bit and show you how girls, intentionally or not, mess with boys' heads.

The guy-girl thing is complicated - some men go their whole lives without getting it, so don't be discouraged if it takes some time. Just think of it as a game of Stratego, Battleship, chess or Capture the Flag: the more information you have about your “opponent,“ the better you can plan your strategy. I will be letting you in on several secrets, which will help you get over the “no-fairness” of it all and figure out your next move.

Secret #1: You may think girls have it easier, but girls think you have it easier.

That puts you on equal footing with them - they’re not more powerful than you. In fact, they have many, many obstacles to face when they like a guy:

1) What if I like a guy and he doesn't like me back? (Sound familiar?)
2) What if I like a guy and my friends don't like him and decide I can "do better?"
3) What if one of my friends likes him, too - who decides who "deserves" him more?
4) What if one of my friends, who is more popular and never noticed the guy before, suddenly decides to move in on him and grabs him for herself?
5) What if a really cute guy likes me, and I go ahead and become his girlfriend and my friends think I’m “stuck-up” about it and need to be "taught a lesson" and they start spreading rumors that I’m a slut?
6) Am I really a slut if I‘ve never done anything but everyone says I did? (Guys don't have this problem, since getting with lots of girls is considered being a "player.")
7) What if - worst case scenario - these girls who spread “whore”-ible rumors about me and sabotage my relationships don‘t want to be my friends anymore???

As you can see, girls have a freakin’ minefield they have to cross in order to stay OK with their pack, as opposed to boys: lone wolves figuring things out by trial and error. Neither way is easy.

Secret #2: As if that weren't enough pressure, girls also have to appear sweet all the time, lest they be accused of being “bitches.“

That’s why they say things to you like,

“I already have a boyfriend,”

In GirlWorld, this is a “nice” way of letting you down. They think they’re saying, “It’s not you personally, it’s just that I haven’t gotten feedback from my friends that you’re OK to date.”

Unfortunately, in BoyWorld, this is interpreted as,

"Get away from me, you freak!”

You can see where there might be a problem hooking up.

Plus, you know that teasing thing they do? Like where they ask you a question or borrow a pencil or mooch your lunch, then run back to their little group, all of these she-jackals cackling and pointing at you like you‘re the biggest idiot in the world?

Secret #3: Teasing is their only real power.

Since girls want to fit into their "pack," they can tease as a “joke” (hence, not “mean”), then can run back to their friends and they can all laugh together, which, in GirlWorld, makes it "OK." It’s so stupid, I know. It’s also incredibly confusing to boys, who are straight shooters and want answers: "Why did you do that?"; sadly, girls don't always have a good explanation for why they do the things they do. (Better get used to that part.) Believe it or not, though, they will be discussing your reactions and gestures for hours to analyze whether you just "like her” or really "like her like her” (otherwise known as “like like” - when a girl repeats a word, it means it's important to her).

The best way to deal with teasing is to shrug and turn away. Practice this in front of a mirror. Shrug. Scowl and shake your head a little. Roll your eyes. Maybe utter "Huh" in a bored sort of way. Put on the same expression as if you were brushing off a yellowjacket at a picnic. No matter what you're feeling, if you act like it doesn't bother you, it drives girls crazy! "Why doesn't he care?", they ask themselves, again and again. Which leads us to -

Secret #4: Girls have always gone ga-ga over distant, cool guys.

So why not get some mileage out of it? After all, they're teasing you: it's OK not to give them the reaction they want. (This part is actually fun.)

If you feel overwhelmed by all this, please remember the most important thing, which I’ve saved for last:

Secret #5: Girls really just want to be "like liked" for the sweet, funny, quirky people they are - just like you.

Really really.

Now about dating in college . . .

Is Cougar the New Cool?

2009-10-15T16:24:00.000-07:00

It seems that I’ve lucked into a cultural trend: it turns out that younger men now consider “Cougars“ (women over 40) to be “cool.” How ironic: leave it to guys to think they’ve “discovered” what’s been in front of them the whole time! We Cougars do offer definite advantages: experience, outspokenness and a few extra pounds that can sometimes be converted into cleavage. In other words, we’re here, we’re cougar-licious, and you better be cool with that.

Frankly, I think Cougars have it easier than Retired Circus Lions (their male counterparts). I see way too many of these guys walking around with gray roots that need touching up, tattoos that have blurred with time, and an inability to see their feet because of their well-tended guts. Plus, they may be facing “a certain problem.” Of course, if their doctors allow it, they can get “little blue pills” to reassure themselves that the Lion still roars. (I only wish there were pills for the rest of us who are stuck watching those obnoxious commercials - what is the deal with those separate bath tubs, anyway?). When it comes to making women feel better about themselves, you can be sure the drug companies are not to working on a pill that causes men to say to their wives or girlfriends, “Hey, what’s going on? Talk to me.” They know an “I‘m-Here-For-You“ pill would put them out of business, because if we heard those words from men on a regular basis, there would be no need for women’s meds of any kind.

But all good things comes with a price tag, and we Cougars do have three distinct challenges to face:

When does “Oh my G-d!” really mean “Call 911!”? We’ve reached the stage where the goal of our “safe” words in the bedroom are less about satisfaction and more about summoning help - and no fair trying to count the appearance of a paramedic as the “third” in your menage a trois. Suddenly, all those flippant remarks we made in our youth about dying while “doing it” just aren’t funny.

Ch-ch-ch-changes of life. Your kids may be out of the house, but you’re still getting monthly visits from “Aunt Flo.” Congratulations: you are in that awkward zone where your shopping cart is filled with antacids, wrinkle creams, hearing aid batteries, and condoms “ribbed for her pleasure.” Making a Cougar wrestle with contraceptives is one of Mother Nature’s cruelest jokes, because, unlike your wild twenties, if your period is late, you don‘t know whether it‘s pregnancy or menopause. Speaking of which, those pregnancy tests don’t come in large type! That means you have to ask the girl behind the counter at Walgreen’s if that’s a plus or minus sign, because you left your reading glasses at home again.

Memories/Light the corners of my . . . er, what were we talking about? A recent study from Dr. Louis R. Caplan from Harvard Medical School showed that men who take the aforementioned pills have short-term memory loss. Does that mean these poor men have to write notes to themselves to remember what to do once it takes effect? Their memory loss, however, is nothing compared with the Cougar’s astonishing ability blank out an encyclopedia’s worth of information with absolutely no notice; you have better odds of winning the lottery than getting her to give you the correct name of children, co-workers and pets. This can be extremely awkward in the bedroom when the wrong name is called out in a moment of passion; on the plus side, if things don’t go well there, chances are, she won’t remember.

All told, I can accept these drawbacks in the face of embodying Cougar as new cool.

By the way, thigh-high black mesh stockings are really good at hiding spider veins.

Granny's Still Got Game

2009-08-10T23:03:00.000-07:00

I was sitting by myself in Luzzo’s, a great little trattoria near Gramercy Park specializing in coal-oven-baked pizza. At the table next to me were two good-looking guys in their late twenties. One of them asked me what I had ordered, sensing correctly that I had been there before. I recommended the Funghi, a mushroom-and-basil taste of heaven; I warned him about the “Napoletana“-style thin crust, since I detected a Chicago accent and knew that thick-crust pizza is something of a religion there.

We chatted about where we were from (I was right about Chicago), and as usual, they had a hard time believing I was from California (I may lack the sun-and-fun bunny looks, but I was born on Sunset Boulevard); Kyle’s friend Ronnie was from India but had traveled to Israel to visit Christian religious sites, so we had a great deal to talk about. Before we knew it, two Funghi pizzas had disappeared and Kyle asked what I was doing later that night.

“Um, like, nothing?” I replied in my native tongue, (I was raised in the San Fernando Valley and tend to revert to “Valspeak” when I’m nervous.)

“Well, you wanna join us for drinks later? A bunch of us are meeting up at our place in the Village, then out for drinks. It’ll be fun.”

My brain whirled: he wasn’t asking me out on a date, per se, so I wasn’t being unfaithful to my boyfriend, and besides, what harm would there be in drinks? Mostly, though, I did the math on their ages: they were born well after I had graduated college.

As kids their age might say, WTF?

“You don’t think it would be weird to have someone my . . . age hanging out with you?” I blurted.

Kyle laughed. Ronnie said, “Hey, you still got game or we wouldn‘t be asking.” I don’t know if it was really a compliment, but I didn’t care.

“Seriously,” said Kyle, “You’d add a lot to the mix. In fact, one of the girls is Tunisian with ties to Palestine, so it should be pretty interesting.”

To say the least. But go to two strangers’ home, then get into a cab with them, assuming they didn’t change my address to a hefty bag in their crawlspace . . .?

What the hell? I thought. Why travel all the way to Manhattan if you’re not going to have an adventure?

We exchanged numbers and I returned to my hotel to freshen up, which, as we women over forty know, involves a paint roller, spackle-like foundation, and a putty knife. Hours later, I climbed the stairs of their four-story walk-up. My heart was pounding beneath the armor-like undergarments that helped me achieve the effect of having a “forgot-to-have-kids” figure with the help of levers, weights and pulleys.

I knocked on the door, and was practically knocked down by a chocolate Labrador retriever.

“Down, Lenny!” Kyle called out, pulling helplessly on the collar.

OK, the guy likes dogs, so he can’t be all bad. And Lenny liked me, so I had passed the first test.

We sat and sipped wine (except for Lenny), and I met the 22-year-old Tunisian gal. Not only was she drop dead gorgeous (petite, olive skin, wavy black hair, dark almond shaped eyes, cheekbones for days), she was a Middle Eastern correspondent for an international newsmagazine and spoke five languages fluently, some of which she picked up during various residencies on all five continents. Mere words cannot describe the relief I felt at not having to compete with her on any level; I silently thanked my Higher Power for not having to woo any males away from Princess Jasmine in order to school them in the finer points of my stretch marks.

We caught a cab to a West Village bar, where two Midwestern gals joined us to counterbalance the Middle Eastern influence of Jasmine and me (sort of). The conversation was lively and leaped all over the place; I was enjoying myself immensely, but I noticed that Kyle was paying particular attention to me. It wasn't “hit-on-me” attention - more the kind one gives to a novelty; perhaps he was simply showing polite interest in the elderly. What he definitely didn't notice was that Jasmine seemed less and less pleased. She really tipped her hand, though, when the discussion turned to the current Mideast situation; I tried to find common ground by saying, “Not all Jews and Arabs hate each other. I mean, look at us: we get along, right?”

She paused before answering: “It’s a peace process.”

Ooooookay. Soon, I caught Princess Jasmine giving the two Chicago girls a “Who invited Granny?” eye roll. I excused myself and found the waitress.

“Hi, can you put that table’s order on my credit card? There’s going to be a fight over the bill and I'd just as soon not bicker.”

The waitress, who was my age, winked at me. “I like the way you think, hon.”

After signing the slip, I returned to the table.

“Hey, guys, the first round was on me. It was great meeting you all, but I’ve got to get my beauty rest.” There were hugs all around, even from Princess Jasmine (it was her turn to be relieved). I got to make a clean exit.

In situations like those, age really does have some advantages: the years had taught me well when it’s time to get out, and my killer credit rating let me be a hero by treating new friends to a round of beers and nachos.

Plus, Granny really did need her rest.

Boyfriend Meets World

2009-08-05T00:39:00.000-07:00

The only thing more delicious than chocolate is discovering all the things you love about your new beau; it’s no coincidence that chocolate is the lubricant of choice during courtship. Case in point: I asked my boyfriend, who was your fantasy girl growing up? Was it Ann-Margaret? Ginger? Jeannie?

Rich thought about it for a couple of seconds and replied dreamily, “Rose Marie.”

Jackpot! Any man who would go on record as saying Sally Hayes from “The Dick Van Dyke Show” was his guilty secret is a keeper. What's not to love? Had I but known, I would have skipped the flirtatious chit-chat on Match.com, climbed through the computer and grabbed him on the spot.

It was only a matter of time before my friends wanted to meet this mysterious man with the Jeremy Irons good looks and East Coast lilt to his voice. (Let the ladies with the PBS tote bags swoon over some Brit-twit’s posh accent - just give me Joizee or fuggedaboudit.) We‘ll be there, I RSVP-mailed to a pool party invite; little did my poor boyfriend know what he was in for.

When we arrived, Rich discovered all the gals were wearing matching black velveteen bows in their hair, a la Sally Hayes, courtesy of a special package sent to Lynnie’s house ahead of time (velveteen and bobby pins are surprisingly light and did not set me back much in the way of postage). One by one, each of my giggling female friends pointed out the decorations in her coiffure.

“Hey, Buddy, whaddaya think?” some of them demanded, Rose-Marie-ishly.

“Cute. Yeah. Sally Hayes. I get it,” Rich replied with an indulgent smile.

After a dozen or so of these, Rich said, “Hey, all this sexy talk of Rose Marie is distracting me from my dinner. Do ya mind?”

No, we didn’t mind at all. In fact, we all had a good laugh, and my friends liked him just fine. They liked it even more when he turned to me as we were leaving and announced rather loudly, "Hey, Steph: they're not as bad as you said."

It’s not only great to discover things you love about your beloved - it’s also fun when the world can see it, too.

But paws off this one, girls, or I'll demonstrate uses for velveteen bows you can't even imagine.

When it comes to her man, Rose Marie don't mess around.

Four Warning Signs That You May Be Over Forty

2009-07-27T13:26:00.000-07:00

It’s not a date marked on a calendar like “Birthday” or “Anniversary,“ but a day does come along when you are no longer carded buying alcohol. On that day, if you are lucky, you are probably not trying to get into the hottest club - which they may not want to let you into, due to your own lack of hotness. Knowing this, you may feel relieved, but there might also be a twinge of regret. It’s hard to surrender that “anything’s possible” openness of your early days, especially to a crop of tight-as-a-drum, ungrateful brats you could have given birth to (see my essay below, “Death to Ma’am!”).

As long as we’re wallowing, here are a few other things you may have already let go of:

1. “Days on the Green.” You find yourself passing on any musical event that involves “festival seating“ - fighting crowds for a damp spot on the grass is about as appealing as a colonoscopy. These days, if it can’t be enjoyed on pay-per-view from the comfort of your own La-Z-Boy, fuggedaboudit. But have you noticed that when you are able to leave town for the weekend (not on a senior bus trip - not yet, anyway), you find yourself at shows you would have died rather than be seen at in your 20s?? Worse yet, you’re raving about them: “We saw Tony Orlando & Dawn when we were in Reno, and you know what? They put on a great show! You should’ve seen their salute to the troops - I was crying my eyes out!”

Girl, you are so over.

2. Natural Fibers in your Wardrobe. Clothing is chosen not for fashion but for expandability: more polyester than pure cotton, more acetate to cover your - assets.

Simultaneously, in a twist that redefines irony, what you lack in natural fibers in your closet, you will need to increase in your diet.

3. Full Use of Existing Body Parts. I now have hearing aids, reading glasses, and bras that involve an intricate series of levers and pulleys to support breasts that used to defy gravity on their own. I need L’Oreal for my gray hairs, meds for moods, Pepcid for digestion and orthotics for my shoes. I know adult diapers are in my future, looming like the plague, I just don‘t know which is worse: lack of bladder control, or relief in not having to find a place to “go” everywhere I go.

4. "Because I Said So." I don't know about you, but I no longer have the final word with my kids. They have learned well from me and know how to argue back when they think something is stupid - what a wonderful legacy to have left them. As if that weren't bad enough, my memory is not what it used to be, so by the time they've made their case, I've forgotten what we were arguing about. Great: now that I can’t remember anything, my teenagers know everything.

And I need a nap.

The sad news is, there is no way to re-negotiate this contract.

When you find out the good news, please let me know.

K-F%&K

2009-03-25T10:08:00.000-07:00

I admit it: I have a negative inner monologue in my head that narrates my life, and I’m willing to bet you do, too. Maybe yours is a combination of voices - my friend, Kimberly, refers to hers as “The Committee,“ while Jilliene named it “The Lynch Mob.“ Whatever form it takes, that nonstop nattering continuously poo-poo’s your good intentions while locking in the freshness of your past failures like mental Tupperware.

Welcome to K-F%&K.

“K-F%&K is the 24-hour radio station in your head that plays ’All Doom-and-Gloom, All the Time,’” according to my bestest friend ever, Tami.

It might be a radio station, but Easy Listening it ain’t.

I can usually keep K-F%&K’s nasty naysaying at bay with positive affirmations - hey, fake it till ya make it, right? But there are some times when it gets real loud in there. And just when I want to dial it down, the volume control breaks off in my hand. It’s enough to make me want to take all the leftover painkillers from my gum surgery and wash them down with the Christmas kahlua.

So what do you do when K-F%&K starts running an endless loop of
your emotional train wrecks in agonizing slo-mo? Kimberly practices deep breathing and meditation; Tami counters K-F%&K’s siren call with, “Thanks, but I’m going to do it anyway” - out loud, when necessary. Some people use food, or its evil twin, exercise, to calm their spirits. I’m sure there are folks who have an toy chest at the ready - booze, stimulants, booty calls - whatever it takes to drown out K-F%&K’s dismal drone.

As for me, music helps; the sound of a beloved tune can put
K-F%&K in the background, if only temporarily. But it’s the voice of a trusted friend, a voice from the outside giving encouragement that can make K-F%&K to fade altogether.

And I’m always ready with the “Atta Girl’s!” to help lower the volume of my fellow Vixens’ personal K-F%&K’s.

For me, friends are the ultimate antidote to K-F%&K.

Lingerie and Sausages

2009-03-03T08:28:00.000-08:00

I owe a lot to a woman I‘ve never met: whoever trained my boyfriend in how to treat the ladies. For example, when we arrived at our bed and breakfast in the Wine Country for Valentine’s Day, he had a dozen roses waiting for me, plus I received my very favorite candy, See’s Dark Chocolate Molasses Chips. Any man who sends flowers ahead of time and goes near a See’s Candy store during the week leading up to Valentine’s Day is a definite keeper.

But, as the commercial says, that’s not all.

That night, I received a stunning art glass necklace and matching earrings. The man pays attention! And another present, this one for him: a lacy bustier and matching microscopic panties. Everybody wins! (Funny how the most expensive clothing is the smallest and stays on for the shortest amount of time.) Both of us were grinning ear to ear as I dashed to the bathroom to put it on.

The smile faded as I observed the size on the label, which was only a single digit. How terribly flattering, and terrifying at the same time. Minutes later, I was emitting groans and cursing like a longshoreman - a real turn-on, I’m sure.

“Honey, are you OK in there?” he asked.

“I’m FINE!” I spat, then softened: poor guy. “I’ll be out in a minute.” The thing about lingerie is, if you like to see it on women, don’t watch them put it on. It’s not pretty, the way that watching sausages being made will ruin them for you forever.

By the time I emerged, I looked just fine. Of course, I had lifted and tucked and re-shaped my body to fit the sausage casing: the built-in brassiere had definite spill-over (not a bad thing), and the laces up the back were loosened so much that my entire dorsal region was exposed.

But then again, who was looking at the back?

On Becoming Tummy-tuck-ilicous

2008-12-04T15:46:00.001-08:00

Yes, Darlings: I had a tummy tuck, one of the rare cases where the plastic surgeon improves things through subtraction. I am now the proud owner of a concave tummy - tummy - tummy - oops, how embarrassing! It echoes.

My decision to “slice, scoop & stitch” was the direct result of a previous weight loss, namely, the 220-pound husband I divorced. So here I was feeling free for the first time, but in need of a serious inventory about how I felt about myself, starting with my body.

I've always been slender, but had added a pound a year that I no longer had the metabolism to burn off by skipping lunch. I had delivered three boys naturally, so no Caesarean scars, and by luck, no stretch marks; however, there was my kangaroo belly pouch, the gated community where my body fat went to retire.

On the bright side, my bust was now a whopping 36 inches.

Then again, so was my waistline.

OK, Mama wants her body back. “But won’t it hurt?” asked a fearful friend, one who had passed two human beings through her own body. Well, much like having babies, some things are worth the risk. I had to ask myself, how much is it worth to feel good about my body, whether with a lover or not? To walk proudly, instead of schlumping around with my apologetic “Sorry-I-used-to-be-hot” gait? To be able to swan into any clothing store and buy a medium without trying it on? To be able to see the tops of my thighs? And what if I live to be 101, like my grandmother, Bubbe Shirley, may she rest in peace? Well, when I prorated it the cost of the surgery out over the next half a century, it turns out I will be paying less than a dollar a day for these marvelous privileges. That’s far less than I pay for my daily frappacinos. Talk about bargains!

On the downside:
- the doctor drew lines on my skin with a Sharpie to mark where the cutting and scooping would take place - all those swirls and angles made my belly look like a John Madden playbook;
- a couple of uncomfortable weeks out of commission, spent not being able to straighten up and draining little bags of blood into measuring cups (not as bad as it sounds);
- some pain, but the Percoset haze makes it hard to remember;
- I, who had never had a scar in her life, would now sport a hip-to-hip Frankenstein line at bikini level, starboard to port, limiting me to wearing briefs should I opt out of one-piece bathing suits;
- a few grand less in the bank, which I would have spent on therapy anyway.

Ooh, I almost forgot the biggest bonus of all: no need for any future boob jobs! Now my party girls, buoyed by twenty solid years of hot fudge sundaes, look positively zeppelin-like in contrast to the ironing board belly below. Yippee!

Conclusion: Darlings, it’s so totally worth it!

Despite the fact that it was achieved sans sweaty workouts, my tummy tuck feels like an accomplishment: now I walk with a spring in my step; my billowing, non-date-granny panties were ceremoniously burned. Beneath my clothes, which I am once more able to fit in, I wear underwear I bought at the shrines of my new mentors, Frederick and Victoria. When I finally did get a boyfriend, he was too distracted by the hot sex to pay much attention to the scar.

There was, however, one awkward moment . . .

When I did re-enter the dating arena, there was the issue of how to break the truth about my new body to a potential beau. Do I want to lure him into a clinch and then surprise him? Or do I give him fair warning up front? (So to speak.) It’s a fine line to tread: I’m risking either “Eureka!” at the flat tummy or “Yikes!” at the scar. Hmmm ...

On my first a blind date after the surgery (not with the one who eventually became my boyfriend), my date and I had been chatting for nearly an hour when I found I simply could not contain my secret another minute.

“I just want to let you know,“ I began, “that I’ve recently had an operation.”

“Okaaaaaaaay,” intoned the poor man, in that slow, cautious way guys have when they’re wondering how to appear sensitive while simultaneously calculating how fast they can sprint for the door.

I couldn’t resist: “I’m now officially a woman!”

Did I mention that, along with a Low Blurting Threshold, I simply can’t pass up a really good chance to mess with people’s heads? Unfortunately, there is no corrective surgery or even pharmaceuticals to deal with that one.

I got a real good look at his bridgework, but there was no second date.

Poor guy: he’ll never know the tummy-tuck-ilicious woman he missed.

Who Are the REAL Stay-at-Home Moms?

2008-11-20T09:08:00.000-08:00

I know there’s always been some tension between SAHMs (Stay-at-Home Moms) vs. MJOHs (Moms with Jobs Outside the Home), but I never let it bother me. I’ve watched both sides give each other that thinly-disguised-sneer that passes for a smile, bat their eyes and say, “How nice for you” in a tone that means, "You wouldn't last a day." Hey, as far as I’m concerned, work is work: the only difference is that when the MJOHs give orders, their underlings actually have to do what they‘re told. Must be nice. You don’t have to be a SAHM for long to discover your voice is about as significant as Muzak on hold.

However, another battle is taking place on a completely unexpected playing field: laid-back SAHMs like myself vs. self-described “real” SAHMs. These “Tsu-Mommies” apply every ounce of determination that got them through business school and vice-presidents of companies to parenting their sacred offspring. They strive to be the bestest, most wonderful, always-there-for-their-kids-1,000%-effort-24/7-Moms-ever. What they are are uber-Moms from Hell that I call “The Mayonnaise Mafia.“ No opportunity to improve their child‘s chances at “success“ goes unexplored: kids are put on sports teams almost as soon as they can walk, given violin lessons at three, and their early enrollment in the very best pre-schools are fretted over like PAP smear results. Woe to the GATE (Gifted and Talented Enrichment) programs that have the nerve to question the Blessed Child’s eligibility! They cheer their kids on with cries of “Excel!” and "Achieve!" But “You can do it!” translates as “You’d better - or else!” It's a thin line between "encouragement" and "excessive parental pressure."

But what if you have a "let-kids-be-kids" attitude, like my friend, Samantha? She got "whacked" by the Mayonnaise Mafia for having the nerveto merely drop her daughter off at soccer, rather than create a shrieky whirlwind of support from the sidelines. How dare she? Unless she was willing to spend hours clapping like a trained seal, shouting, “Good try!“, Samantha became "Mama non grata." She was shunned by the "real" moms faster than an Amish woman wearing pantyhose - no quilting bees for her.

However, for the most horrifying behavior in what's supposed to be a supportive role, the award goes to Patti, Queen of the "Momzillas." Patti had only girls, which is an entirely different planet from my all-boy crew. She was flabbergasted by play-date behavior she found “unacceptable:” my boys were not interested in tea parties and role-playing that began with, “I’ll be the mommy, you be the baby;” they were more keen on climbing, exploring, digging - stuff even non-girly girls are known to do. Patti was scandalized that I refused to insist the boys conform to their regime - er, I mean, game. I was annoyed that anyone would interfere with a child’s right to play simply because it didn’t follow some adult’s idea of “the right way“ to do it - it's play, for goodness' sake, not a Power Point presentation. So I wasn’t surprised when she informed me in no uncertain terms that our kids could not play togetheruntil they learned to “re-SPECT BOUN-dar-ies.” (Patti believed that enunciating ideas loudly would make them clearer, and I believed that she needed to be smacked into next Tuesday.)

What I didn’t expect was the far-reaching circle of cold shoulders I would receive from her friends in the Mayonnaise Mafia. You don’t cross "real SAHMs without paying for it. For being such a “bad example,” laid-back homes like mine became “No-Moms’ Land.” I remember watching two “real” SAHMs and their awful offspring crossing the street to avoid my tainted house; another mom discouraged my kids’ “intrusion” on a Mayonnaise-managed front yard football toss by asking them, “What makes you think you're welcome?” Silly kids.

“Time for tennis lessons, Thomas!” cried the Mayo-Mafiosa to her kindergartener when it looked like he might actually want to play in the mud with my wild boys. She finally had to drag him by the hand with a censorious “Come away!”, as if our laxity might be infectious.

Unfortunately, the grit that got you top grades in grad school may not work with children; a lot of these robo-kids wind up crazy-busy in the pursuit of excellence, with classes and sports every day after school and throughout the weekend. What gets lost in all this is the business of “just-being-kids,” which requires nothing more than experiencing it. It can’t be taught, and, unfortunately, it has an extremely short shelf life.

And you wind up with moms too busy to notice that their kids have become petty, competitive, mean little jerks.

“Do we have to let them play with us?” moaned precious little MacKenzie, as if we weren’t there, and because the heartless Mom-ster said nothing, it was our last visit. No tears were shed on either side.

But don’t try telling the Mayonnaise Mafia that they are producing a generation of vipers! You will wind up at the bottom of the lake, wearing cement-lined Ugg boots (none of these moms has time to take their kids to feed the ducks, so your body will never be found).

To be fair, I will cop to an enormous degree of laissez-faire in my own approach to parenthood; unless it’s truly dangerous, I figure it’s best to let kids find things out for themselves. I can even sympathize with my friend, Kay, who is so laid-back that she is almost comatose. Upon being informed that her son, Kevin, had climbed onto the roof of her two-story home, Kay glanced up, shading her eyes.

“Not all of them make it,” she shrugged, “Why do you think I had four?”

It wasn’t until a fellow mellow SAHM like me moved across the street (replacing Patti! Hooray!) that I re-joined the World of the Living SAHMs. Maggie and I instantly bonded over our overuse of the expression, “What-EV-er” (some words are worth enunciating). My kids quickly learned that hers was a “come-on-over” house, and when one of them (we never found out which one) broke a vase, Mags simply waved it off and uttered four of the most beautiful words I had ever heard:

“Eh, these things happen,” she shrugged.

I almost cried.

If you are a laid-back mom who has been cold-shouldered by the Mayonnaise Mafia, take heart. Our kids may be the ones with scraped knees and smudged faces, but you might actually catch them giving each other comfort and encouragement when things got tough. It happened to me, and I knew I must have done something right, because somehow they had learned compassion.

Yeah, that’s right, Mayonnaise Mafia: compassion. Something your kids will never have.

Beat that, you bitches.

G-d Bless Ye, Ass-men, Everywhere!

2008-08-12T19:50:00.000-07:00

When you’re a married woman, busy raising a family, you tend to lose track of certain things: world events, names of former co-workers, and, oh yeah: your ability to attract men. Once you’re elbow-deep in diapers and breaking up sibling warfare, you tend to stop caring whether you‘re a “hottie“ or not. You’re too busy working to “work” it, and you don’t care that your unwashed hair is tied up with one of your kids’ socks.

But when you find yourself “unhalved” and on your own after a decade or two, the differences between you and the other gals tends to get spelled out in vivid relief. Suddenly, little things begin to loom large: the glowing skin of younger women, the ability of their breasts to defy gravity without the use of pulleys, weights and levers, the sounds of males necks snapping as they swivel to get a better look. Meanwhile, you've got new problems: turkey-like loose neck skin and wisps of scowl-hiding bangs getting caught in your crow‘s feet. You’re darned right, it’s not for sissies.

The hell with it: post-divorce, I’m going to work at a nursery. Plants, that is, not kids. Primarily because plants don’t talk back or look at you funny when you try to flirt. Plus, the clientele at the nursery tends to be sweetly unthreatening: gentle retirees, young moms toting pre-schoolers, lost husbands seeking anniversary gifts.

But as it turned out, there were unexpected perks to the job, the perkiest one being something I had been sitting on all my life, only I never knew it. I don't want to brag, but it turns out I have a cute butt. Yes, my behind, which I had never noticed (mainly because it’s not in front of me) was suddenly attracting a great deal of attention from my male co-workers. I’m convinced that when they filled out their Applications for Employment, there was a space next to “Gender - Male/Female?” with the question: “If Male, are you an Ass-man? Yes/No. If "No," please do not continue.”

I seemed to have stumbled upon a Secret Order of Worshippers of the Female Gluteus Maximus, and they had made me their Goddess Divine.

Now, there are those of you who think I’m being all conceited, so let me just say to you: Shut up. I have gone from being a nondescript “Ma’am” to a “Spank-a-licious Mama,” and if you ruin it for me, I will hunt you down and stick my finger in your eye.

“Are you going to wear those black rayon pants tomorrow?“ our 21-year old Houseplant maven, Paul, asked anxiously. I had to laugh: that was Paul’s day off, and he didn't want to miss The Show, starring my Lil Ol’ Moneymaker. Pinch me: younger dudes were anticipating my outfits and hoping for wardrobe failure!

Our 27-year-old Pond-and-Chemical guy, Sean, was particularly pointed in letting me know that he wanted to take my ass-thetic attributes out of the showroom for a road test. It’s flattering, but it’s not the chemistry that’s stopping me, it’s the math: as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I’ve been sexually active longer than he’s been alive, and it’s my policy not to erase the fine line between “Who‘s the hottie?” and “Is that your son?” (See my essay below, "Death to 'Ma'am!'") But when Sean invited me out to a bar recently to meet his friends, I figured, why not? By the time I got there, he had already had a few drinks, and greeted me warmly.

“You made it!” he called out. He gave me a bear hug and lead me over to one of his friends for introductions. I got a glimpse of the young man’s face before Sean turned me around, pointed at my bottom and announced, “Dude, check out this righteous booty!”

Before I could say anything, Sean was leading me around the bar, backwards, so my still-fine behind could have a meet-and-greet with the rest of his posse. I didn’t get to see what they looked like, and G-d forgive me, I didn’t care.

I've written a song for Sean, for my co-workers, and for Dorsal Appreciators everywhere. It’s a bar ditty, of course, to be sung in an Irish accent, in Sean’s honor. Please keep in mind, this song is not about me, but a tribute to Ass-Men everywhere. It's best sung with a cold one in your hand, and begins with a hearty “Ohhhhhhhhhh!”:

Oh, back her on in
And feast yer eyes, lads,
On the finest caboose in the land!

It rides firm and high,
From her back to her thighs,
In a way altogether most grand!

Oh, the way that it sways
Makes the angels sing praise:
"Hallelujah! We've seen the Divine!"

Raise yer stout and yer beer,
For we're all Ass-men heeeeeeeeeeeeere!
Thank the Lord for the Female Behind!

G-d bless you, Fanny-fans, one and all! We know you're behind us 100%!

Tales from No-Man’s Land

2008-08-12T19:46:00.000-07:00

I’m sorry, it simply can’t be a coincidence that they make you spell out, if not whisper, the name of the only department in the hospital where abject humiliation is the daily fare: O.B./G.Y.N. Nobody has to say, “I‘m looking for the X-R-A-Y Department.”

Like the contents of their wives’ purses, most men don’t want to know what goes on “in there,” and who can blame them? It’s bizarre. Where else does a woman lie naked on butcher paper, staring at a Garfield poster on the ceiling, with her legs in “joy to the world” formation, confident that at least her bra and panties are well hidden? All while someone in a white lab coat tells her, “Try to relax.”

That’s life here in No-Man’s Land.

There aren’t enough accolades for the men who actually dare to venture into the trenches (ahem!). Like my gynecologist, Neal (and isn’t “kneel” a perfect name for a man who works in No Man’s Land?) who also happens to be a friend I see socially. In keeping with O.B./G.Y.N.’s weirdness, I get to pretend it’s perfectly normal to nibble wine and cheese with the man who’s more familiar with my uterus than the father of my children.

Neal helped deliver my oldest son -- that is, I think he did: it’s all kind of a blur. They discovered the baby was almost out of embryonic fluid, so they had to wheel me quickly into the delivery room, “Stat!“ (I love saying that!) and induce labor. I’ll quote the description from the wonderful comic, Dianne Nichols, and say my experience was similar to being “worked on by an Indy 500 car crew in a pit stop.” Instead of jumpsuits, surgical green-garbed blurs whizzed around me, the bright lights glinting off their shiny metal tools. A few pushes and I was back on the road, good as new.

All in a day’s work in No-Man’s Land.

One of the delivery nurses I do remember clearly was Carrie. She had lovely long fingers and always asked permission before doing one of those “Dispos-All” checks - you know, where they poke around and see how much your cervix has dilated. Not everyone asks, and after a few times, you do begin to feel like the garbage disposal, with people sticking their hands in there like they’d heard chicken bones being ground up. (Mans-lation: it would be like someone giving you a prostate exam without warning, only you get to watch it happening.) Carrie and I became friends during labor, and I found out between contractions that she was single and enjoyed biking, movies, fine dining and long walks on the beach. I gave her number to a single guy friend, and when nothing came of it, I didn’t hear from her again.

Then, ten years later, I ran into Carrie at a different clinic -- she was now a nurse practitioner, and by sheer coincidence, she was assigned to me for a routine exam. We happily caught up: I told her about my son, who now had two brothers, and she told me all about her training for this new job and how much she loved it. Then I said, “Last time I saw you, you were single and . . .”

The look on her face stopped me cold.

“Yeah,” she said, rather sadly, “I never did find the right guy, and I really wanted a baby. So today after work, I’m getting inseminated.”

Gulp. This is one market American Greetings has yet to tap: “May all your dreams be realized/Good luck getting fertilized!”

Really, what do you say? All I could do was hold Carrie’s long-fingered hand and make sympathetic noises while she told me about her struggles with this decision, her plans to return to work and how her parents will watch the baby.

“I’ll be praying for you,” I offered.

As we finished up, I looked back at the poster on her ceiling. It was a spoof of a Calvin Klein underwear ad (no Garfield for this gal!), with a buffed-out dude photographed in requisite shades of gray. Except that this guy was holding the front of his tighty-whities out and staring down, enraptured. The caption read, “Obsession.”

“Hey, Carrie,” I said, “Do you know what ‘klein’ means in German?”

She had a German-sounding last name, so I was taking a chance. But she thought a moment and burst out laughing, “Small!”

It was good to see her laugh. You don’t get many laughs in No-Man’s Land. It’s a tough room.

We said goodbye, and I gave her my son’s picture, for good luck. I got off the butcher paper, retrieved my bra and panties from their hiding places, got dressed and left. As the radio played the oldie, “Rikki, Don’t Lose That Number,” I prayed that the nurse practitioner with the nice, long fingers who helped deliver my son would successfully conceive from an anonymous sperm donor.

Just another normal day in No-Man’s Land.

Man-Ho, Ho!

2008-08-11T23:54:00.000-07:00

My co-worker, Jim, has been a Navy man since before “It’s Not Just A Job, It’s An Adventure” was its slogan. All it took was the three little words recruiters used back then - “See the World” - and it was “Anchors Aweigh” for Jim. Now in the Reserves, he’s biding his time at the Nursery where we work until his retirement. But to a sailor, even a land-locked one, well, shore leave is shore leave: Jim likes the ladies, and the feeling is more than mutual. By that I mean, I would call Jim a “hound,“ except that hounds have been known to lick themselves - Jim has the ladies do that for him.

I’m always dazzled by the Monday morning tallies, and even more impressed with his masculine finesse as he catches a smoke over by where the bags of soil get loaded into ladies’ cars. It’s not the only manure flying, believe me. These ladies, who definitely have fertilization on their minds, arrange with Jim to “meet later,” and he assures me the encounters are anything but “garden variety.” (Aren’t euphemisms fun?)

But one story of Jim’s had “No Fair!”-ness written all over it. It seems that Jim visited an old “swabbie” buddy in San Diego, a Navy town second only to Subic Bay in the Philippines. Apparently, there is a breed of girl who “follows the Navy,“ another euphemism, meaning “Sailor Slut.” Understand, I do not mean that in a derogatory fashion - I completely know what it’s like to go weak in the knees over a hot bod in tight white pants - I came of age in the era of Disco, after all. I‘m just being blunt about someone who has turned a hobby into a lifestyle. (I, for one, can say without shame, that I am a “It‘s a Wonderful Life“ Collectible Whore.)

It seems that Jim’s buddy found him a shipshape “Follower,” and told him, “Bro, Tiffany’s gonna be with you this weekend.” Apparently, Tiffany concurred, and they were off to the races. No muss, no fuss, not even money exchanged - just Jim and Tiff “partying” all weekend long (more euphemisms). Sunday night, he stepped back on a plane and was home in two hours, probably smiling the entire time.

It’s here I must cry, “No Fair!”

This is what I want to know: Where, I ask you, oh, where is a similar party for the ladies?? I’m not talking about the shrieking, faux-flirtations of a bachelorette party - why on earth would I use an impending marriage as an excuse to lose my inhibitions? No, no, no, I’m talking about a visit to the house of a friend who really, really knows me, where she puts my hand in the large hands of a tall, gorgeous man and says, “Stephanie, this is Francesco. He’ll be taking care of you.”

Francesco’s warm blue eyes would lock into mine, he would kiss my fingertips, and the rest would be a blur. No feigned interest in his life. No pointless blather. No judgment about what others might think. No wondering “Where this is going?,“ since I’d already know. Just Francesco and me, and more Francesco.

That’s what I’m talking about, cousin Sigmund: that’s what women want.

Unfortunately, most men’s efforts to encourage us ladies to “carpe diem” (seize the day) end up more like “carpe doofus,” a la Pepe Le Pew. Case in point: an email culled almost verbatim from a Europlayer trolling my online dating service, on which I appear sans makeup. Cue the ooze, and:

"I am empressed (sic) . . . What a wonderful idea it is to be naturally yourself. I like it. By the way, why wear makeup at all when you are blessed with beauty? Ah! Being beautiful naturally has its benefits. Look at the money saved not buying makeup. . . Something, about me . . . When I meet a woman and begin to know who she is, I would ask to see her without the makeup. You see, if and when two people become involved, a time may come when the two of them may share the night. So here comes the morning, that is when you see each other at your best. I feel you are understanding what is to unfold. So this is why I am so empressed (sic) with your truth . . . and I await your reply . . ."

I’m glad Pepe is “empressed with (my) truth,“ but I don’t think his “understanding (of) what is to unfold” and mine are remotely similar - for example, “comes the morning,” I am definitely not at my best.

If the Good Ship Le Pew is my only option, I’m content to sit on the dock of the bay and watch Jim and his Followers play. But you never know: there just might be a Francesco out there who knows that when it comes to "taking care" of older women, really, it's not just a job - it's an adventure.

Whoa, There, Lil Dogies!

2008-08-07T14:33:00.000-07:00

I don’t have a brother -- we were all females down at the ol' homestead: a sister, two girl cousins, girl cats, girl dogs, right down to the girl goldfish. As a result, I grew up in a world where food was for eating and not for racing to finish, and vomiting was considered a travesty rather than a punch line. I was in college before anyone ever made the classic request, “Pull my finger.”

So it came as rather a shock when motherhood saddled me with three testosterone-packin’ varmints - Whoa, there, lil dogies! Let’s use our words, not body slams. It’s a lot like living in an Animal Planet special on “Cubs in the Wild:” constant tussling to test each other’s limits. Occasionally, one will push or hit or tease too hard and then, BAM! The payback! It's completely counter to what I intended for my offspring, having grown up in the era of “Free to Be You and Me:“ I swore my male children would loving nurturers who sang Kumbaya to their gender non-specific dolls.

Hah. Now I shrug off a level of violence that would make a hockey fan cringe.

Actually, the only thing that still makes me cringe is the phrase, “Hey, Mom: watch this!” While I’m thrilled that my kids still long for my attention, this request is usually uttered far from where emergency vehicles can be quickly summoned.

“Not today,” is my usual response, “We don’t have time to go to the emergency room.” This line worked until my youngest piped up, “Can you make an appointment for the emergency room, Mom? ‘Cause this stunt will be awesome.”

I must admit, for a while there, I regretted missing out on all the girly stuff - you know, dressing my own living doll in lacy socks and matching bows. Then, one day, while volunteering in one son’s classroom, I came across a group of girls who wouldn’t let another girl play with them. After calming the hysterical child down, I found out that she was being snubbed because, as the Queen Girl explained, “We’re not wearing pink today.” Suddenly, the fart jokes didn't seem so bad.

Those girls got an earful that day, let me tell you. But they weren’t the only ones who learned something: I chose not to memorize the Queen Girl’s name so I could someday anonymously send her articles on liposuction. I think I showed tremendous self-restraint.

I’m proud that I’ve ventured beyond Girl World and managed to go native. Quite frankly, it’s refreshing how unambiguous boys are - they’re simple machines along the lines of the pulley, the lever and the inclined plane. They are brutally frank in their appraisals - things are either “awesome” or they “suck” (we are working on the language); since they are motivated either by appetite or avoiding pain, they are alarmingly transparent (unless they’re willing to risk pain in order to prove they’re right, in which case, you better watch your back); their mammalian “Cubs-in-the-Wild” brains are too hyped on adrenalin to notice color schemes or nurse long-term grudges the way us womenfolk do (see above: “articles on liposuction“). I may not know how to French braid, but I’ve developed the wicked quick reflexes I need dodge flying objects, and I have learned every fart joke known to man.

I never thought I’d say this, but my three testosterone-packin’ hombres have completed my education, and I’m much obliged.

And who knows? There may be a granddaughter someday, and she‘s the one I can cover in buttons and bows.

And teach her the fart jokes. Someone’s got to clue her in early.

Houdini's Assistant

2008-08-04T13:39:00.000-07:00

You know who has a hard job? The Escape Artist’s Assistant, that’s who. The one who checks all Houdini’s locks, who swears by all that is holy that she will never, ever, under any circumstances, no matter how much the Escape Artist begs and pleads, release him. Watching someone you admire squirm, even someone as skilled as Houdini, can’t be much fun.

Unfortunately, I have had to put my Brain in the uncomfortable role of Houdini’s Assistant more than once as my Heart wriggled like a worm on a hook, trying to escape. For you see, my dear fellow Vixens, I got it baaad for Rascals: one is too many and a thousand’s not enough. Yes, one glimpse of a Rascal, and it’s time for my Brain to break out the sequined outfit with the feathers, because it’ll be onstage soon enough, making sure the ropes are tight enough on the ol’ Ticker.

And who are these Rascals, you may well ask? They are those devilishly handsome, incredibly playful guys who flatter, flirt, tease and sweep me away on a tsunami of romantic validation. They have killer smiles and laugh at my jokes and make suggestive remarks that set my thighs aflutter -- then they act like nothing happened! But then, Poof! they’re flirtatious again! The audience (me) gasps. How did he do that? Talk about vanishing acts!

Truly, Rascals are the most ingeniously slippery creatures ever created, and the more I try to grasp them, the more elusive they become. Sadly, there’s something so deliciously tantalizing about someone with a “now-you-see-it-now-you-don‘t“ thing going - and forbidden fruit is definitely the sweetest.

When I have one of those “I-must-know“ moments, I can pretty much kiss all rationality goodbye. The conversation between my Brain and another part of my Body sounds something like this:

Brain: Cervix, what’s going on down there? Report!
Cervix: (loud Valley Girl groan; impatient texting) WTF do u wnt?!?
Brain: You’re moving way too fast! Pull back! I repeat: PULL BACK!
Cervix: u r over it
Brain: That’s an order! Do you read me?! PULL BACK NOW!!!
Cervix: Not gonna happ3n!!!

Soon, my Heart is ready to beg my Brain to please, please, please let His Rascally Self have me, whatever the terms. But help is on its way: before any damage can be done, my Brain has already been deputized to stop my Heart, by whatever means may be necessary, lest I throw my entire self into the power of the Rascal.

So there‘s my poor Heart, wrapped in chains, dangling upside-down over a shark tank, begging to be freed so the rest of me can be the Rascal’s booty call. And my Brain, bless it, is talking my Heart through the temptation, bombarding it with the downside, so that my Body will finally be Rascal-free at last.

Once the spell has been broken, it’s easy to see why the Rascal purposely puts stars in my eyes: so I wouldn’t be able to see all the red flags, which outnumber the ones in Beijing. That‘s right: all Rascals are hiding their Mr. Hydes. If I’m not careful, I’ll wind up like a woman I’ll call Wilma, who was hung up on an inveterate Rascal named Fred. Wilma lacked assistance from her Assistant: her Brain did not have the power to restrain her, so she pursued Fred relentlessly. Little did she know what she was in for.

You see, Fred was a Rascal of the highest order, and he strung her along by dangling exquisitely vague promises of “maybe-someday’s” and “if-only-you-would’s“ like a dazzling charm bracelet before her. This went on for years as she transformed her entire life to suit his needs: she moved thousands of miles away from her family to be near him; she supported him financially; she did not have the children she craved.

Then, suddenly, Fred died.

At the funeral, the minister announced that “A very special lady in Fred’s life wishes to share some thoughts with you.“ Wilma stood up; not surprisingly, so did six other women, each of whom was convinced that the minister was referring to her. I wish I could say that it was a good thing Fred was already dead, because these ladies would have killed him, but I’m sorry to report that, instead, a cat fight ensued over the dead and smiling Fred.

Last laughs may be hollow, but then, so are Rascals.

I thought that this sad story and my own experience would make my heart immune from the Rascal’s siren call, but recently, a thoroughly delectable Rascal at work finally asked me out:

Brain: Cervix, we have a green light. Do you copy?
Cervix: (texting back excitedly) OMG so stoked!!!

Then he didn’t call. For. A. Week.

When I saw him again, he told me he was “going through some bad stuff” and “didn’t want to start a workplace romance right now.”

Yeah. Uh huh.

Darlings, we have been using this same “Now-is-not-a-good-time” scam to make men scram for years; we need to acknowledge the sad truth when it applies to us: “not now” means “not ever.”

Brain: False alarm, Cervix. Mission has been compromised.
Cervix: (texting back) WTF?!?

As I found out later, the Rascal was actually doing me a favor: consummate Rascal that he was, he had several ladies in a holding
pattern, circling the runway, hoping for a safe landing. As bummed as my Heart was, my Brain was grateful to have dodged that midair disaster.

But my Brain was soon summoned to the familiar role of Houdini’s Assistant, because I found my old Rascal-loving Heart beginning to chirp up with a chorus of “Yes, but‘s“: “Yes, but if I quit this job, then he’d go out with me . . . Yes, but he’s so cute -- so what if it were strictly physical?”

My Brain rallied beautifully to work my “Yes-but’s” off, shouting its encouragement as my Heart writhed away in a straightjacket. But ultimately, at the very last second, the curtain was pulled back to reveal my Self in my entirety -- Brain, Heart and Cervix working as a team. How did they do that?

It’s not easy, but it turns out staying true to myself and evading a Rascal is the best Escape Act of them all.

Death to “Ma’am!” (or, Release Your Inner Vixen)

2008-01-08T18:33:00.000-08:00

It just hit me: I've been having sex for more years than the cute guy who bags my groceries has been alive. There I was, admiring his behind, visions of scented oils dancing in my head, when he suddenly turns around and flashes me a mouthful of braces. “Ma’am?” he asks, concerned, “Ma’am, are you all right?”

Don’t you “Ma’am” me, whippersnapper!

Up until that moment, I foolishly believed that the world could see past a few extra chins to the Fabulous Vixen I Truly, Truly Am. I mean, I could still be considered “fair game" -- all I would need to do is sling a backpack over my shoulder, wander onto any college campus and I'd blend in. I might even get my own still-fine behind checked out, right? Right?

But then I thought about it: that one-night fling someone may have had after the A Flock of Seagulls concert (ahem!) could have resulted in someone who now shaves, drives a car and votes. And that young stud’s lovely behind? Could have been one I diapered.

When did all this happen, exactly? The buildup is as gradual as a new laugh line, and just as hard to get rid of: I simply don’t know how or when things got this way until I was in the middle of it.

To make matters worse, it turns out that when Mother Nature turns up the heat on our hormones, she winds up scrambling a few brain cells as well. On the same day I was entertaining lewd thoughts about the bag boy, I simply could not remember what time I was supposed to pick my kid up from karate -- or is it music lessons today? Meanwhile, the song stuck in my head is the one Wilma and Betty sang to Fred and Barney when they disguised themselves as car hops -- and I know every word (“Here we come, on the run, with a burger on a bun -- ” Oh, you get the idea). If anything, my long-term memory has gotten sharper -- I could be blindfolded and find every light switch in every house I’ve ever lived in, all the while reciting dialogue from “Gilligan’s Island” -- yet I can’t remember where I put my car keys FIVE MINUTES AGO. It’s as if an invisible finger hit the “Delete” key in my brain, vaporizing vast stores of vital information (the names of co-workers or, for that matter, my children) and letting useless factoids, like the name of the Brady Bunch’s dog, stick like ticks. (It’s Tiger, by the way.)

What is going on?

It’s Mother Nature, is what. You would think a mother would be more sympathetic to women as they age. I ask you: would you put a woman who checks out guys at the checkout stand, who can‘t find her car keys but can sing the entire theme song from “My Mother, the Car”-- in charge of children? Or worse still, teenagers?

Mother Nature would. Mother Nature does.

Mother Nature is not a nice lady.

Well, two can play at that game. What I lack in the way of sex appeal or short-term memory, I more than make up for in attitude. From this day forward, the Fabulous Vixen I Truly, Truly Am will no longer be silenced. And my first act of Fabulous-ness is to declares that the dreaded “Ma’am” is hereby banned from the English language. Can I get an “Amen“ on no “Ma’am’s?“ Truth be told, I’d rather be called “Sir” than “Ma’am.” Yes, well, at least “Sir” connotes a British title and entrance to exclusive clubs and some serious swag. Yeah, now we’re talkin’. Hey, if Elton John can be a “Sir,” I can darn well be one, too.

Ooh, wait, I take that back: call me “Miss Thing.“ According to the Urban Dictionary, “Miss Thing” is a “gender-bending slang term used by male homosexuals,” who, bless them, know everything before the rest of us do. Apparently, it can be used both negatively (“Miss Thing thinks she’s All That!“) and positively as the gay equivalent of “homie” (“Hey, Miss Thing! Look at you, girl!“). I would rather be called “Miss Thing” than “Ma’am” any day. With “Miss Thing,” there’s some wiggle room: was it said out of admiration or spite? Let's face it, there‘s nothing ambiguous about “Ma’am” -- it can only mean, “Hey, you with the cellulite: pay attention.”

But more to the point: I want to be called Miss Thing because, honey, I am All That.

I know, I know: I sound like one of those pathetic older broads trying to sound hip and with-it by using the expressions the kids use today (do they even say “hip” and “with-it” anymore?), but I freakin’ earned that title.

I say: “Miss Thing” or Nothing!

Because if you call me “Ma’am,” frankly, you’ll just get what you deserve: I’ll just freakin’ ignore you.

Either that I genuinely won’t hear you. Miss Thing’s hearing isn’t what it used to be, honey.

*This is what I thought this was the real title of the song, “Release Your Inhibitions.” I like my version better.