I'll Fly Away
Monday, February 9, 2009
I wish I would have paid more attention when we sat at that old round formica table as she pushed her pictures towards me with her thin, unbelievably soft hands. I remember her telling me they were a group of friends who got together to hike. Those pants, are those what are called jodhpurs I wonder now looking at them. Whose piano was that? Were they friends with some rowdy boys in a band. Had she been one of those girls, the ones that balked their old country parents and wore pants anyhow? Maybe she smoked and drank and flirted and got bawdy. I know my grandmother frequented the dance halls of the day, she must have too.
I wish I had paid more attention because this group of girls looks hardly different from my own group of girls. The funny one, the pretty one, the shy one...all sharing secrets. Where did all these girls go I would have asked her. What did they do and become? She is the one in the very middle. Yes, the one with the silly pointed hat.
Who took this picture I think whenever I look at it. Where were they going all dolled up? Was this outside of a church after services or in front of a train station waiting for someone's boyfriend?
This is my favorite picture. Look at the hair nets, the trouser pants. If they were wearing bras, they weren't the standard bulleted ones of the day. Maybe they took them off because they were far from the watchful eyes of men or mothers,I bet they still had clean underwear on. Those cameras in their hands, where did they get them? 
I wish I had asked more questions instead of scanning the pictures while I ate the cookies and deviled eggs she'd made for me. Don't get me wrong, I loved the pictures and it meant a great deal that she gave them to me, to keep some of her memories of her youth. I just wish now looking at them that I knew more about her. The her that was still at the beginning of her life.She died last week, my Aunt Fran. She was in her late nineties and it was time, maybe even beyond time so there weren't too many tears to go around. Still, she is loved. She was a very devout woman which is part of why I wonder so much about the young woman in the pictures. I always thought of Fran as my living guardian angel. She and my Uncle Tony had been unable to have children so my mom and her siblings and the rest of us kids were her surrogates.
Fran had this incredible knack for sending me a note with one of her saint prayer cards and a check at the precise times I needed it. No one told her, she just knew. My used car in the shop again just a few weeks after the last repair and there it would be, a card envelope with her Florida return address. She was generous and kind and I was always grateful for those small reprieves from the consequences of poor student life.
When I moved to California, she sent me prayer cards for those living alone,those living far from family. I am not Catholic but I'd read them knowing she was thinking and praying for me, always on my side. She even would call me laughing telling me she was praying for a husband for me. She was hoping I'd meet someone from Wisconsin so I would move back home. This coming from the woman who moved to Florida far from her own family. She always held one of my hands when I'd see her and talk to her. She had a glint in her eye just like my Grandpa, her brother, did. She'd hang on to every word of my stories, she'd laugh at my mildly off-color jokes.
I liked Fran as much as I loved her. There were more than fifty years separating us but I connected with her, felt like we had things in common I would only recognize later. I knew her well but I still wish I'd known her better.
The Magnificent Feats of Five
My daughter turned five this weekend. She got her favorite breakfast(donuts), her favorite dinner(Mac, Spagettios,pizza and lots of fruit). Then she ate about seventeen cupcakes. Then all my kids played dress-up with her for like three hours. I was able to convince the boy that the gold tiara looked "kingly". Haaaaahaaaaaaaa, I'm showing this to girlfriends later.
Standing Quietly Elsewhere
Sunday, February 8, 2009
I am not a person who is self-actualized, not even close. Some days I like to think I am, especially when I've done something I'm especially proud of or overcome a hurdle that's challenged me. Or when I have set aside my own agenda to do the right thing or taken a deep breath and allowed the reality of something to change my perspective.
I have a friend who fancies herself at the end of her process, this journey that is being human and trying to figure out what it all means and get it right. She frequently talks about how so and so doesn't get it, oh, she's a new soul, she'll say, she's got her own stuff to work out, usually with a lilt in her voice that says she's way past that. Comments like these make me want to tell her that only a new soul would call someone else a new soul. Only someone with limited perspective would think they could judge someone else's place on their path. Not that I ascribe to the new soul/old soul tenet anyway.
So I don't consider myself an expert in much besides a meticulous Brazilian wax, a perfectly shaped eyebrow or a homemade roasted tomato pasta sauce. Being in my line of work and probably my natural personality, I give advice quite a bit. I have sound judgement, especially when dealing with things I don't have a stake in, like my clients lives outside their time with me. I give advice not from a place of perfect wisdom but from experience, my own mistakes and insights that have put me squarely where I am today, which is a pretty good spot on most days and my near constant observation of others. I'm rarely emphatic about this advice and more often than not, I'm just an uninvolved person to listen to what someone can't or won't tell anyone else. I guess I'm a little like a blog that way.
I get the normal female conversation and then I get some real doosies(god that sounds like a word an old lady would use like, Madge that's a real doosie right there I tell you.) I'm one of the first people to know about a married woman's affair. Usually she hasn't told friends fearing judgement, so who can she tell but the woman primping her for her lover? I'm often told of fledgling pregnancies before even families know because it might be pertinent to treatment, in the same way a woman will tell another doctor or her dentist, just in case something is verboten. I'm also told sad things like one of my clients who was heavily scarred across her groin and abdomen. She no doubt realized that I would look at the deep slashes in her flesh and wonder what happened. She told me she didn't talk too much about it but that several years back she was a mental health nurse at a corrections facility when she was attacked. She also told me that she now runs training exercises a few times a year on how to avoid such attacks. I am forever amazed at the resilience of people.
Anyway, this is the long set up to talking about a person who has been on my mind lately. She is a client/friend I no longer see but hear about in passing from a few of her friends. She is a woman in her early thirties. She is beautiful, no stunning and talented and terribly, horribly broken.
Her parents were heavy drug abusers, they didn't make sure there was food in the house or electricity much less meet the emotional needs of their children. There is a long history of sexual abuse in her past, her own struggle with self-medicating with drugs and alcohol and a choppy adulthood filled with bad relationships that she to this day still clings to, rocky friendships and false starts with so many of the things that are important to her. At different times there was cutting and bulimia and other self-destructive things that I was surprised she told even me.
Given where she started, she has come tremendously far. Still, her past holds her back. I remember when she told me some of the worst of it after earning my trust with the more typical woes of childhood.
"Do you have a therapist," I asked her.
"Why, do you think I'm crazy," she asked me earnestly.
"Therapy isn't for crazy people", I told her, "it's for people who have come as far as they can on their own with their issues and want someone objective to help them get the rest of the way."
I told her that I had gone, hoping to reassure her that I thought it was a perfectly normal part of getting the tools to handle adult life.
"I've done a lot of research on my own, read books and stuff about abuse and how children process it, but I've never gone and talked to anyone. Do you think I should?"
"Well, I'm the wrong one to ask here because I think everyone should but I don't see how you could have all of the things happen to you that have and not need someone to help you sort it all out and work through it."
She'd come back and tell me about things being the same, the same mistakes the same bad choices the same rut of how she thought about things, herself. My therapist told me after a string of crappy boyfriends that the way I felt about myself was attracting men that validated those feelings. That even if a good one came along, I was so stuck on having been treated a certain way that I would see things through my distorted perception. Change how you feel about yourself, she'd say, and you will change who you are attracted to and how you view life's ups and downs. People are like one track on a record, the way you see yourself plays over and over again and then it's hard to move out of that groove. This friend was a good example of someone who had been so catastrophically victimized that she saw herself the victim of everything. People constantly wronged her, small slights were seen with a magnified intensity, hurts were experienced viscerally.
She connected with men who's history whispered, no screamed, that they would never be able to give her what she'd need and then she'd gasp in wonder months later when it proved to be true. She would try and move forward and carve out the life she wanted and then sabotage herself just as she was making progress. Each time she'd tell me her stories, I'd silently hope that she'd figure it out someday. Figure out how to be free of all the burdens her early life had given her. Free of the record that must play in her head.
She moved from the area and I lost touch with her. I miss her some days but the repetitive sadness and confusion and anger and all of it were so exhausting that truth be told, most days I'm okay with the fact that we've lost touch. And yet I wonder about her, hope that she is making her way towards figuring things out, making peace with her past and forging her own future free of all those wounds that weren't her making. She has a blog that I read now and then and I feel a little voyeuristic reading it and wonder that I still care. Somedays I wish I could talk to her, tell her how worthy she is of the work it takes to become whole again. Instead I sit on the sidelines, an invisible cheerleader. 
Why Moms Who Go Cold Turkey Off the PPD Meds Should Not Be Allowed to Make Important Decisions
Sunday, February 1, 2009
What do you think the average family with:
- three kids, one of whom is still in diapers
-two cats
-one mom with a slagging business
-one daddy out of work
needs?
If you guessed another mouth to feed you'd be right!
No, formerlyfun isn't preggers, we got a dog!I we had been wanting a dog for awhile, ever since I was like five and my mom never let me have one no matter how many times I said pleeeaase. I continually bugged my hubs about it and he was all like, "can we please not get one more thing that shits at will until the bebe's out of diapers or one of the cats kick it?"
Ok, I agreed and then went about plotting how I could get a dog ASAP. So I thought, I bet if I start out asking for another baby he'll let me get a dog. I figured if I promised him I'd take care of everything, maybe he'd let me get one. Then I figured if I softened him up with stories about how my childhood had been robbed of a loving family pet and that's why I'm not more empathetic maybe then he'd let me have a dog.
Turns out I just had to get a collar, leash and a little fluffy pink sweater(for me not the dog duh.)True to male form all it took was a little tail.
We talked about the maybedog over many family dinners bouncing names off each other.
"How about Chompers?" my son suggested.
"Kelly," my daughter shouted after meeting my friend Kelly now she wants to name our maybedog Kelly.(sorry Kelly, it's a compliment, really)
"How about sillypuppyfussypants," I said.
"What's in your pants?" my husband asked.
"You, if I get a dog." I teased.
The kind of maybedog we'd get wasn't up for discussion. My son wanted a Siberian husky but our small house with two cats paired with an exuberant working dog was not going to be a good fit. Plus I had already picked my breed when Uno made every dog his bitch at this past year's Westminister Dog Show.
Whenever we discussed our someday maybedog, it was understood that we were getting a Beagle. We'd window shop at the pet store.
"Look at the Shiba Inu," my son would say.
"No we're getting a beagle.
"Mom I was just saying she's cute."
"Beagle." I admonished him as if the word said it all.
"We could at least look..."
"Beagle."
In the quest to fill my sweet beagle longings while delaying getting an actual dog, we went to the local puppy mill for me to get a fix. We even went so far as to masquerade as an 'actual family looking for a dog' in order to score some face time with a beagle pup. All five of us humans crowded into a little room like dog jail visitation and managed to freak out this little pup with our toothy grins and wandering hands.
"Ahh puppy." we all cooed glazed eyed, a little retarded. We all lost the ability to form complete sentences as the puppy goodness took hold of our senses. All we could muster were single words and short phrases.
"Ohhh," said the bebe, her eyes wide with wonder.
"Soft," I murmured as I felt her velvety ears between my fingertips.
"Awww," cooed the big kids.
"Buddy," whispered hubs as he grabbed the dog's scruff and gave him an appreciative scratch.
When my husband(a staunch animal rights advocate and a vehement puppy store boycotter) asked how much the puppy was, I knew that the maybepuppy was going to be yeahwegotadog any day now.
"Thirteen hundred dollars," the puppy purveyor said and both my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief.
In the car my husband said, "had that dog been five-hundred bucks, you know he'd be sitting on your lap right now don't you?"
"You? You would have bought a dog from that place?"
"Puppies are like heroin Chris, no one can be just a casual user."
Realizing that hubs was actually going to just roll over and let me be pack leader on this one forced me into the position of actually having to make a decision. I wasn't used to someone telling me I could have what I wanted even though it was going to make things harder or more complicated or noisier.
"I can't believe you aren't going to say no," I told hubs a few nights later.
"I can only give you the information, you make your own decisions."
"No I don't, you're the boss of me." I told him with a completely straight face.
"When have I ever been the boss of you?" he retorted.
"Remember the other night with the collar?"
"Oh yeah." he said and I could see his mind wander off to his happy place.
"So have you decided? Are we getting a dog?" he asked.
"I'm not sure, you're confusing me by not telling me no."
"So when am I gonna get my Bagel?"(bagel what we have been calling Beagles)
"If you just said no, it would be easy", I told him," I'd just go get it and that would be the end of it ."
So I pondered. We really didn't need another expense right now but we sure could use a little levity. I didn't want to go the puppy mill route so I casually looked online fully expecting not to find anything. Much to my surprise I found a family with 2 unregistered but 100% Beagle puppies for sale. The price was nominal, probably just to keep the weirdos away and cover the basic costs of their dog getting knocked up. And they were just an hour from our house.
I talked hubs into going to look at the dog and we waited for my eight year old to get home from school.
"Mom, Dad," he came bursting in the door, "I got an A+ on my math test," he said his face a mixture of pride and disbelief.
"Hey hubs, since the boy did so good on his test, maybe we should get a dog," I threw out casually.
The boy's jaw dropped since he's been 200% on board with the whole dog idea.
"Sure, ok, let's go get one," hubs said and grabbed his keys.
Needless to say, eight year old boy thought we were the coolest parents ever and I got my dog.
Everyone, this is Lucy Bagels.
Lucy Bagels, this is Everyone.
Bad Girls
Thursday, January 29, 2009
I Had a Very Dramatizing Childhood
Friday, January 23, 2009
1. Got the computer herps, husband had to completely reformat very badly wonkified harddrive, so bad actual reformatting took two days.
2. Very busy listening to husband chastise me for broken computer. "Would you stop downloading music already." Uh, sorry it was porn.
3.Was busy thanking husband for said cleaned up computer in a myriad of ways and now am very tired(and a little sore).
4. We got a dog and now have four members of our family who shit at will.
5. Have new business project with husband so have been very busy telling him what to do and how he's doing it wrong.
Those mean girls dramatized me. -eight year old's best guy friend recounting when a girl classmate was bullying him. You mean traumatized honey. Well, they're girls so I guess you probably were dramatized.
Man, she did it again, you were supposed to be watching her. (new puppy, that I practically begged for that hubs wanted to delay a year, peed on the floor for like the 5th time)Me, with a completely straight face, honey, you were the one that wanted a dog.
Five Year old daughter: And it was a lobster, a real lobster, no really, it was really real, you know, lobster. Eight year old son, (said in complete seriousness) Well, I hope you didn't touch it, you could get rabies. Uh honey, lobsters don't get rabies. Son: Thank god.
Pigtail Bloodlust
Friday, January 16, 2009
Is it me, or is she just a little too excited about that sandwich?
One minute in photoshop and you could turn this into a zombie picture. Add some sallowness below her eyes, a little drip of blood off her toothy smile and replace the sandwich with human brains.
Bebe Nerdlette
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
My husband really shouldn't be around the kids too much, I think the bebe is becoming a full-blown trekkie.
My Little Von Trapps
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Nothing you can see that isn't shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.
It's easy --The Beatles- All You Need Is Love
Tonight, as is the case most nights, I took my 15 month bebe to my bed about a half an hour before all our kids go to bed. I do this as wind down time for her and well, frankly, it's kind of meditative time for me. Tonight we snuggled in and she did the litany of things she does most nights. She sang and garbled as I waited for her to use up the last bits of stored up frenetic bebe energy. Then we went through all of her words a few times, me saying them first and then her repeating them.
Then I sang her a few songs, tonight it was the Beatle's Blackbird and All You Need is Love and California by Joni Mitchell. We had spent a few hours at the beach and she still smelled like salt and sun. I kissed her sweaty little head while she looked at me holding both sides of my head she whispered hi, drawn out like a secret code only we knew. Then she kissed me, first almost ferociously, slamming her face into mine and clapping. Gentle, gentle I told her and then she laid the softest one on me, doing the mmmmmm, for emphasis, something she's only just started doing. I pulled her in closer, and told her it was time to go to sleep. She struggled out of my embrace to grab at the cat who laid near us a few times before she relented and curved into my body, her head resting in my neck, my chin on her head. She lay there, her hand fidgeting at the seam of my sweater until her breathing became heavy and even.
I held her thinking about how serendipitous my life is. How the things I worry about are minutiae, the big picture, the real stuff is this, a sweaty little baby with her wispy filaments of hair tickling my face, my four almost five year old who asked tonight in an excited hush if she could go play in the dark, so you know she could like see the stars and stuff, and my eight year old who tried out several times for advanced band with no pressure or even push from my husband and I(he just started band in October) and he made it today so that he can trudge his trombone with him one more day a week just because that boy loves band.
And my husband who took me to the beach today, and we made up a super secret cool ass handshake just between the two of us(I won't give it away but it includes a simulated explosion!), and we introduced the bebe to the ocean and hubs carried her when her wet diaper weighed about sixteen pounds and her legs and fingers were all gritty with sand and he fished the shells out of her mouth. And when he got some disappointing news on a job he was interested in, I sang him the lyrics of Chumbawumba's I Get Knocked Out, all hammy until he laughed and he told me what I could do to make him feel better(same thing he's always asking for).
All the Buddhist stuff I've read and butted my head against the wall trying to go with the flow and be in the moment, I am finally getting it and I don't purport that a setback won't make me sulk or pout or pull a woe is me or why can't something just be easy but right now I am in this moment and this moment is so much better than anything I could have dreamed for myself.
Dear Formerly Fun : Angels Butts, Clogged Pores, Pro-active & Bat Boy
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Hey There, Beautiful!
I keep meaning to send this along, as I'm kind of at a loss of what to do. If anyone could answer this question, I think it would be you. My younger son (16), who once had the skin of an angel butt is now facing that whole teenager blemish thing. I've bought him ProActive, which might work if he used it on a semi-regular basis. Lots of blackheads on his nose and chin that I am doing everything in my power to avoid "helping" with. So, here's the query: Is it worthwhile to take him to an esthetician to get some extraction-esque facials? Is this done for teenaged boys?I'm just wondering if this could potentially help out, if it were done on a regular basis, or is it just a short-term solution? Inquiring minds want to know. While you're at it, maybe you know what happened to Bat Boy? He's been out of the news lately & I think they're grooming him for heading up Security for the Inauguration.
Thanks in advance for any advice you might be able to provide!
Hugs,
Shelley
Dear Shelley,
First, let me assure you that Bat Boy is alive and well and much to my 
surprise residing here in Southern California. He has just finished his first screenplay and has been seen several times in a public lip lock with a certain Hilton girl heiress.
As to your oily offspring. First, a little Acne 101. Blackheads, also known as open comedones, are follicles filled with plugs of sebum and sloughed-off skin cells. The oxidation of melanin gives the material in the follicle the typical black color. Blackheads will not magically go away on their own if left alone and acne can result from infection of the oil gland due to the blockage by the blackhead. Therefore, preventing and removing blackheads helps control acne.
You could certainly take your son in for a mini-facial. You could also attempt a basic facial yourself. Perhaps getting squeezed a little will motivate your son to stick to a routine. I frequently do facials on teenagers, though I omit the shoulder and decollete massage because with a teenage boy you never know what might pop up.
Instead I stick to a thorough cleansing with steam to soften the blackheads. I like to use a slightly oilier cleanser because in this instance, like dissolves like. I use a light scrub if there is no active, angry acne(scrub will only further irritate this condition) or a light chemical peel. I then cover my fingertips with folded 
tissue and gently squeeze to push out the blackhead. Never use fingernails or the metal implements designed for blackhead removal. Fingernails leave small cuts in the skin and with a comedone extractor, it is too easy to use excessive pressure and injure the skin. Plus, they are not very effective. Anything that doesn't come out relatively easy isn't ready yet and should be left alone. Excessive squeezing can damage the skin surround the pore and can actually increase the size of the pore leading to more blackheads in the future.
As far as care goes, your son can keep it very basic and doable. Put the ProActive cleanser in the shower and tell him to lather his face up and let the cleanser sit softening the oil and debris while he "does other things." Have him use the treatment lotion before bed, it's okay if he doesn't wash his face first, not ideal but if he's sixteen let's keep it simple. Then use the toner when possible. Do what I do with my husband, soak a cotton pad with it, find your son somewhere on the computer and swipe it on his face. If he could wash in the am, lotion in the pm, this would go a long way toward keeping his skin the very picture of cherubic heiny it once was.
Postscript: When looking for images, it is advisable not to type in 'angel butt', oy vey, the internet is a begrimed and squalid place.
Labels: beauty, Dirty Jobs, estheticians, Momma's got to do everything.
We Have Ways of Making You Talk
Friday, January 9, 2009
One of the best parts of having more than one child is seeing your kids interact together. My oldest son is eight and our middle daughter nearly five. Watching them laugh together, playfully tease each other and even negotiate disagreements seems like a microcosm of my own relationship with my husband.
A few weeks ago, the kids were playing outside on their scooters when my four year old daughter started crying. Try as we might, we couldn't determine what happened through their angry sobs and accusatory shouts.
"Fine", my husband said nonplussed, "you guys can go sit on the bench and work it out yourselves and when you can agree on what happened, come and let us know."
I wasn't sure I agreed with encouraging them to potentially conspire but hubs was right. When they're married some day(not to each other hopefully) or have roommates, colleagues, whatever, it's not like they can call us to decide the outcome of these small spats.
So they sat on the bench that sits right outside our office window where they could not see us, but we could watch them. Sometimes being a parent is so fun. This is what we witnessed. They were both on either side of the bench as far away from each other as they could possibly be. They sat ignoring each other for a few minutes but eventually boredom set in. My daughter started hurling invectives my son's way. First, just like woman, it started with the matter at hand,
“You hurt my foot, you rolled you're scooter over it and you dint even care that you hurted me.”
Then just like a woman, the dam opened, and out came every thing she has ever been mad at him for, uh, like the last four years.
“And you, yooouu," she said through choked back angry sobs, "you never, never let me play with your drums, and you, you lost my favorite legos and when we play puff you never let me be the leader and that day I wanted to play and you dint wanna and you told me to get out of your room and you always go first and, and,...”
There sat out eight year old with his hands over his ears making her even angrier.
My husband and I tried to quiet our laughter so they wouldn't hear us. I wonder if marriage therapists ever have to bite the inside of their mouth to keep from laughing at the ridiculousness of some arguments? Finally after about ten minutes of this they started talking. I heard a few terse 'fines' and then their voices returned to the friendly tones they normally reserve for each other. They came inside to tell us what happened.
"I rolled over her foot with my scooter," he said.
"And it was a accicent," she said.
"Can we go play now?"
Just last night my eight year old was finishing some chores and my four year old was who knows where. The hubs and I were talking on the couch while the bebe played at our feet. Suddenly in the middle of all of this familial bliss, our seven year jumps the baby gate and stomps past us seething,
"I just thought you'd like to know that she just locked me in the garage."
"Okay honey, thanks for letting us know," my husband said lackadaisically.
"Okay," I muttered.
I looked over at the hubs, "I'm bored, you want to have some fun?"
"Yeah," hubs said, probably thinking I meant we were going to make out.
"Let's interrogate the kids."
"Okay." he said noticeably disappointed that my idea of fun wasn't going to include taking our clothes off.
"Boy, girl," the hubs yelled from the couch, come here.
They staggered in and stood before us.
"Did you lock your brother in the garage?"
Her lip jut out quivering, eyes well up, "but he is being mean to me."
Now, although our kids get along really well, when they are snarky to each other, they get pretty diabolical about it, and it's generally the boy. My daughter? She is the most caring and easygoing of all of our kids, rarely has she been the instigator.
Hubs looks at the boy, "what were you doing to your sister?"
He starts to cry, "I wasn't doing anything."
"Why are you crying," I say,"no one's in trouble yet, we're trying to figure out what happened."
"I didn't do anything, I was just doing my chores when she locked me in the garage. "
"You didn't do anything?" I asked skeptically, my eyes boring into him, looking for the tell.
"Nothing," he whined.
Clearly he was sticking to his guns.
So I look at the girl, what was your brother doing to you when you locked him in the garage?
Her eyes spill over and big fat tears roll down her cheeks but she isn't saying anything.
Hubs asks, "what were you upset with your brother about?"
We wait, finally.
"He wasn't listening to me. I was trying to tell him about something and he wouldn't listen, he was just ignorin' me," she said sobbing and angry.
Now the boy cries, "I was just trying to get my chores done, doing what I'm supposed to."
Uhm, I don't know about you're relationships but my husband and I never argue about him just trying to get work done and me not getting listened to. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Naked Women Everywhere
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Many of friends and fellow bloggers and really, probably something like 70% of females between 15-80 are trying to diet, lose a few pounds, get in shape, and the like. Many of these directives come from a place of new starts and a desire to feel good, go for walks, live longer for our families, for ourselves.
But let's be honest, a lot of these impulses also come from a place of self-loathing, slanted views of perfection, a sense that that size 6 pair of Seven jeans will somehow make our lives better. Maybe we won't feel like the chubby mom at the PTA meetings clad in a big sweater to belie her discomfort with her body. Or the skinny woman at the community pool reticent to get into the water because of the cellulite dimpling the backs of her thighs. Or maybe the girl caked in makeup to hide angry, red pimples, scars from old ones; her closet a mix of things that cover up her back and chest.
I have to say as a group, women are very hard on how we view our own bodies. How many of us have used words like ugly, fat, gross, ginormous, just wrong, or my personal favorite too. As in my thighs are too big, my boobs are too saggy, my legs too big, my stomach too squishy. We're too this, too that. Not to say I'm not affected by these same impulses but I want to offer you a gift of some perspective.
My work at the spa has put me into contact with hundreds of naked women. During the average brazilian wax I get to see bellies, butts, thighs, legs and of course, vaginas in bright light exposed, sometimes under a magnified lamp to tweeze the last few stragglers. Seeing such a wide cross section of women has led me to a greater acceptance of my own body. We are exposed to so many airbrushed and retouched images that we forget what women’s bodies really look like.
With the sole exception of the local university girl’s swim team(those women truly had the most beautiful bodies I have ever seen, an amazing combination of strength and shape), every woman I’ve worked on has cellulite. In fact, skinny girls who don't work out seem to get it the worst. Every naked body that has rested on my table has veins mapping the circulatory system. I have seen scarred knees and stretch marks, some from children born, some from weight lost, others from growth spurts. I have seen scary dark wiry hairs that shoot from all manner of seemingly unfair places like the back of our legs or even our nipples. I have seen navels stretched from childbirth, scars from ingrown hairs, dimpled knees and pimpled butts. I've witnessed mastectomy scars, broken noses healed over in the aftermath of an abusive spouse and more c-section scars than I can recall. I've noticed strangely taut skin from too big of breast implants put into too small a woman. I've seen scars from attacks, surgeries, I've seen tattoos, some cherished others reviled by their owners.
My point? These are the bodies of real women. They are not airbrushed for my viewing or artfully arranged. They are laid bare on a white sheet-covered slab for my scrutiny. We shouldn't compare at all but if we do, because we will, can it at least be to something real. I don't like my legs, they are what I call sturdy. Since the realization as a young girl that my body was frequently appraised by others, these calves of mine have cause consternation, a desire to be long and lithe rather than the mass of roundness and curves I am. My husband teases me about my leg loathing, yeah, you have sturdy legs he says, sturdy to hold up my big babies. And when I complain about my ample behind, he reminds me that in his very humble opinion all these round fleshy parts of my body were designed for the singular purpose of lovemaking.
Let's make a pact to be easier on our selves. Let's try to see our bodies more from the perspective of those who use and love them, our lovers, our husbands, our children, and less through the eyes of an unsympathetic critic. Let's acknowledge all that these bodies have done: housed humans, run races, comforted lovers, warmed babies, fought diseases, given and received pleasure, ushered in the living, held the hands of the dying, cooked things, created things.
Of course I say all these things stuck squarely in the middle of the beauty myth. I don't want wrinkles, I will probably never stop wishing or working for a flatter stomach. I don't ever expect that I'll be free of these kind of longings. My goal is only to be kinder and gentler--resting most of the time, in a place of gratitude for my body that is strong and healthy.
The Vocabulary of Parenthood
Friday, January 2, 2009
Contest still open folks and the odds are good. Thank you to all of the people who have participated thus far in helping me pick my best of. This was one of my first blog posts and is still, today, one of my favorites. If you read the litany, I think it has a certain beauty in the cadence that bellies the rote of the actual phrases.
Much like you look to Zagat's for dinner ideas or grab a copy of Fodor's for a trip to a new city, I think this list laminated should be handed to would-be parents. Are you willing to say these things no fewer than one-hundred times a day? No? You might want to get a dog instead.
If you spend much time around our household you would get the impression that my husband and I operate with a pre-programmed, limited vocabulary that recycles itself, like a talking doll, over and over again, at least when it comes to the hours spent with our children.
Don’t touch things that don’t belong to you.
Get that out of your mouth.
Eat over your plate.
Put the cat down.
Pick that up.
Get your finger out of there.
Leave the poop alone(we said that at least five times yesterday at the park, in all fairness to the kids, there was both cat poop in the sand and dog poop on the grass that they were entertained by).
Get your hands off the walls.
Use your napkin not your shirt.
Use a tissue not your sleeve.
What's on your finger?
Use the hand towel not your pants.
Did you wipe?
Knock it off.
Go cry in your room.
Go to bed.
I didn’t make the mess, I’m not cleaning it up.
If you cheat, I'm not going to play anymore.
Is that where that goes?
You’re hungry?
Hi hungry, nice to meet you, I’m Daddy.
Not until you finish your dinner.
Not until your room’s clean.
If I told you that you could have candy for breakfast, I bet you’d be able to remember that.
Be nice to your brother.
Be nice to your sister.
Go apologize to your father.
Go say you’re sorry to your mother.
Don’t even think about it.
If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything.
Do you want to rephrase that?
I can’t understand you when you’re whining.
How do you ask for something?
What did I say?
What did you say?
I said no.
How many times do I have to tell you?
I'm only going to tell you once.
I would advise you to remember who you are speaking to.
I will not tolerate lying.
No one likes a tattler.
We don’t talk like that at the dinner table.
Please just stop talking.
Catch us at our respective jobs or after the kids go to bed and really, we can be interesting people who can carry on real conversation and not just grunt commands and recriminations. Just make sure you don’t sniffle or we’ll tell you to go blow your nose first.Of course there is the other phrase, the one that all the others stem from, the one we hope they always know, the one they ultimately remember long after they’ve mastered wiping and don’t cheat at Monopoly anymore, I love you.
Come to the Darkside, We Have Cookies
I am at work today and though I do not have some maniacal New Year's resolution to 'finally get in shape' or 'get back into those jeans', I am trying to get back on the healthy track post holiday. For me on a work day that means no more Thai ordered in for lunch. Not because Thai is unhealthy but because I'm usually too lazy busy to pick it up and there's a fifteen dollar minimum for delivery so I have to get two things and usually end up eating it all. So today I started great, packed myself a lunch. I skipped breakfast because I was running late from packing said lunch, not good.
Still, I packed two things of the Campbell's healthy veg soup, a few Cara-Cara oranges(super delicious by the way), a diet coke for lunch, some trail mix and two homemade Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies for after lunch.
Guess what I've eaten so far(it's 9:45am right now)? I nuked one soup, took two bites of it, stuck it back in the fridge and drank the diet coke and ate the two cookies. Fantastic. Diet coke and chocolate chip cookies, that was my breakfast. I'll have to wait until I'm starving to eat the soup. Maybe if I'm stomach growlingly hungry, it will taste good but right now it just tastes like watered down V-8 juice with some dried basil and limp veggies in it, blech.
Meanwhile I talked to the hubs and he's already taken a forty-five minute walk, fucker. I hope he eats the rest of the chocolate chip cookies I left on the counter. Is that wrong?
Labels: I'm a bad person. He's all mine. Can eating be a hobby?
I've Got a Brand New Pair of Rollerskates
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Oh hi there.
No you're not lost, I've redecorated around here. Like everyone else, formerlyfun has gone green. No more pink, no more Barbie's Boudoir. I don't want to hear any smart comments about Kermit's Korner or something else stupid clever like that. I figured with the new year I'd usher in a new look.
Of course I'm still tweaking things and on that note I'd like to announce my very first contest. I am doing a best of tab to highlight some of my most popular posts. I certainly have my favorites but I'd like to know your favorites. I'm not at all objective and tend to like posts that make me look cool and sexy or really smart and include pictures that make me look 25 and ten pounds thinner.
Just comment here, you can pick as many posts as you like. Really, I won't hold it against you that you like, say nearly every single one. You can nominate in categories. You can comment more than once if you think of something else later. What stood out, made you laugh, made you angry, made you cry? Yes, I'm conceited, so?
Tell me what you liked and I'll give one winner a big shiny present. And yeah, I own a day spa so I won't be sending you a macrame plant holder or Santa oven mitts. I'll give one winner a customized package that can be focused on skin, body or wellness. If your one of my guy readers and you are uninterested in things of the girlie persuasion know that I stock men's skincare too or you can give me the lowdown on one of your lady friends and I will send you something for her. I know that's vague but I really want the winner to have products they'll use just trust me that I'll send you good stuff.
I'll pick an additional winner to get a day off their own blog if they so choose as I will offer a formerlyfun guest post on the topic of their choice(I know, I am very brave, I'm glad you think so too.) Of course you have to have a blog to win this one and uh, actually want a formerlyfun post on your own site.
I invite everyone* to participate, even if you're not a regular commenter here, come into the light and it could be worth your while. I'll pick winners at random by some kind of system where I write everybody's names on slips of paper and let the bebe pick one. I'll announce it here and whomever wins can email their real address and the lowdown on what kind of package they'd like and where I can mail their goodies.
So welcome to the new digs and I hope we'll be seeing lots of each other.
* If you don't have a blogger sign in, you can just select anonymous or name in the comments section. Just be sure to write Sandy in Siberia or Lola in Los Angeles at the end of your comment so I can confirm it's you if you win. Also, if you really live in Siberia, I probably can't afford the postage to send you spa stuff cause you know, the recession and stuff.
Labels: It's okay to suck up.
The Life of the REAL Housewife of Orange County
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Well, thankfully, my husband getting a job is no longer a concern. Today I received a wonderful letter in the email that puts all my fears to rest.
Dear Friend,
This letter may come as a surprise since we have not yet met. I have no intentions of causing you pains so i decide to contact you through this medium .As you read this, I don't want you to feel sorry for me, because, I believe everyone will die someday.
My name is SALAM JAFER, a merchant in Dubai, in the U.A.E. I have been diagnosed with prostate and esophageal Cancer that was discovered very late due to my laxity in caring for my health. It has defiled all form of medicine and right now, I have only about a few WEEKS to live according to medical experts.I have not particularly lived my life so well, as I never really cared for anyone but my business. Though I am very rich, I was never generous, I was hostile to people and only focus on my business.
But now I regret all this as I now know that there is more to life than just wanting to have or make all the money in the world. I believe when God gives me a second chance to come to this world I would live my life a different way from how I have lived it. Now that I know my
time is near, I have willed and given most of my properties and assets to my immediate and extended family members and as well as a few close friends. I am writing this from my laptop computer As my last days alive are drawing closer and closer I have resolved to give my remaining funds to charity organizations as I want this to stand as one of the last deeds I indulge in on earth before I die.
I am contacting you with this as the last of my funds which no one knows of is a cash deposit of Eighteen million U.S Dollars stashed in 2 trunk boxes and declared as Personal effects of high security value which I have with a finance/Security Company in Europe. All I am asking of you is to assist me in making the collection of this deposit and dispatching the funds to any charity of your choice after keeping 20% of the funds for yourself and your family.10% of these funds should be to cover any expenses that might be incurred in the process of making this claims. Please contact me as soon as you get this email if you are capable and sincere to handle this transaction on my behalf so I can forward you with all relevant documents necessary for the claims and the name of the security firm where the funds are deposited. Please respond to me on this email address if you are willing to assist me, sheikhrah2005@netscape.net May God Bless You. Salam Jafer
See, given his infirm condition, I am thinking I could really get in this guy's good graces. If I could help him, he would no doubt reward me with a paltry piece of his fortune, I was thinking something like $3.6 million, 'cause I'm not greedy and in the process I get to give away the rest and feel just like Oprah watching people go all kinds of apeshit. So hubs, you can stop the job search because Easy Street is just ahead.
ICYMI: Oprah's Favorite-- AHHHHHHH! @ Yahoo! Video
On a separate note, I really like to write, it rarely feels like work to me and it's the perfect nonsocial social outlet. The difficult thing is getting time to write, time to get into that space where the words flow freely, where they aren't forced or contrived, they just jibe.
Tonight I was in that place, in the office, plunking away at the keyboard, the stuff just flying out of my fingertips, headphones on with new music lighting my way when I feel a tap on my shoulder, I jump slightly and turn around, hubs is standing there.
"Yes?" I ask in a tone that says, I'm in the middle of a creative tsunami, whatdaya want?
"You need to see this Chris" hubs says gravely.
"What?"
"Look what the bebe drew, oh my god, I really need to show you this. Come see."
"Fine," I get up and plod to the family room.
I am expecting maybe some circles since she has only been drawing lines and punchy little dots.
"What do you think she's trying to tell us, should we be worried?" he asks.
Jesus, I'm never gonna get a book published.
On another note, can I just say it is so cold here right now that you could hang heavy winter coats from my tattersons(boobies). It's 45 degrees. Now I know I know, all my friends and family in Wisconsin are probably thinking, fuck you Wimpy McWimperson but here's the thing. My wonderful old stony, heavy leaded double windowed insulated brick duplex nestled in the heart of beautiful Wauwatosa Wisconsin with it's gentle radiator heat and fireplace knew how to keep a girl warm. Yes, it was beastly when you had to go out and shovel but inside it was toasty.
The houses in Southern California on the other hand, are made out of slightly thick paper. I have a headband on right now because the draft is so bad that my hair is whipping in my face and I can't see. This is not a place that was meant to be below sixty. Most people wear flip flops 75% of the time, scarves are for fashion purposes only and most of our stores sell winter coast for about five minutes before they put them away and get out the beach wear.
On yet another note, in light of our precarious financial position, giant inheritance from Salam Jafer not withstanding, I have taken several measures to save us money. We don't eat out very often but we occasionally indulge in Pinkberry. It is so good and the fruit is always perfectly ripe, flavorful and not pretty but tasteless like so many of the berries I buy at the store. The frozen yogurt really tastes like yogurt, not watery ice cream. It's also deceptively low in calories.
It's also kind of pricey. At about three bucks per, as a family of five, we're talking like fifteen bucks here, something we can't spare right now. Still, I don't want the kids to feel deprived so "Pinkberry" a la mom. 
"But Mom, the yogurt's warm and the fruit is frozen."
"Well, they changed their formula," I told them.
It's mommaberry bitches, get used to it.
I also have been shopping at a store called the Grocery Outlet. This is a very good place. It's not crappy melamine filled products from China, it's straight from the manufacturer. It's overruns, old packaging, crooked labels, Awareness campaigns that have come and gone, runs of stuff that never took off. It is not dented botulism riddled cans and past the expiration date goods.
For instance, one product I got for the kids is called Fiber-Filled Health Biscuits. The ingredients are great and all-organic, no high fructose corn syrup, no trans-fat, but the way they are marketed is unappealing which is probably why they languished as bright shiny boxes of cookies flew off the shelves. The health biscuits, they taste great and as far as cookies go, they are healthy.
Another product I got is the off brand version of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish. Those goldfish crackers are good but damn expensive. Here in Southern California, a family size box is like nine dollars. Goldfish-shaped crackers are trademarked so instead we get:
Do these crackers not just scream poor happy?
Labels: I'm never gonna get a book published. Oprah. Complain much?
World's Oldest Spiderweb Found in My Bathroom
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
I am not a good sleeper. Hubs on the other hand goes gently into that good night the minute his head hits the pillow. My head is like an old computer trying to shut down, slowly closing each window, getting hung up in things here and there. These are the things that I start thinking about at 11:30pm when I should be sleeping:
1. Oxford University paleobiologist Martin Brasier recently discovered a 140-million-year-old spider web. A real find and further proof that I'm not the only second-rate housekeeper.
2. With regard to women, we talk about having it all a lot. We never talk about men having it all. Do you know why? Because having it all really means doing it all.
3. If I hear one more mom talking about buying lots of presents to make it a good Christmas for her children I might lose my mind. Since when has Christmas been about tonnage? If I think back about cherished childhood Christmas memories, rarely are they about the presents. There are a few standouts when I got something I had really wanted but mostly it's about the feeling and being together and parents being more relaxed due to a few days off work, and mostly, anticipation. When did so many parents priorities go askew?
4. Last night (don't ask me why) I explained the 
euphemism "dropping the kids off at the pool” to my kids. I explained euphemism(teaching moment) and then detailed exactly who the 'kids' were and what the 'pool' referred to(less of a teaching moment). I thought for sure I was introducing new lexicon into the entire third grade class, a swift revenge for some of the things my son has picked up. Turns out, it was a big winner with my four year old daughter who now announces every bm with, “I'm going to drop the kids off at the pool.” Good times, good times.
5.The bebe has her core words, ma, dada, ba(bottle),up, cat, kittie, she is also at that verbal stage where her mumblings are starting to sound like words, even whole phrases. Sure, she doesn't mean it when she says things that sound like, can I have some kimchi, but I swear to god this morning she said what sounded like, mom I need to finish my doctoral thesis, can you get me a double espresso.
6. You know what's at the top of my Christmas list this year? A day with just my husband at the movie plex catching up on all of the holiday Oscar contenders, eating loads of popcorn, Twizzlers and getting sore bums from an eight hour movie marathon. Oh, and a cleaning lady.
7. Though I know there are only a select few who care about the kids stuff on the site, I am going to post another video of my bebe dancing. I just need to document that she is a mambo master, a samba sage, a veritable hip hop savant. She has unparalleled rhythm, she is a genius of beat. This special ability is not present in all my kids. My eight year old has repeatedly attempted break dancing and it looks remarkably like a seizure. My four year old as evidenced in the previous video, has dancing skills reminiscent of Elaine from Seinfeld all flailing and odd off beat jutting kicks.
Labels: Women got the short stick. My kids are going to need a really good therapist.
Girly Girl Sick Day
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
So all the XX's in our house are sick right now, for whatever reason, the goopy fever sore throat stuffiosity has eluded the menfolk. So us girl's are having a group sick day and yes, there are giant pink tutus involved and funk and Motown and lots of books and there might be glitter at some point. We might be contagious but we're not dead.
Labels: My kids are going to need a really good therapist. Girly girl.
You are the Weight of Her World
Friday, December 12, 2008
I never thought I went out into the dating world looking for a father figure, a common thing for girls with absentee fathers. I was drawn to men who made me feel taken care off, protected, beautiful and capable, intelligent and resourceful. Little did I understand that these are all the things your father is supposed to provide for you. I didn't have this, how would I know? What were the feelings I had with my own father?
The biggest one was probably exclusion. When my father remarried and had his own family(see even in the way the words come out, ugh, as if they are other people unconnected to me), I felt pushed to the side, the product of an accidental teen pregnancy rather than the planned family he had now. I felt the weight of his shame, his feelings that his life might have been different, no better, had I not 'happened'.
I found my father figure in other places. Mostly my grandfather Henry, who died of pancreatic cancer this year. He would pick me up from school dances, talk to me about my plans for the future, never wavering in his confidence in me. “Chrissy, you're the one we never worry about,” he'd tell me and just him saying it I believed it. It's also no surprise that I turned to men as a way to fill the deep and unfillable chasm my dad left in his wake. Like I said, I never thought I went out into the dating world looking for a father figure but looking back on it as a thirty five year old, the evidence is there.
At 22 there was Jake, seventeen years my senior. He was recently divorced with a daughter of his own. He was the first man I really loved. He made me laugh, he made me feel beautiful, he praised me for my intelligence, my wit. Jake changed me in a ways that remained long after we were not together, good ways that remain even now. He also broke my heart. Though his intentions were good, his reticence to make me a part of all the parts of his life, after more than a year, once again reminded me that I came in a very distant second to other more important people. I'd played that record before. The other men that came after were less important but more of the same. 
I did a great deal of work cleaning up the mess someone else made. My husband has done his share too. He traverses my whims and perceived slights and insecurities like a pro but these are gaps in me that were there long before him, none of them his making. I remember in the early days of our relationship when my insecurities had gotten the better of me. Fears of abandonment welled up until I broke and let the crazy come flooding out. He reassured me and I apologized for being the way I was being, maybe for being the way I was. This isn't your fault I told him, it's my own insecurities and I do my best to manage them. The truth was, it wasn't my fault either. My husband taught me to trust him, but it was a near Herculean effort. He showed me, through actions and words that even though I am at times difficult, moody, even petulant, he is not going anywhere. 
I am envious of my daughters some days when I see my husband with them. I wish so much that I had had that. How different or easier would I have traversed the world, how much less complicated would my teens and twenties have been, how much sooner would I have made peace with my body and sense of self. How much less of me would I have given away looking for someone to love me? 
I am proud that I found a man who does and will continue to give our daughters what every girl deserves to have in a father but too few of us really had. I watch him with them and it is redemptive, I get to feel for a moment what it would have been like to have that for myself. I have healed many of my own wounds by finding a man whose love for me never wavers, who makes me feel both capable and protected, a man who has taken the time and made the investment in getting to know me inside and out.
My point? I don't know but maybe it's this, fathers be vigilant. Don't ever be fooled into thinking Mom is the only one who really matters. I can't speak for sons but only as a daughter. You are the weight of her world. You are the yardstick by which she will measure men later. You are the mirror that casts how she will in part see herself. You are the soft place to fall. You will be the first man to teach her what men value by the way you love her. You will influence so many parts of her future that it would probably scare you if you added it all up.
Labels: Looking back. Where's my soapbox. Hi, you're my new therapist.
First Look
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Beatles Album, Special K ,Existential Cubes, Oh My
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
In my past I have experimented with drugs. I was never the one who did it with any frequency but I sought a point of reference. I wanted to know first hand what people were talking about. Of course with some drugs like the pipe, heroin and meth, I was smart enough to know that even one time was playing with fire.
Some of my experiences were amazing, some arresting, some were awful but one stands out as being particularly sensational. This wonderful experience was with a very legal but powerful drug, Ketamine. Now, I'm not a proponent of drugs but this was good, so good, it was almost religious.
"I'm starting to feel this."
Moments later I looked pleadingly at the anesthesiologist, "I can feel this, I am feeling pain."
"No pain, just pressure," he said tersely , a small Asian man who had given me three different epidurals the previous 16 hours of labour, none of them mitigating the pain.
No surprise to me the epidural was again proving ineffective.
"No pain, just pressure," he said again, like if he just repeated it then it would become true. I started to cry and hyperventilate. Finally the surgeon stepped in,
"Is she feeling this? She cannot be feeling this.
She better not be feeling this."This is where it gets interesting. First, everything was musical, beautiful, philosophical. Did you know that there was a previously unreleased Beatles album nestled in my consciousness just waiting to be liberated with the benefit of major mind altering chemicals? I don't remember the specifics of the songs but I can tell you it was the Beatles and it was all new material, from several different periods.
There were the fresh, suited idols singing stylistic bubblegum pop. There were Beatles in Nehru jackets opining some vaguely transcendental Krishna psychedelia. There were straggly hippie Beatles shaking their heads at the war. There were also sweaty, raving glitter-speckled Beatles hopping around with glow sticks and pacifiers.
It was the best fucking concert of my life and I had not only a front row seat, I had a 360 degree view, I had close ups. The best part? It was so unbelievably real. It was noisy, full of beat and melody.When I came out later I said to my husband,
"Man I know that doctors sometimes like to listen to music during surgery but it was really, really loud."
I had figured that maybe some background Beatles had gotten this particular stream of consciousness started.
It got even better. The music faded to the background and what appeared behind my eyes was a gigantic cube, like a Rubik's cube but every cube was metallic silvery white and there seemed to be infinite facets covering each side. Now you know how people who have near death experiences later relate how their whole life played before their eyes? Well the cube was like this except I saw everybody's lives.Each facet on the cube seemed to represent another person's life. Though the images seemed to pass quickly like a movie or series of pictures, they started birth to death and all of the moments in between. That shit was heavy. I was out for about a half an hour but it felt like hours, lifetimes. I literally woke to a baby in my arms feeling as if I had been told a secret by the universe.
Perhaps the momentousness of the occasion lent itself to the existential. Maybe knowing I was about to bring forth a new life set my mind up for something magnanimous. The unreal part is I still remember it vividly. It's hard to put the details and specifics into words because it was so heavily auditory and visual.
Petite Bourgeoisie
Monday, December 8, 2008
Yes, I am aware this is the Iphone commercial song but I love it and it's stuck in my head right now like my own personal theme song complete with narration. I'm beginning to feel like Zach Braff's character in Scrubs. Well, I'd probably miss the voices if they were gone right?
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