Okay…so here it is. The Sex and The Suburbs2 poster. My god, what it took to get this damn thing done. I am correct in my thesis that with the proper team, anyone can look like anything. What I underestimated was how much time it takes when everyone is laboring for free. When kids get sick or wives go to Turkey or stuff just plain gets in the way. Next time it will go much more smoothly. My friend Heidi took over the art direction on the back-end pointing out that, had she been on the front end, things would have been easier. So let me just commend my fabulous team, post a few pics of the process and sit back and back for summer vacation.
Team
Photographer/retoucher:Chris Carroll
Styling: Victor Alex Francisco aka Autumn Hues (check out her web page…Victor is fabulous as both boy AND girl. Who better to turn unadorned housewives into Sex and the City tarts but a drag queen)
Photo Assistant: Marina Ross
Makeup and Hair:Marie Jennings
Art Direction: Heidi Broecking
Video: Rich White
Sound:Eric Bini
Click here to see pictures from the shoot.
Okay…so I know I didn’t get the Tiger babe shots produced in a timely fashion. And, in fact, I decided against the Tiger babe shots at all. Partly because I came to the conclusion that the Tiger babes had nothing even vaguely babelicious to aspire to for those of us whose tastes run to tasteful elegant with just a hint of real boob…not the melon sized versions on display in Vanity Fair. And, second of all, those girls are not all that hot. And they certainly have already left public consciousness. So what I did instead was decided to take a bunch of forty somethings and some minutes away from fifty-somethings (me included) and turn us into an incredibly decent, respectable facsimile of the poster for the new Sex and the City movie. And my point is????? Here’s my point (and the reason for the title S & M….as in SMOKE AND MIRRORS, for all of you frisky minded folks…sorry to disappoint)..the point of this is that every day of our lives we spend a lot of time watching TV, looking at magazines, perusing the newspaper. And everywhere you look there are images that, consciously or subconsciously, we all compare ourselves to. Like Martha Stewarts magazine. My god. I had a Martha shoot at my house
once. A team of attractive young women showed up for the Easter issue a few months in advance. Why my house? Lord knows…I believe they said that the wall colors were good…but they never mentioned the cat vomit stained rug, the boogers Luke had wiped on the perfect colored walls, the baseboard where countless balls and scooters have hammered the paint, play doh left over from days when my boys actually played with play doh, and the huge quantity of food ground into chairs, throw rugs not to mention the pets fur. The White trashiness of our abode didn’t seem to phase Martha’s girls, intrepid and perky as they were. For hours these young women slaved…dying Easter eggs, cutting out little paper ducks or some such, arranging things on tables and in windows in perfect “Martha” displays of elegance and good taste, little cans of touch up paint frantically covering the boogers and scooter dings. Their days and hours of work appeared in a small section of the magazine looking great with instructions for achieving the same effect in your own home. Yeah, right. What they never fucking mentioned was the team of pert twenty somethings spending HOURS, I kid you not, HOURS to actually get these lovely images. You couldn’t do it if you tried. Well, actually, you could do it. But it would be a full time job. No grocery shopping, no sleeping, no picking the kids up from school, forget ever putting on makeup or a matching outfit. My god, you’d have the perfect excuse for forgoing sex. “Sorry honey, I have not finished cutting out the four hundred and thirty two bunnies I have carefully stenciled onto vintage wallpaper, elegant in it’s shades of apricot and watermelon. And I still have to string them onto pastel silk thread and hang them from our balustrades for our elegant Easter display. Wish I could take a quick break for a roll, but, you know….” You’d have to spend every breathing minute achieving aesthetic perfection. I’m not even going to tell you the magazine pumpkin carving story because it will take too long. Let’s just say it involves professional pumpkin carvers working non stop, almost without sleep and food, for 48 hours to get a total of FIVE acceptable pumpkins for an unnamed magazine that was going to try to convince you that you, too, could have pumpkins that depicted the Civil Rights movement from slavery until now. Okay. That part’s made up. The 48 hours with professional, PROFESSIONAL pumpkin carvers is not. This kind of deception of hardworking women like us is everywhere, guaranteed to make us feel fatter than we should be, poorly dressed, over-sunned, and completely lacking the ability in the kitchen to turn out any sort of meal that anyone would actually want to eat let alone make paper bunnies out of vintage wallpaper or carve a fucking pumpkin . It really is the Smoke and Mirrors approach to the world. I’ve blogged about what it takes to make a star actually “go bare”. It takes great lighting and artful retouching. Even the Evening News isn’t what it seems. Katie Couric, alone behind her big desk, wearing a good suit and haircut, telling you about the days events. But if you were to widen out that shot, pull back to see what’s REALLY happening…why, there are fifty people in the room with Katie, writers, directors, cameramen. When you hit commercial breaks, the hair and makeup people rush in to eliminate any sign of effort or head movement. Katie is reading from a teleprompter something someone else wrote and there’s an earpiece in her ear to update her on any breaking news. Katie might even have her shoes off under the desk. It’s been known to happen. Or what about the food magazines? With their food stylists who carve carrots then place them gently in the inedible but beautiful lit stew “just so”, Yeah, they can show up at my house at dinner time but try placing a carrot gently in my stews and I guarantee, someone’s going to lose a hand. Photographers who make sure the light hits the beef just right and the red gel gives it that perfect stewy color. Oh yeah. In the land of the media it doesn’t just take a Village…it takes a goddamned army trained up the wazoo in the art of deception. So here’s what I did. I took four of my women friends, all very hands-on mothers of two or more kids each, all inclined more towards Teva’s than high fashion, all great looking in their own completely understated way and I TURNED THEM INTO MOVIE STARS. Actually, like all things involving “movie stars”…it was not me, it was my team. My army. Hair, makeup, great majorly talented photographer, assistant, stylist (my friend Victor who, among many other wonderful things is also a fabulous drag queen, appropriate, no? who better trained in the art of deception than beautiful drag queens. Much more to share on this one including how gaff tape can make your boobs look like a million bucks, but you’ll have to wait) cameraman, sound man, wind machines, so much make-up it took us days to chisel it off, hairspray and hairstraighteners, cheap dresses bought on credit cards at the local mall to be returned the next day (that’s how it works), a lot of coffee (and no tequilla even though we wanted to but it WAS 10 am), a lot of giggles, a lot of moral support and all before we had to drop everything and pick up kids at 2:30. We even had to come up with a quick substitute mommy model because, lo and behold, my friend Liz’s kids turned up with strep that morning, the kind that involves throw up, so we got her a back-up model, my always game friend Adrienne who had to bring her littlest one and Liz managed to come for a couple hours because, unlike real movie stars, she didn’t actually have a staff to watch the kids while she did her photo shoot. Bet that never happens to Sarah Jessica. And then, like all great movie stars, we had some retouching and final approval. And I think we ROCK. I’m not kidding. But I’m not going to show you now. You have to wait til tomorrow. But I promise. You’re going to be proud. We look, well, like MOVIE STARS.
So my friend Mary called to see if I had seen the latest Vanity Fair. I had. Or at least the cover with a simply lovely shot of the eternally perfect Grace Kelly. Mary then complained that we weren’t in it. “Why”, I asked. “Well”, she responded, “They have an article on Tiger’s women as well as an, er, amazing photo spread. Check it out and call me.” So I did. The irony of flipping past the flawless Grace Kelly to find Tiger Wood’s women didn’t escape me for a moment and when I found them, the difference could not have been more dramatic or, as some might say, pneumatic. They are quite a bunch. Now, why, you ask, should Mary have wondered about our absence in this particular photo spread. Well, as I sited a few blogs ago, Mary and I have the dubious distinction of writing a piece called “We Slept With Tiger” about two suburban moms meeting the golf superstar while on a elementary school field trip. The piece was actually published by the highly respected “Publishers Weekly ” and received at least one stunned and negative comment from a reader. “Has Publishers Weekly actually come to this?” I believe was the phrase he used. This, having no idea that in the original version, Mar and Jen (we used our real names) actually made love to the guy who can “go all night”, according to one of the Vanity Fair ladies, on a pile of clean socks heaved at my spouse after a bout of criticism and never cleaned up. The published version did feature Tiger polishing off leftover pancakes shaped like dinosaurs and texting us LOL when we proposed a third encounter, which we thought meant Lots of Love. It was an impressive Solzhenitsyn-esque bit of writing, “Cancer Ward” with humor and we were shocked when the New Yorker rejected us outright. After it was published we had to field calls from publishers and literary agents who were interested in giving us a book deal. Seriously. They really did call. I was confused and kept asking them what book they actually saw us writing? “Other Men We Haven’t Slept With”? “My Romances with Osama Bin Laden and Stalin”? “MacCauley Caulkin: Love of My Life”. We are still trying to figure out how to take advantage of the clearly desperate book market and I’ll let you know how we do. In the meantime, here are the Tiger Babe photos and no one even called to inquire whether we’d like to participate. I’ve looked closely at them. They are interesting. One features a naked twenty something lollygagging on a bed of New York Post back issues with Tiger on the cover. Another is a waitress friend of Tiger’s eating, of course, a marraccino cherry at a lunch counter. Then there’s the girl who for some inexplicable reason is wearing her bathing suit while walking down a hall. Actually, there might be an explicable reason. She has the biggest boobs I have EVER seen on something not in the Guiness Book and how else to display them but in a hall in a bathing suit. The final girl I can’t really recall right now but I guarantee she isn’t doing anything that real people do and she isn’t wearing anything that real people would wear and she has extremely good hair. And therein lies the rub. The reason Mar and I are not in the article (other than the fact that we didn’t actually sleep with Tiger) is because we don’t have the right hair, makeup, support underwear, stylist and photographer. And I suppose location is important too. So here’s what I’m proposing. I am going to find us that team. I am going to get us some Tiger babe worthy photos and I am going to make Vanity Fair wish that they had called. I called Mar to tell her as much and she said “Are you out of your fucking mind”. Now granted, Mar was cranky because she has a book coming out and to get her looking her best for the book tour she did what every writer from Styron to Salinger has done prior to book tours and got herself some sort of new fraxel or pixel or something facial peel. She called and asked my opinion about doing it and since I was way to scared to get one myself I thought, heck, sure, let your friend do it first. Well, apparently Styron was not very honest about pre-book tour peels. He, in fact, never said a word. As Mar put it, she found herself lying in the laser experts chair, the smell of her burning flesh in her nose, biting her lips to fight the excruciating pain thinking “I am a fucking vain idiot and I hate myself.” She was still saying this yesterday but maybe if it looks really good in a day or two she’ll change her mind and be more into getting some Tiger photos taken. In the meantime, her face is too pink and sensitive and she wants to lose some weight. Although her cleavage, as I told her, with the proper propping, will be fabulous. So that’s my goal. By weeks end, I will get a team of beauty crafters together and I will turn two women at the half century mark into true Tiger babes and I will make Vanity Fair wish they had called us. I will make the New Yorker sorry they didn’t like our story. And I will make Tiger wish he’d actually had a chance with us. And maybe we’ll find a book deal. Something like “George Clooney Loves My Generous Ass in the Right Light”. Or “When Brad Pitt Said He Prefers Wrinkles Because They Add Character.” I’d like to promise I’m going to turn us into Grace Kelly lookalikes but the truth about Grace is, she actually was beautiful and no team of stylists could take that away from her even if they tried. And, my god, she wouldn’t be caught dead in a hall in a bathing suit. But I might. Particularly if I get a book deal.
…every member of the Hollywood audience who continues to pretend that they are straight when they are not. I know, I know, all of my gay friends continue to insist that all of the good looking male movie stars are gay. Nope, they don’t mention Seth Rogen as a probable giant homo or Mr. Bean as a flamer. Never heard ONE person discuss knowing a friend of a friend of a friend who did it with Charles Durning. It’s always people like John Travolta, Tom Cruise, Will Smith and certainly the most confusing to me, George Clooney. I’m sure they are wrong on some counts. But I’m sure they’re right on some, too. As my friend Gene points out…who did do theater in high school?? Who sang like birds and danced and pranced like queers? That’s right, queers. The boys with the Barbie collections who actually wore cashmere sweaters before they grew up and realized, as mere lads, the benefits of cashmere were both classic fashion and warmth. Who knew how to really cover zits with light cover up and a quick dusting of powder and that yellow made you look sallow and who could make you feel better when that football playing idiot picked the girl with the big boobs and easy access to them, over you who had neither the boobs or the concept of access. “Sag, sag, sag”, they used to say, and somehow, this idea, so abstract at 16, made you felt better. Yes. They were the primary male theater performers in every high school in the nation so it would make sense that at least a few of them would end up in Hollywood. And yet, by my count, the only gay guys in Hollywood are, hmmm, let me think for a minute, Okay, there’s…oh, wait, he’s not out…and then there’s, oh, right..we don’t know that for sure…and then, um, but I’m not sure…. Hmmm. So the only one I can come up with who’s actually out and honest about it is Pee Wee Herman. And he was outed by the police. Oh, and Paul Lynde. But he’s been dead for years. Even though I’m sure he’s still gay. And last week Ricky Martin. Ricky Martin was my crush right after my firstborn arrived. I would sit staring at the TV in a stupor and watch him sing “Living La Vida Loca” while the first man ever to truly worship at my tiny breasts fed himself to sleep and I would imagine my own “Vida Loca” with Ricky. But even I knew he was gay. Which was, after delivering a nine pound baby boy following a full three and a half hours of pushing with no epidural, just the kind of sex I was after. Gay sex. Which didn’t involve me.
I just spent a day in Washington. I had a blast wandering those not so hallowed halls getting winked at by seventy year old men in power suits and twenty year olds in Brooks Brothers. I decided that whenever any of my friends are contemplating facelifts we’ll just do a trip to the ole Capitol of graft and corruption. Wander the halls and get hit on constantly and you’ll decide that the lift idea was a bit premature and it’ll save you some cash not to mention some bruising for few more years. Never mind that the Capitol is devoid of women with the exception of Nancy Pelosi and Olympia Snow and I’m not sure they count. Never mind that the seventy year olds are so anxious for any sort of approval, voter or non, and that their eyesight is severely diminished. And never mind that twenty year old men have been known to have sexual encounters with holes in the wall and find it satisfying. Not to mention sheep. I found Washington good for the almost fifty year old ego. I was lobbying for cash for my community but all around me were people lobbying to kill the good old “don’t ask don’t tell”. The same people who believe that gay people should be allowed to marry (as I keep pointing out to the gay people I love, it’s a goal I am not sure should be that high on their list) and that gay people should have the same rights as straight people. Shockingly founding fatherish of them And that they should be allowed to serve in the military and be open and honest about who they are. Now, serving in the military seems to me a lot like getting married. Something we should all avoid unless the country and the world are in direct and immediate danger that can only be solved by us serving or marrying. That said, however, should you choose to do such an insane thing, you should certainly be able to put a picture of your loved one in your duffle, regardless of their gender. I have a dear friend who was drummed out of the military a few years before Vietnam heated up because, at the ripe age of nineteen, having fled a sad home life by joining the army, he found himself in the brig because he’d had the audacity to mention to the chaplain that he thought he might, just might, it was still in the pondering phase, be attracted to men. The army did the only responsible thing it could do and locked him up with a fellow miscreant who had LOVE tatooed on one set of knuckles and HATE tatooed on the other and who’s clearly equal deviant crime was, yes, you got it…MURDERING a fellow soldier. Weirdly enough, these two misfits hit it off like the toys in the Rudolph Christmas Special and survived the grueling multi week process of getting thrown out of the army (being interviewed by shrinks, countless questions, no contact with any other NON deviants). At the end of their time together they said a polite goodbye, the murderer went to prison, and my friend found himself standing on the streets of Columbia, South Carolina in an army issue brown polyester suit with two hundred dollars to send him on his way. Because, in fact, my friend WAS gay, he promptly went to Woolworths, bought a snug pair of jeans and a tight white t-shirt and threw the hideous polyster suit in the trash, then boarded a bus to NY City where he found out that no one actually cared if he was gay and many faghags preferred it and he made a fabulous life for himself.
So what’s the point here. The point is why does anyone in the military care who’s gay or not gay. They always site the ole “who I want in my foxhole” line. But I think they are confusing morality with mortality. Cause I know, should I find myself in a goddamned foxhole, I won’t give a damn about what the person next to me does in the bedroom and I’d trade a “missionary position with a cheerleader” type for a gay man with many earrings, a taste for light bondage and a degree in sharpshooting, any day. And while we’re busy avoiding dying, I suspect (having had and survived a few near death experiences) we would be a little too busy trying not to die to actually discuss bedroom antics. I personally would find it far more confusing to share a foxhole with someone whose idea of a good sexual time involves getting pooped or peed on. Or one that involves hitting the one they love with a riding crop while the other pretends to be a horse while wearing little people saddles and bridles. Or having sex with only those missing limbs or dressed as furry stuffed animals. But the interesting thing is, I probably know and like people who do have those interests. Or at least maybe I do. I know, you’re thinking I’m making these predilections up but I am not. I saw them on HBO’s Real Sex. I’m serious. Google it. You’ll see. At any rate, I’ll never know if I count a pretend horse or a turned on furry animal among my friends. Because not only won’t I ask and they won’t tell, it’s not part of what we share about ourselves with pretty much anyone. Unless you join the” Human Riding Club” or the “Make Love to a Furry Stuffed Animal Club” but then you’re showing off.
I wish we were clearer about what parts of human nature are important. I wish actors didn’t have to pretend to be something they aren’t and that soldiers could love whomever they loved. The funny thing is, I think as people, individuals who have to live on the planet and earn a living and pay our mortgage and raise our children, we don’t give a damn. The TV folk and the politicians, they’re the ones who try to tell us what to feel. The silver heads, who winked at me in Washington, clamoring for votes or illicit sex. The most judgmental people I know are clearly and always the most suspect. Any time I hear a politician railing too loudly against anything gay, in my head I say “Yup, definitely a guy deep in the closet”. When Rush Limbaugh used to get going about liberal deviants, I knew in my head something was up. Turns out he was in the pain pill abusing business. I don’t know what his excuse is now. Maybe he’s in the furry animal closet. He’d look so cute dressed as a little pudgy panda. I don’t know what drove Ricky Martin out of his closet and keeps the rest of them in it. I don’t know why anyone would want to serve in the military but, if they do, we should let them. My god, is there any greater patriotism on earth than a willingness to lay down your life for the freedom of your nation and any greater hypocracy than the government trying to control who you lay down with before you do that.
Okay, I’ve been having a bit of a bout with writers block. It’s not really the blues, per se. It’s more like the blahs, the sags, the not enough coffees in the world. I don’t know why? I have this new political job that takes an inordinate amount of time especially given that, compared to my old life, I’m making about oh, say, eighty two cents an hour doing it, but it’s fun so that should make me happy. Money’s tight, I haven’t bought a new outfit in months and I’m going twelve weeks between colorings and three weeks between pedicures and Rich forgot to pay the Verizon bill so we had no Internet ALL DAY. But MY GOD, I don’t live in Haiti, I don’t even live in the Bronx, I am not part of the Obama administration, I’m not Martha Coakley( really, really not and never would be with that hair cut), I am not Scott Brown and I am not Tiger Woods wife. So what’s my problem? I want to go somewhere fun and I can’t figure out where that is. Whine. I either drink too much or too little but I can’t find moderation. Whine. And I think I’m finally really aging. I feel it and I see it. It’s winter. My tan has fully faded and my age spots are incredibly apparent. The one on my forehead seems to be developing it’s own forehead and I’ve spent enough time on WebMD to know that the dermatologist, when I finally decide to see her, will scold me about not enough sunscreen and lop it off and put it in a jar. And the winter spiritual clincher? A friend just offered me the chance to appear at an enormous press conference for a product she’s marketing for the cosmetic industry and I would be the guinea pig. They’d shoot me full of this new product and drop ten years off my face in front of the press. Now I don’t mind the thought of being a guinea pig. I don’t even mind doing it in public since, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t mind telling just about anything that has to do with just about any part my life. And I don’t , frankly, mind the idea of having stuff injected into my face to fill, and I quote my friend, my “fine” lines, if it makes me look better. What I mind is the fact that she noticed my “fine lines”. It means they are really there. I actually have “fine lines”. And I thought it was just me. You know what I’m saying? I was pretty sure everyone could see the age spot on the forehead if the light hit it just right and the coverup was waning but the fine lines? Those I thought were between me and the mirror. My fine lines, not the worlds. The fact that EVERYONE can see them did not help the winter blues. Then, to top it off, I get Facebook “friended” by a guy I knew when I was in my earliest of twenties who basically says that he has read my blog and that he thinks I am possibly way more interesting that he thought then. That’s the kind of “friend” we all need. Someone who you barely knew because they thought you were an idiot when you were young, looking you up and for god knows what reason, trying to be pals with you now that the “fine” lines have set in. Because maybe as you were getting those fine lines and aforementioned age spots you were also getting, hey, INTERESTING. Maybe, in fact, those extra bits of upper thigh and upper arm fat, excessive pigmentation and fine facial indentations brought with them, to the Jen Party, some more interesting aspects that were never there when the bikini bod was rocking and the forehead was vacant of anything especially spots with foreheads. Maybe just being a bit uglier and sporting a jiggly butt makes you worthy of “friending”? What the hell am I supposed to do with that. So, of course, I friended him back. That’s the kind of idiot I am.
Facebook is a bizarre land. My new found friend Eric, for instance. We knew each other in high school quite peripherally. He was a year younger than me, he went out with my neighbor for a while, I suppose he came to our house but I can’t really remember. To say we knew each other would be a huge stretch. HUGE. He, too, read the blog and “friended” me. He, too, I suspect, thought I was an idiot in high school. And, after he friended me, he was so nice I decided he might be a stalker. Who else could be so nice? And so different from what I barely remembered of him from High School? Except in Eric’s case, it turns out he IS funny and interesting and much more than I remembered from good old Wachusett Regional High School, although aren’t we all. Unlike all of my physically present friends, we don’t speak on the phone, I don’t have the foggiest idea what he sounds like, or, frankly, even looks like, but every so often, out of the blue, he’ll send me something smart to read or point me in the direction of something that is interesting or new(like a band called The Propellerheads…don’t ask…just listen…and with your kids). I’m glad that I know him now even if I didn’t know him then. And don’t really know him now. Although I worry a bit that while we correspond cleverly by email and Facebook, the person he thinks he’s talking to does not have the age spot with the forehead on their forehead and still has an ass the size of two small but perfect canteloupes. But I sound bitter. And I’m not. The ass has to go for the intelligence to increase. Everyone who’s anyone over forty knows that. You know what I’m saying? And who cares if his image of me is of me at 18. It’s common ground we both share.
But Facebook. What a brilliant idea. Everyone is always wondering what happened to their past, or in some cases, in their past. And Facebook has found a way for those of us muddling around middle age trying to find our glasses to find our past. Or at least a few chuckle worthy little parts of it. I’ve been Facebooked by almost everyone I’ve ever slept with for more than one night and if they didn’t Facebook me, I Facebooked them, just to spy . There are a few I’m missing, like the dim restaurant chef with the mohawk and the tongue piercing from ‘86 or the drummer from the rock band who had me hook up with him for a six month period of intermittent tour dates and then disappeared off the face of the earth. Or at least I told myself he’d left the planet. He doesn’t seem to be on Facebook although he gets more Google hits than imaginable. But then again, if he left the face of the earth, his presence on Facebook would be unusual but at least his Google presence indicates that he was real. Facebook works better for people with fine lines as opposed to kids with baby fat who have barely left their past long enough for anyone to be in it. My stepdaughter is Facebooking from a semester in Italy and I love to hear her tales of time in the Alps and cheap Florentine dinners and to spy on her budding long distance romance with a boy on the Indiana border. But when my first NY city roomate, the woman with whom, at 20, I shared a seedy hotel room on 28th street complete with a paranoid schizophrenic neighbor, mice running across our beds while we attempted sleep and the incredible wonder of being grownups (so we thought) in New York, found me this week and it was like finding gold. These great, self proclaimed middle aged, sisters from Texas who have a hilarious blog http://www.themidlifegals.com/ Facebooked me cause they had read my blog and liked it. I was so proud. Friends of mine who have stores send messages to tell you about some cool sale, a friend who’s an opera singer just Facebooked me an amazing event she’s performing in at Lincoln Center. Politicians and politically active friends post good stuff to read to help you figure it all out. My friend Mary posts versions of her “To Kill A Mockingbird” documentary, a work in progress, for everyone to comment on. She even posted the story we wrote about sleeping with Tiger Woods, something I never would have thought of. Oh, you didn’t know we slept with Tiger? He didn’t mind the fine lines.But, then again, he wouldn’t.
Now I’m not saying Facebook is a perfectly oiled machine. Facebook keeps suggesting I friend a fellow I have known for years. What Facebook doesn’t seem to know is that he died eight months ago and so I’m not going to friend him. Doesn’t seem like a good use of time. Facebook also allows people to imagine that you are a little more interested in their lives than you really are. GQ this month has a brilliant piece on this. www.gq.com/entertainment/humor/201001/scary-facebook-friends-profiles#slide=1The people who give you the day to day, moment to moment, synopsis on every cup of coffee and bit of exercise they’re indulging in. Now I can see if they were letting you know every time they were getting a blow job, a colonoscopy or if they hit a wild turkey with their car. It’s not that I WANT to know this but at least it’s sort of interesting information. ”I’m getting ready to go ride my bike in the rain” is not interesting. ”I’m having my second latte of the day” is not interesting. ”I’m getting a blow job from a hooker near Times Square.” may be too much information but at least it’s interesting. Particularly since there are no visible hookers in the Times Square neighborhood anymore. Occasionally Rich will leave his Facebook up on the computer and he is Facebook ‘friends” with a huge number of attractive twenty somethings, not cause he’s Tiger-esque even though he might want to be, but that’s who he works with. They update him on cool twenty something activities that they all are indulging in and fab new twenty something songs and their lives don’t ever involve updates on kids school plays, exercise routines or clips from old near obscurity musicians. I point this out as a downside of Facebook NOT for him, but for me. Because, unlike me, they all still do look like what my old but new Facebook friends imagine I look like. Although I would NEVER post about my kids school play.
It’s a new communication world out there. I don’t actually have an ipod but I think I might want an iphone. ipods just get in the way of hearing properly, which seems to be increasingly difficult enough, but that iphone is full of cool things that i still think i can figure out with a good tutorial from my kids. ee cummings would have thought the ipod people rocked. And I love Facebook. How else would I know that a woman I logged more naughty all-night behavior with in my twenties would grow up to own her own mega business and live a respectable Philadelphia life. Last time I’d seen her, her drunk boyfriend was peeing in the sink and she was crying because she never imagined she would work in a bank. Or have a boyfriend who peed in the sink. How else would I know that someone I know now, lived with someone I knew then. Two people from two different worlds who popped up as mutual friends in that weird little Facebook box to the left of your screen. How else would I know that a Canadian boy I once thought was dreamy would move South and marry a Texas girl. Or that my next door neighbor from childhood is still grieving her mother, long gone. Or that my other next door neighbor Pattys uncle still feels guilty about the time he dropped us at the entrance to Dulles for a plane from DC to Boston and we couldn’t have been much more then 12. Dropped us at the door? I guess I had repressed that. The only thing I remember is that we saw the real Colonel Sanders. Who remembers we were all by ourselves. Or that a friend who I’ve thought about often over the years just became a dad for the first time at our VERY advanced age. And twins, no less. Congratulations. Facebook is really fun. Facebook is really great. Whoever invented Facebook deserves all of the millions of dollars that they have surely made and will continue to make. And now a suggestion. If they can figure out Facebook, they can surely figure out a way to deliver at home, do it yourself wrinkle filler that doesn’t involve a press conference. And a little something for the age spot with the forehead?
So it’s that Holiday season again. Everyone overflowing with goodwill and cheer. In my house it’s everywhere. Why, just this morning, I indicated to the spouse that I’d like to start our Christmas shopping a bit earlier than the last week before Christmas this year, to cut down on stress and all, and his response was “Goddamnit, do you have to start so early. Wait until a few people pay me. Fuck.” and then he stomped off. Then I checked the kids carefully written Christmas lists. Oh, they’d been hard at work like little elves. All sorts of special Christmas requests including a pair of $15,000 night vision goggles and a taser, because, as my younger said of my older “Jack needs a taser for Middle School.” Yes, the spirit is overwhelming.
Last week my friend Juliet and her two boys, Chris and Max and my team of children went on a walk. It was a half day of school and we had all had pizza together and were going to play some football. At lunch her eleven year old son had indicated that the top thing on his Christmas list was DJ Hero. As we walked I mentioned this. ”Yeah,” said Juliet. “There’s NO WAY he’s getting that” and she pantomimed spinning a disc on a turntable with a most excellent imitation of a teenage slack jaw while staring into space. All she needed was for me to hoist her pants down to the top of her butt cheeks, utter “my G” and the idiot gangster thing would be complete. I could see her point. Now, unless you are Amish, you probably know what Guitar Hero is and DJ Hero is an off shoot of that, another way for electronics companies to make money. But in case you are Amish and are reading my blog, Guitar Hero is a game that involves holding a fake guitar and pressing different colored frets on the neck to “quell” explosions that appear on the stage on your tv screen, to the beat of a song. ”What?” you say, “That makes no sense at all.” Correct. And it makes even less sense when you realize that, in the case of our home, you are doing this to the tune of a selection of Aerosmith songs as you watch a cartoon Steven Tyler sing. When I was a teenager, Steven Tyler freaked me out. His pants were so tight that his crotch resembled nothing so much as an abandoned breakfast link and his mouth looked like it would eat a human in one quick gulp. I was pretty sure he wasn’t very clean and I couldn’t listen to him because I would inevitably think of his crotch and feel dirty myself. And yet, today, I stand with my boys, fake guitar exploding to the tune of that fine bit of songwriting “Dude Just Like a Lady”, as cartoon Steven dances his breakfast link around the screen with no sign of the drooping jowls, the apparent drug addiction and definite swinging sausage that I know are there today. I am terrible at the game and I think I know why. My utter disdain for things this useless is palpable. I don’t get the glazed look in my eyes or the guitar grimace that my kids and even my spouse seem to get while playing. I don’t for a second think I’m really playing an Aerosmith song. And, thank god, I don’t think I’m in some concert hall with an exploding floor hanging with Steven Tyler. The whole thing seems incredibly silly especially when my kids actually like playing the REAL guitar. And DJ Hero, as Juliet pointed out, is NUTS. I mean, how much skill is there in spinning a record and hitting exploding things. And who are the cartoon DJ’s you would actually aspire to? The only DJ I know is the one who dated Lionel Ritchies daughter and ended up, in a role model move we should certainly be encouraging, od’ing while hosting a show about rehab. So we have a dead DJ, we have Steven Tyler. What are kids to think?
SO Juliet and I came up with an excellent idea. How about reworking the whole “Hero” game model. How about if you really could create a game with excellent role models and challenges. Role models not known for displaying their breakfast links or drug problems, and you made it about practical stuff, stuff that might actually HELP kids in life. Oh, like say, “Bed Making Hero”. Where every time there’s a little explosion you have to cover it with a sheet or a blanket. And you get extra points for smoothing and fluffing your pillow while little explosions happen all around the pillow. And max points when you remember to raise the shades and carry your water glass down on the way to school. Or “Dishwasher Loading Hero”. Now that sounds fun. Instead of a fake guitar, you have a fake plate and every time there’s an explosion, you smother it by pretending to load a dish. If you’re really good, you can use the fake dish and glass, at once. The most dishes in one load, without breaking, while the little explosions happen, and remembering to slightly scrape, wins. I like the sounds of this. What about “Scooping the Dog Poop in the Yard and Feeding the Pets Hero”. You can see how that one works. The guitar replacement is a bit tricker but the object of the game feels very clear. Perhaps the fake pooper scooper becomes the food scooper(gross, I know, but if kids are happy watching Steven Tyler they won’t care) and you lose points for DEAD PETS and DIRTY SHOES. You see where I’m going. I think the “Hero” series can be expanded to include/help spouses since they all look ridiculous doing the guitar face and pretending they are Steven Tyler (which they really should not given the unimpressive exposed link). How about the grownup version of “I Don’t Have to Leave My Underwear on the Floor Hero”. Easy to see how that one would work. Fake undies. Little explosion instantly quelled by the quick flick into, yipeee, the laundry. The cartoon character in this one could clearly be the customized wife, who looks just like YOUR wife and who smiles every time a direct laundry basket score is made and another round of silent seething prior to a fight is averted. How about the very simple “Consideration Hero”. Easily played by everyone. The idea is, say, there’s only one towel in the bathroom and there are two people who need showers and whoever goes first decides to use the only towel, even if the other person has brought it upstairs and kept it on THEIR hook, then the explosions start and must really, truly be smothered by going to the basement and getting another goddamned towel so that the poor second in the shower( because she was getting the kids off to school) person doesn’t have to use the wet towel. Or what about “Kitchen Hero”. Say, just for instance, that there’s a small amount of yogurt or half and half, or coffee and both people like it in the morning and one person rather than eating the last of it himself, say, hits the button to smother the explosion by getting a NEW THING OF YOGURT OR MAKING MORE COFFEE FOR THE OTHER PERSON WHO HAS NOT HAD THEIRS YET. AND BY DECIDING TO LEAVE THE KITCHEN AND GO STAND SOMEWHERE ELSE INSTEAD OF READING THE PAPER AT THE COUNTER WHILE THE OTHER PERSON IS TRYING TO MAKE BREAKFAST FOR BOTH PEOPLES CHILDREN explosionAND GET THEIR LUNCHES READY explosion AND PACK THEIR BACKPACK. explosion. AND OCCASIONALLY explosion explosion explosion OFFERING TO WALK THE PETS AND DRIVE THE KIDS TO SCHOOL WITH A HAPPY GRIN AND A TRUE SENSE OF GOOD NATURE AND JOY. BONUS POINTS FOR ASKING “HONEY, WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU TODAY?” As my friend Christina says..”Now, that’s a Hero”.
Okay, enough about that. Someone paid us so I can go taser shopping.
Okay…So for some bizarre reason, I have decided to run for office in my little community. That’s right. Become an elected official. Why, you ask, would anyone EVER do a stupid thing like that. I find myself now asking the same thing. The idea was that since I had stopped working FOR PAY, as they say, to get my kids past most of the dangerous milestones in life…learning to chew, learning to walk, learning to say no to the crack pipe, that I had some time on my hands (as a former sixty an hour week workaholic) to do nice things for my community. I worked on building gardens at the school, I helped raise money and get some plans for a redesigned waterfront, I had my little underemployed fingers in all sorts of do-gooder pies. And someone, clearly while I was drunk, suggested running for the Village Board. ”Great”, I thought. ”This could be a very productive way to spend my time before I return to the work force after ten years off to make millions of dollars.” And, thus, I did all of the necessary stuff to get on the ballot to try to continue my do-gooding. Well, much to my dismay, no good deed does truly go unpunished. Or as my good friend John (and the current Mayor of my community) says..”No good deed goes unpunished and the punishment is excruciatingly painful and perpetual.” I now find myself in the midst of some of the weirdest partisan shit this side of Washington or, frankly, Moscow in the forties, that I could ever imagine. Let’s just say that there have been phone calls with subtle threats (“Support so and so because you are a Democrat and all Democrats need to stand together…you are a Democrat before you are a person…even if you don’t agree with anything he/she believes in.”) or the flip side, when I reached out to Republicans to talk about truly Republican issues like repairing sidewalks and trash pickup I got things like “I like you, you work hard, you’re smart…but I am a party person so I’m going to have to support this other person who’s never gotten anything done”. What the fuck. BUt that is NOT what this blog is about. This blog is about IF LIFE WERE PARTISAN. The Village had a wildly successful health care rally last night. Hundreds of people in lawn chairs next to our beautiful river. Pete Seeger came and sang. Most of the people at the rally were for health care for everyone no matter the cost. A group at the back of the field were not. I must say, looking at the number of teeth missing in that particular crowd, a little government subsidized dental care would be a good thing and I was surprised they didn’t understand that. But what struck me most is how firmly planted in their position they, and everyone on the other side were. I defy most of you, save the few true smarty pants who do understand, to tell me the finer points of both sides of the health care debate. Frankly, I don’t think most in Congress can do that. They are just digging in to their partisanship, on a much higher level than my little Village and precluding any real discussion. I do feel confident that more productive talk is going on in the halls of that big White House. So I started to wonder…what if all parts of life were decided by parties. If every little thing was a group decision and if you were part of that group, right or wrong, that’s where you stood. Say, for instance, your kids. What if kids banded and formed a group called “Kids for Candy at Every Meal and Occasionally Instead of Meals”. KCEMOIM for short. No matter how hard you tried as a parent to force some broccoli and protein on the wee ones in your life, they held firm and only ate candy. No matter how much they wanted a carrot to cut the overwhelming and disgusting taste of Skittles at every meal, no way JOSE will they budge. You’ll have to pry the Skittles from their cold little hands. Because that is their party. It is what they believe in, they think. Skittles for breakfast, Skittles for lunch and, my god over my dead body, anything other than Skittles for dinner. In a rare pairing of unlikelys, dentists and candy manufacturers would lobby heavily and fund study after study that made it clear that candy is dandy (leaving the liquor part for the “Liquor Instead of Milk Party”, a group I could heartily endorse) and parents would eventually give up. They would never, however, develop a taste for Skittles.
Or what about the party “Hairdressers for Brown Hair”. You’d walk into your hairdresser, tell her that you wanted your usual reddish brown with some face framing highlights and she would shock you by saying “Oh, so sorry, but I’m now a member of HBH and I’m afraid I no longer think that’s a good look for you and we’re going to go brown today.” Now since most of us are now naturally brown, this would be fine for many but if you are still trying to look a bit youthful and daring with a few highlights and some lowlights, well, you clearly would go somewhere else. But the elsewhere has also joined HBH. In fact, almost all hairdressers are now members of HBH except those who have joined “Bleached Blondes Forever” and that’s a group very few of us can comfortably join. Or what about “Physicians for a More Attractive America”. They would be happy to treat your H1N1 symptoms but only if they can give you botox between the eyes and in the crows feet and just a bit of filler in the upper lips. Or “The Peoples Party of Highwaisted Pants”. My god, I know they are IN this year but that’s one terrifying option. Or “Spouses for Polygamy”. Or how about “Pets for Pooping in the House”. With the tag line…”No More Stinky Litter Boxes for Me”. Or the “I Don’t Give a Shit and I’ll Drive as Slow as I want To and I’ll talk on the Cel Phone” party. That would be a powerhouse. The “Every Car Repair will Cost A Thousand Dollars so Fix Your Windshield Wiper Yourself, You Idiot” party. The “I only Watch Glen Beck” party. Or, their counterpart, “I Only Watch Stephen Colbert Party”. Now I like Colbert but I don’t want to have to watch just him. We could have endless parties. Although not the fun kind involving some onion dip and a nice cold glass of Chardonnay. What if liquor store owners started a party. The “I Only Sell Jug Wine” party. Wow. Think about that. I know I sound bitter but this has been an eye opening experience. I even got a telephone call from one die hard Democrat who went so far as to point out to me that I no longer existed. This was confusing and a bit too existential for me since I could clearly see my legs and they were wearing my Frye boots that I liked and the jeans that make my ass look good, so not only did I surely exist but I looked good. Then the caller clarified. I don’t exist outside my party. The party of the Democrat. What I thought no longer mattered. Hmmmm. Who the heck knew that this was how it worked outside of Stalins Russia. Although, many are saying “I told you so”, I’m trying to look on the bright side of running for office. And what’s that you ask? We’ll actually, apparently, I do exist because the only other thing that has come out of this experience is a stalker who wrote me a really lovely fan letter that included, among many far more graphic and stunning bits of anatomical information about him (are people really built like that?), the fact that he has my campaign picture hanging on his wall and uses it to engage in some self love. As my friend Mary said..”Well, it is a good picture”. The real bummer is, after my chat with the police about my stalker friend, it appears, even he can’t vote for me, as much as he likes me. No, not because he’s a Republican or a Democrat who doesn’t share my views. He just lives in another county but at least it isn’t partisan.
I’ve been on vacation. And while ON vacation, I couldn’t even think about being interested in anything in the world, let alone vaguely amused by it, when the kids didn’t go to school for six or more hours a day. It’s all about keeping them alive. Or safe from me. Nothing is humorous, not the health care debate, michael jacksons obsessively covered and unsurprising death, not even the woman who blogged endlessly about motherhood and how much drinking helped her deal with it and then announced mid summer that she was quitting drinking. Thank god I picked Middle Age as my blogging topic although I’d certainly quit middle age were it an option. Here’s a summer story. My friend Wendy and I jog every day we can in the summer. We spend our summers at the same place on the ocean and we have boys who are great friends. Wendy and I just like hanging out. Our runs are usually talk marathons with topics ranging from death to divorce (is there anything else other than, perhaps, food although I prefer to eat food rather than talk much about it). We run at just about the same speed although I’m a bit more pitiful since I have six years on her. This summer has been a hard one for both of us. I think we’re both at some sort of mid-life crisis cross roads, happy one day, confused the next. So on one particularly beautiful morning, one of those days, in perfect symphony, we headed out wondering if we should just keep going. The kids would get used to living without us, the husbands would find younger, much more sympathetic wives (at least for that initial fake phase before they showed their true colors and became “demandingshrews” with all sorts of needs that didn’t include giving blow jobs), we could travel and sleep in in the morning, cook breakfast just for ourselves and the only fights we’d have to break up would be in barrooms. We could use the bathroom with no one walking in and earn housekeeping money having sex which is sort of the way it works for me now. We glumly rounded the corner in a glade next to the ocean where the path widened and there was actually a picnic table. Suddenly one or the other of us shouted “What the heck is that”. Up ahead, mid-glade, whatever a GLADE is, was the largest, grey seagull either of us had ever seen. It had to have been thirty five pounds. And not a looker of a bird. Sort of a seagull version of Marty Feldman, for those of you who remember him. Just sitting there looking, shoulders hunched, eye wide (I say “eye” because only one was visible) and head tilted at a bizarre angle as though it had spent the night on a pullout couch…something MY summer vacation included a lot of. We got closer and it didn’t move. We got really close and it stared at us with one terrified Feldmanesque eye and still didn’t move. And that’s when I noticed the clear fishing line wrapped around it’s beak and wing, closing it’s beak and effectively attaching it’s head to it’s wing. Ugh. Big problem. Way bigger than a pull out couch kink. And not a good look. Ugh again. And it was such a nice, well needed run. Suddenly, here we were, mid marital bitch and being faced with one of those real decisions. An ethical, moral, substantive and not superficial dilemma and I was just not in the mood. ”What do we do?” asked Wend. ”Two choices.” said I. ”One. We keep going and have our nice run and continue to hammer our husbands until we feel better. If we choose one, the bird will sit here all day looking unattractive and probably feeling horrible then get ripped to shreds by a coyote or a fox once it gets dark. Two.We saved the goddamned bird.” I looked long and hard at her. She looked back and grimaced. ”You know we have to try to save it, right?” she said. I nodded. We decided that she would stay with the bird, I would run back to the road and try to find a box or a towel and a pair of scissors or, better yet, a vet with a specialty in ornithology. The road was about five hundred yards away and there was a little wildly overgrown cottage just to the left. It had the air of Unibomber residence about it and I paused outside the cottage wondering whether I was going to get shot or spend the rest of my life in captivity if I went to the door. I noticed that the beat up Subaru circa 1979 parked outside had Obama and Save the Organic Farm stickers. In my experience, Subaru owners, Obama lovers and anyone who wants to save a farm, let alone an organic one, is unlikely to own a weapon that they will use to shoot ME. I was a bit more unclear on the captivity part but, feeling the birds terror, I took my chances, made my way through the puckerbrush and knocked at the screen. I could see, peering in, that this was a unique house. So special. A home to make me feel proud. A home that made me feel, well, almost Scandinavian. A place that made me realize that I was not a total failure in the housekeeping department. Because this house was what TOTAL FAILURE looked like. And it was the perfect place for my mission because it’s owner had clearly never thrown ANYTHING away. The woman who came to the door had the sweetest elderly face I’ve ever seen and white hair hanging to her waist. She didn’t seem at all dismayed by her failure as a housekeeper but more confused by my presence. I knew instantly that I would not become her captive because there was no room in her house for me. Phew. I explained my needs and she sprang sprightly into action grabbing a box from a heap of ten thousand box choices(you just never know when you’re going to need a cardboard box or 500), carefully determining perfect seagull size, grabbed the stinkiest towel I’ve ever smelled from a stack of probably equally stinky towels and found a precious pair of sewing scissors that couldn’t have been better matched by the vet specializing in ornithological surgery. She asked if she could join the rescue and I said the more the merrier. On the way down the path she made me sniff two wild yellow primroses perhaps, in a failed attempt to make me think that the fierce stench was coming from them not the towel. I could smell nothing other than urine, pet hair and something that might have been dead emanating from the towel but the gesture was sweet. We returned to the glade to find Wendy looking worried because Ole One Eye had tried a daring escape into the bushes no doubt sensing that someone was about to wrap her in the stinkiest towel ever and thinking perhaps that being torn to shreds by a fox was preferable. So there we were. Standing next to One Eye. Box. scissors and stinky towel. NOW WHAT. This felt a bit beyond us all particularly since none of us were really sure how much shredding power was still in the seagulls un-fishing line fettered feet. I decided I’d do the wrapping and holding, the nurse with a towel, if you will. Wendy could get all the glory as the stench-free surgeon. And our sweet elderly friend could step in where she felt comfortable. I think she might have been the crisis counselor although not the one with the DNR order. Too sweet for that. I grabbed the towel, yelled for the girls to head One Eye off at the pass and we ran around the glade for three or four minutes like something out of the Three Stooges, only stinkier. Finally, I swooped, Wendy held the box, I grabbed, we threw the poor terrified bird into the box and held her down. Wendy, with nerves of steel, started snipping. ”Ooohhh, I’m so frightened.” our friend, the non-housekeeper kept saying. I will admit to some serious heart pounding myself. The bird initially made several attempts to remove my fingers only to be foiled by the fishing line closing her bill. Eventually she settled down, staring calmly at us with her only eye, either suddenly understanding that this might work out better than drawing and quartering by the locals or just overwhelmed by the smell. The smell kept me calm too, trying to control my gag reflex. Wendy kept snipping. A piece of line here, a piece there. A chicken bone came out with one long strand that was securing the wing, a good sign indicating that the bird had probably swooped on a child crabbing which involves no hook just a piece of chicken and a less than bright crab who won’t give up even after he’s lifted out of the water. The hook might have meant serious damage, way beyond our NON expertise. Finally, with a quick snip, Wendy freed the bill, leaving a small bit around the lower bill but the bird able to freely open and close. The bird took a second to catch on. I only understood when the bird did because the bird grabbed me. It didn’t hurt but it got my attention. I leapt, released my hold and the gull hopped out of the box and QUICKLY shook free the towel. In a childs story, now would be the point at which it looked at us with a deep long stare of grattitude. A communication between man and animal. In this case, the bird did stop, the bird did look and I believe the bird glared and silently communicated the following… “I can’t believe you couldn’t find a cleaner towel”. She flapped twice, made some sort of sound and took off. Wendy, our new friend and I hollered with joy, we returned the scissors, the box and, as much as I wanted to keep it, the towel, said goodbye to our new friend with the crazy messy house and returned to our jog, so proud of ourselves. We couldn’t stop talking about the how’s and whats of our rescue effort. Finally we settled into our run again. We’d gone about a mile, flush with success, when I said to Wendy…”So what do you think that was about?”. Wendy got a knowing expression on her face. She said that she looked at the bird and wondered if it was us, bound in invisible thread, struggling with our obligations but needing someone to set us free or even better, that we needed to set ourselves free. I pointed out that the bird might have been an analogy for marriage, our marriages, bound by something invisible and suffocating that needed help and some freedom to return to its former marital bliss. Again, that we needed to free ourselves of whatever it was that was damaging, starving our marriages. We ran a bit farther and finally agreed that the bird was just a sign from god telling us that even goddamned seagulls need our help.
So what’s the point of my summer story. Here’s the point. Life goes along at it’s own pace. Ups, downs, boring periods, fun times. But how often do we get the chance to do something that scares us. Something that we don’t know how to do or something that makes us very, very nervous. Not often. Kids do it every day. They start new schools, play new sports, eat something that freaks them out. And they feel proud when they do it. We grownups just don’t have the opportunities. Or we don’t take them. Figuring out how to help that bird was scary. I’m still a little amazed we did it. I can’t tell you how good I felt for days afterwards. Even now, I’m writing about it, aren’t I. Just a little bit high. And because I’m a sap I like to think there’s a bird out there retelling the tale of the rescue to all the other cawing gulls, partly to explain why she’s become so smelly but also a bit in awe of our kindness and skill. That feeling of succeeding at something that doesn’t come naturally is too good to be passed up. I think we should make it a rule, those of us of a certain age, that at least once a year, we make a choice to do something that scares us to death. That we really don’t want to do because it’s hard. Take a leap. Be afraid. Push yourself somewhere you really don’t want to go. It’s the reason that I jump off the wharf in front of my parents house every summer. The wharf is a big wooden dock that juts into the tidal river that runs by our front door. Kids leap seventeen times a day. Adults do not. It’s high, it’s cold, there might be sharks(not really, but “Jaws” ruined my life), it seems like an injury waiting to happen. But I do it. Early on in the summer. Every summer and I’ll never stop. Just because it reminds me of what it’s like to be young. Nothing is old when you’re young. I stand there. I take a deep breath and I imagine the cold and that feeling of being airborne. I imagine my leg getting ripped off by a shark. I understand that airborne and fifty are not a good combo. Neither are legs and sharks. I get nervous. And being a little nervous can be very exciting. It takes me a while. Then I jump. And you should, too.
Because when you sputter back to the surface, just for a minute, you’re eleven. And eleven is a very nice place to be.
So I had the talk yesterday with my ten year old. Yes, that talk. We were in the car coming from the pediatrician where he’d just had a tetanus shot after a run in with a rusty nail, en route to the vet with our older cat who’d had a run in with her younger male sibling that left her with a pus oozing wound, an unfortunate need to vomit over the entire house and a bad attitude. As the cat growled and screeched in the carrier, Jack and I rode to our vet, a great guy who unfortunately moved twenty minutes away a couple of years ago but is so nice he’s worth the trek. The ride gave us a chance to chat and it turned out to be substantially more interesting than I could have imagined given the pus-y pissy pussy in the back. So there we are, me and Jack, cruising down the highway, when he says, immediately after a somewhat mundane discussion about why he refuses to wear his yellow raincoat, ”Mom, you know how you tried to tell me where babies come from and I didn’t want to know. Well now I have some questions.” I kept both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road and tried to stop the sudden rush of blood to the head. I had, in fact, about eight months before, tried to have “the TALK.”. Jack was home from school, pseudo sick during a period of malingering that ended when he made the serious misstep of pretending to lose vision in one eye. He lost the fire for faking while sitting in the pediatric neurological opthamologist with numbing drops in his eyes and teary parents, imagining brain tumors. Who knew, in his world of ten year old fakers, that losing vision was ANY different from a belly ache? On the day I decided to talk about where babies come from, he was perched in front of the boob tube, eating a quantity of cereal that would belie the claim of severe gastric distress and I thought, what the heck, if he can eat that much cereal, well, let’s just make something of this day. I got out the book that covered this topic, one that my mother had actually used for me and my siblings. I find it comforting that in a world of endless changes, where babies come from has changed not one iota since caveman days and before, even if the advent of Victorias Secret, transexxuals and deadly STDs has made the whole production somewhat more complicated. So there I am, well worn book in hand proposing a chat about where babies come from. Jack stopped chewing cereal, looked skeptical and, for the first time that day, actually a bit sick. But he nodded. I began with the flowers and their stamens, moved on to pictures of tadpole like sperm and jelly doughnut eggs, followed by wrestling frogs and just prior to the doggie style doggie style, stopped at chickens who looked for all the world like they were playing leapfrog. Even more than the previous page’s frogs. At that point, Jack, eyes now truly feverish, closed the book and said he needed a nap. That’ll teach him. You may not start sick, but I can get you there.
And that was the last time we dealt with that. I had begged Rich to take him into the garage and do the talk. Rich assured me he would, once he got around to it. Which was NEVER. And look, I do think ten is a bit young for this conversation even though the experts recommend eight. I, personally one to often ignore experts, would have delayed oh, say, until he was thirty and getting his own place, but Jack has some very sophisticated pals who have known the nuts and bolts of procreation for a long time. The only fight I’ve ever had with my friend Martha, the mother of Jacks best friend, was when, at four, she told her son EVERYTHING, just because he asked. To me, that’s like dating Claude the local homeless guy, just cause he asked. Sweet, yeah, but not advisable. And, thus, because Henry ASKED, I had dropped sweet Jack in the sweet little nursery school classroom with his sweet pal Henry who swaggered in armed with this potent time bomb of bizarre info. I am unclear on the connection between autism and vaccinations but make no mistake, I think this kind of penis/vagina info at that age could result in permanent catatonia. And I thought the grin on Henry’s face was about Legos. I freaked when, once outside the school, Martha told me that Henry was now the possesor of the penis/vagina info, info that I, at forty eight, still find hard to fathom even though I have, indeed, been an active participant and have the children to prove it. She calmly explained to me that she and George were parents who believed in telling the truth when asked a reasonable question. I shrieked that I was a parent who preferred to elude any less than tidy truth, particularly those involving penis’s and vagina’s, at all costs at least until children could shave and buy their own dinner in four star restaurants. And that there were no reasonable questions involving four year olds and the penis in the vagina thing. It all eventually died down but, six years later, I was reasonably sure that Jack did, in fact, have the info and I feared his version was not accurate.
So here we were, travelling the Parkway at sixty, screeching cat in the back seat, eyes on the road and Jack with some questions. It was as good a time as any. He turned his precious ten year old eyes my direction and said “Okay, mom. First question. Ketchup, pickle, mustard?”. I had no idea what the fuck he meant. And, as I explained before, I have participated in the penis/vagina thing so I was confused. “Huh?” I said articulately. ”You know, mom, ketchup, pickle, mustard.” It became clear that I was screwed because my sex talk dilly dallying had allowed him to move so far beyond the certainly odd penis/vagina connection and into the land of the truly bizarre, although that reference to hamburger companions made me more than curious. And concerned. ”Jack”, I said, “I gotta be honest. I have NO idea what you are talking about.” ”Mom, c’mon. You know. (look of disbelief) What are those?(look of extreme disbelief) What are ketchup, pickle and mustard ” (Look clearly translated to mean: “you idiot, you’re trying to keep me from the smutty truth. But I can take it”). My mouth was now hanging open in dull confusion and I was fantasizing about the enormously expensive vet visit that was, oh, shoot, another eight miles away. I shook my head. ”I don’t know ,sweetie. I don’t know what you mean.” He paused, turned to look seriously at me and said. “You know, Mom. Ketchup, pickle, mustard. Condiments.”
Thank god we had this talk. Condoms. It’s condoms. God, the embarrassment potential at the hands of his male pre-teen pals because of word confusion was enormous. Condiments. Condoms. You can just see the poor little guy standing there nodding knowingly and about to make a fast food reference that would guarantee years of no one to sit with at lunch except for the other children who thought that ketchup, pickle and mustard were part of a romantic experience. Phew. And we’re were off and running on “the Talk”. I explained the “whats”, the “hows” and the “what fors” only touching on STD’s for fear of wounding my boy for life. I think I made a good case of the clap sound almost like a romantic sinus infection. But there was a relief in having this chat. That could have been embarrassing down the road, say, when, my boy, preparing to lose his virginity at thirty six has to stop by the the Grand Union pickle aisle first. And the mustard. My god. Downright painful. The other questions were about Maxi Pads and vasectomies (this one prompted by running in to a friend in the supermarket parking lot, while Jack helped load the car, who was near tears because her husband had gone to the doc for the old snip/snip and had balked at the last minute and come home intact. Don’t get me started on the difference between a tiny nick to the balls and pushing an eight pound moving thing out of a canal half as small as a paper towel tube, attached to your body and surrounded by sensitive nerve endings, over a period of several hours. NO patience. ). This talk with Jack was amazing. I don’t know if I have ever been as proud of myself as a mother (other than, perhaps pushing the moving eight pound thing through the half size paper towel tube). We had a good chat, I stayed calm and was, if I do say so myself, quite articulate about things hard to be articulate about. Jack didn’t turn red or even look confused. He just wanted to know some answers and he knew when he was ready to hear them. He listened and sighed with relief when I think he realized that condiments had no part of romance even if penis/vagina contact did. I’m sort of with him. The thought of pickles in your bed, ohh, and relish?…..anyway. While I was proud of myself, I was even prouder of Jack. Brave boy, calmly taking advantage of some quiet time (save for the screaming cat) to ask something he wondered about. And really listening.
It got me thinking about all of us. Perhaps we all need to ask more questions. When things don’t seem right to us, rather than jumping to judgement in our confusion, or boarding the bandwagon of popular opinion, we need to ask questions. And lots of them. Some big. Some small. Can you leave your kids in the car while you run into the grocery store? If you don’t tell a friend she looks fat, is that lying. Does executing terrible criminals make sense or does it make us worse people? When does life begin and how do you reach a common ground when some people believe that abortion really is killing little babies? Why is Geithners plan the wrong one or the right one? Is Blue really the new Black? Or is Brown? Or, as I suspect, is black always going to be the new black? Why does my hairdresser, after years of fine work, suddenly give me a purple lowlight? What if the one I love isn’t really cold, but I’m just a bitch? Is a romance in cyberspace cheating? How do you take care of your parents when they’re old. Why do I have to wear a yellow raincoat that looks like it’s for babies? You can go on for ever. And I think we should. Talk to each other about all sorts of things, try to see how the other one thinks. See who knows what. Henry knows a lot. And acknowledge that you only know what you feel. And that it may not always be right. Just spend some time asking and answering. Go for a ride with someone you like (I recommend leaving the screeching, pus covered cat at home) and find out something you want to know. And something they want to know. I think we’ll all be better off. And stand less chance of spending large amounts of time in the ketchup aisle before a hot date.
PS. Okay, can we talk about my Pus-y, pissy, pussy line? And here’s some smart people talking about how to tell your kids about sex. Just wing it. You’ll be fine.(something pertinent)
Okay, it’s 6:54 in the morning and I have nothing better to do than sit here and look through a two week old People Magazine that features a bunch of really pretty actresses with “no makeup”. The deal is one I’m sure you are familiar with. The magazine strips these lovelies of their makeup and lays them out, blemishes and all, for the rest of us to see. Weird, though, I never see any actual blemishes. Or bags under their perfect youthful eyes. Or the slightest sign of a crows foot. In fact, almost no sign that their faces might ever move or see the light of day. Hmmm. Being the sleuth that I am, I found a surprisingly similar story from a few years ago titled ”It Takes Guts to Take it Off. Who Dares to go Bare”. After years of experience with beauty and gossip magazine reading, I know that this is a common sport. The sport of asking beautiful young women who only just discovered the benefits of makeup four years ago when they stopped needing Clearasil to appear without their makeup. They think we like it. And maybe we do. Apparently it’s a risky thing, the magazines always point out, appearing without makeup. But they will do it, particularly if their publicists think it is a good idea and if they have a movie or tv show they need to get people interested in. Or if their careers are failing. Nothing gets people more interested in you than appearing with naked face in a national publication even if it is so SCARY for the star. I guess it’s somewhat similar to asking me and my crowd to strip to their underwear, clench their butt cheeks and allow a photo to be taken from behind. Hard to say a joyous “yes” to. But I suppose if our publicist thought it was a good move? So who dared? The answer is several really beautiful woman well below the age of forty who may in fact be barefaced but are so beautifully and dramatically lit that it’s next to impossible to tell. Check em out.
So I looked long and hard at these women “daring to go bare” and thinking of my own clenched butt cheeks, wondered what this was supposed to tell us? What were we supposed to get from these pics? Were any of us really stupid enough to believe that these woman, or in many cases, girls, were really au natural. Trust me, I used to be on TV. My husband is a cameraman. These women may not have on any make up. But these women have something going on and that’s called lighting. And retouching. HEAVY retouching. Truth. Most of us will never be as pretty as these women, as gifted in the bone structure department and most of us will only have our picture snapped by family members at family functions, usually from an unpleasant angle with our mouths hanging slightly open, a double chin and the only lighting coming from the sun. And no one will ask us to go without makeup, even our spouses. who used to claim we looked better that way. In face, when I do go without makeup, someone always assumes I’m sick and I have to assure them that I feel fine, I’m just “daring to go bare”. This usually prompts a blank stare and a quick move on down the supermarket aisle. Look, the reason these women look like movie stars even without makeup is because they ARE movie stars. And beautiful one’s at that. No one is asking Seth Rogen to “Dare to go Bare” although I suspect he always does. These women, in all their barenaked glory have been lit to high heaven. The amount of light on their faces, bleaching them smooth and unspotted would, in a normal world, would require tapping into and sucking dry the electrical grid and possibly blacking out the Northeast. And can we talk about retouching. My god. After forty, we should all be assigned a retoucher to follow us everywhere. My friend Jane believes that there is a poetry in the failure of eyesight as we age. If you don’t wear your glasses, after a certain age, then whenever you look in the mirror you are instantly retouched. As she says, no nasal labial sag, no wrinkles, beautiful complexion. The key is how to keep everyone in your life from wearing their glasses and that seems unrealistic. And problematic. You might look good to everyone around you but suddenly the world will stop because no one can actually see what they’re doing. It may be a small price to pay but I can’t see convincing Obama that this is something we should encourage for vanity’s sake. I do know, should your eyesight be still quite good or you actually want to appear attractive to those not just suffering from myopia, there are some tricks for looking better in a pic. Find your side. We all have one. I have one eye smaller than the other so the smaller one needs to always go toward the camera. Chin extended but sort of tipped forward as if you were extending your neck . Avoid that double chin at all costs. I ALWAY raise my eyebrows. It’s a mini, very short term facelift with none of the pain, the expense or the sutures and blood. Trust me, it’s all a science. And finally , when possible, I have very good lighting. Lighting beats makeup ANY day. At least in a photo. I am going to show you the difference below. Me, daring to go bare. As much as it kills me to not have on lipstick. I think we each have our things. I can’t go for a jog without lipstick even though my friend and jogging partner Kristina thinks I look way better without it. She seems to be the only one who doesn’t think I look sick but I often wonder if this is some weird passive aggressive thing she’s doing trying to make me look bad in case I run faster. She, of course, has to put on eyebrow pencil before we run. I think that is just weird.
So down below, so to speak, I take it all off just to show you the power of good lighting. And retouching. The first pic is a snap from the nice family camera with a flash. The second, a picture with lighting but very close from my spouse who makes thousands of dollars a day filming anyone from Angelina Jolie to Ann Curry and Stephen Colbert. And they always look good. Particularly Stephen. And the last was sweetly retouched by my friend Rob, an extraordinary photographer(www.robfortunato.com) who has, according to my kids, somehow shaved fifteen years off my life by eliminating anything that might show I had lived on the planet. And it took him less than an hour. My boys actually looked at Rob’s picture when I asked if it looked like me and they said “Yeah, mom. How old were you when they took it?” The were shocked when I said that the pic was an hour old and not from nursery school. It’s pretty interesting to look at the three. Deep, no. Interesting, yes.
So here’s the deal. Unless you can travel with your retoucher or only hang out with people who are not wearing their glasses, don’t go bare. Or go bare but know that people will think you’re sick. And they’ll count your wrinkles. Or do what my friend Jean Godfrey June suggests. Jean is the ultra talented beauty editor of Lucky Magazine and the author of the book “Free Gift With Purchase”. Jean knows everything there is to know about looking good. She’s not twelve and she always looks beautiful. Jean is one of these natural San Francisco beauties, all fresh faced and seemingly bare save for what appears to be a slick of Vaseline on the lips. But as Jean will tell you, it takes some very artful makeup application to look like you aren’t wearing anything.
Here’s what she swears by:
5 Steps to Looking Like You Have No Makeup On (aka I Just Wake Up This Way, REALLY)
1. Self-tanner. This is optional — if you’re pale and you love it, or already-dark, you’ve only got 4 steps to do, so take a moment to reflect on how more-naturally-gorgeous, time-saving and money-saving you are. But if you’re like me, self-tanner will make you look well rested and much more even-skinned. Much.
2. Tinted Moisturizer. You have to experiment with formulas, because some tinted moisturizers are just foundation in a different tube. You want to be able tosee freckes through it. Many women think they need to cover flaws with foundation—NO. This is the job of concealer.
3. Concealer. Most critical for me. Get a thick concealer, the kind that comes in pot, and dab it on with a brush ONLY on the spots or dark areas you want to cover. PAT to blend—do not rub. When you rub, you’re moving the concealer off the thing you want to conceal and onto another part of your face. Pat. You will think it’s taking forever, that it’s not blending in, and then — suddenly, your flaws are concealed and you look perfect.
4. Mascara. You can also use the tiniest bit of eyeliner—black or brown—ONLY at the roots of your lashes, for extra oomph.
5. Sheer tinted lip balm in a brighter color than you’d normally pick.
Tell me if you want product recommendations!
Jean has a great blog at Lucky. Check it out. And she’s always a fun read in the magazine.(
www.luckymag.com).
I say use Jeans tips. Then no one will ever say you look tired or sick. And they will think you are perfectly preserved. And that you “Dare to go Bare”. Somehow that get’s me thinking about clenched butt cheeks again. And I would rather NOT think about butt cheeks, particularly with bathing suit season here. The other thing People and other magazines seem to be really attentive to are celebrity weight issues. Once again, back to the butt cheeks. Stop me. It’s like a bad dream, the clenched butt cheeks in my head. Next week: Reality Shows we’d(those of us of a certain age) ACTUALLY watch. And magazine headlines that would make us buy. And we’re not talking celebrities yoyo dieting or willingness to go makeup free. Or Jon and Kate, whoever they are. We’re talking things that WE care about. Like “The Chardonnay Diet…Lose Pounds and Inches by Giving Up Food”. Or “Survivor: Suburbia”.
