Life's Dewlaps

Slightly Off Center

2012-02-01T07:26:00.000-05:00

This is me.

12:30 a.m.

Sitting in my parents’ house.

After the anniversary party.

Short green dress.

Shoes off.

Veil on.

Metallic blue toes.

Wearing a garter.

Slightly buzzed.

With my parents. My husband.

And those red chairs.

What a party.

This is me.

Happy, content.

Slightly off center.

This is how I see myself.

Image courtesy of Maggie Evans Silverstein

What I Wore: Suburban Housewife Edition

2012-01-30T12:13:00.000-05:00

My wardrobe leaves much to be desired. Jeans, flip flops, t-shirts. But it matches my lifestyle. Not that my lifestyle leaves much to be desired. No, I like my lifestyle. And my life. It's just that, well, I don't do much. I work part-time as a bookkeeper. I work part-time as a writer. I hang out with my kids. And once a week, I go out on date night with my husband.

How many clothes do I need?

A couple of months ago, I noticed a column in the New York Times Sunday Styles section titled "What I Wore". And it got me thinking, "Hmm, if I chronicled a week's worth of wardrobe changes, what would that sound like?"

Well, not as exciting as Dita Von Teese but still...

WHAT I WORE
Jennifer Felser Cullen: Mother, Wife, Bookkeeper, Writer, Sex Machine
By Lou Sirguy

Born and raised in Miami to liberal Jewish parents, Jennifer Cullen spent 11 years in Manhattan, living in a series of one bedroom apartments, shared with others. She did nothing charitable but still managed to have a good time. After earning an MBA, getting married to a Catholic boy and birthing a son, she moved back to South Florida where she currently resides with her second husband (also Catholic), her two children from her first marriage, and, every other weekend, her (really) red-headed stepdaughter. (See her NYT Wedding Announcement.)

WEDNESDAY, JAN. 11

My go-to look.

My vibrating Timex watch woke me up at my usual 5:25 am time. To walk my kid to the bus, and go for a run, I slipped on my Champion running pants, a Nike long sleeve shirt purchased at TJ Maxx in 2008 and a pair of running shoes from Shoe Carnival (buy one, get one half off).

After a quick shower, I slipped on my "mom goes to work part-time" uniform: a pair of olive green Gap Bermuda shorts, a crinkly long sleeve button down, an embroidered Lucky belt and Havaianas flip flops. With my black pleather Forever 21 purse over my shoulder, the one with the zipper that doesn’t work, I went to my day job: bookkeeping.

Later that night, back home after a long day of reconciling accounts, doing kid chauffeur duty and cooking a Mexican chowder, I slipped in to my striped Hanna Andersson long-john pajamas. The ones that say, “No sex tonight, dear.” They speak loud and clear.

THURSDAY, JAN. 12
Working from home, and expecting a visit from a homeowner's insurance inspector, I didn’t shower after my run. Alone with a strange man in my house, I wanted to make myself as unattractive as possible. I spent the day in black Champion running shorts and a Crain’s New York Business T-shirt from 1995 when I was the Research Editor there. Yes, I know that was 17 years ago.

Big-ass deflecting earrings

After my ex-husband picked the kids up for his Thursday night sleep-over, I showered, shaved and slipped on date night clothes: a 2006 red long sleeve Lucky tunic (to hide my muffin top) and a pair of dark wash boot leg Lucky jeans. I paired them with black Nine West cork wedges and some large, circular Forever 21 earrings.

A sales lady once told me that if you wear something eye-catching above the neck, no one will notice your fat ass. Seems to be working.

FRIDAY, JAN. 13
Most Friday mornings, I pick up my daughter from her father’s and take her to school. Usually, I wear no bra and a big Nike sweatshirt my ex-husband gave me on the last birthday we celebrated together (2001). Today was no exception. Wearing another pair of Champion running shorts, I was off. (If you wear running clothes all day, isn’t it like you went for a run?)

Not necessarily to scale

I made time in my busy schedule for a mani pedi. It was going to be a weekend without kids which means I was going to get laid. Finely groomed hands make hand jobs, and even blow jobs, more aesthetically pleasing. If I'm getting bored, I can just admire my um, well, French manicure.

That afternoon, after the kids were picked up, and I tested my manicured nail theory (I was right), I showered and changed in to a pair of dark skinny Lucky jeans, a black H & M top, and a pair of worn-out black patent Chinese Laundry sandals purchased from Ross in 2003. I accessorized my outfit with a chunky gold bracelet and a pair of big gold hoops from last year’s Calypso collection at Target.

My husband and I then walked to our favorite local restaurant for dinner, while sipping roadies of club soda, pomegranate juice and vodka from Tervis tumblers. After dinner, and a leisurely stroll home, I slipped in to my birthday suit (circa 1965).

SATURDAY, JAN. 14

Running uniform

I slept in while my husband went to work for a few hours. For our power walk, I wore the shorts from the day before (never made it out for that run) and a black tee. Over the shirt, I wore one of my 14 year-old son’s fleece pullovers that he had outgrown and topped the outfit off with my favorite baseball cap.

That night, my husband and I were going to a party. I had planned to wear a short green sleeveless Urban Outfitters dress and my high wedges but an unexpected cold front made me scramble for something a little warmer. I wore my dark skinny now slightly dirty Lucky jeans and a hand me down sheer black Catharine Malandrino top. (Do you want it back, MG?). And some high heel booties purchased this season from Target.

To dress up the outfit, I carried a black Gucci purse, given to me on my 35th birthday by my brother and sister-in-law. I'm now 46.

SUNDAY, JAN. 15

Uno de 50

A rare Sloppy Sunday brunch at Pizzeria Oceano. Thinking we were going to sit outside and, not sure of the fickle South Florida weather, I wore my faded jeans, an embroidered Lucky belt, an olive green button down top and my daughter’s brown Converse sneakers. They were a size too small but they matched my outfit. I'm a slave to fashion.

Too lazy to wash my hair, I topped it off with a straw fedora purchased last year in a shop on Duval Street in Key West. And wore my Uno de 50 leather and metal barbed wire-ish looking bracelet. Definitely the coolest thing that I own.

MONDAY, JAN. 16

Flip flops and a rock star pedicure

A full day of working at home, in front of the computer and doing some clean-up. I wore a pair of army green shorts with an old beige tee. When I went to the grocery store, I added a maroon Moth cardigan and slipped on a pair of gold Havaianas flip flops. To dress it up a bit, I added on my favorite double wrap coral necklace.

Wore the same outfit to sit on the bleachers at my son's basketball practice, happy that the cardigan covered up the ass crack gap in my shorts. Didn't want to give the other moms a glimpse of my Victoria's Secret thong and something to talk about.

TUESDAY, JAN. 17
See last Wednesday. And next Wednesday. And the Wednesday after that.

Fifty Years Is A Long Time

2012-01-27T12:52:00.000-05:00

Aunt C and Uncle D at their son's wedding (May 2006)

I’m going to a 50th wedding anniversary party tomorrow night. Fifty fricking years. That’s a long time to be with the same person. Day in and day out. Sleeping in the same bed. Sharing the bathroom, your meals, your saliva.

But my Aunt C and Uncle D have done it. And they’ve done it well. Supporting each other. Enjoying each other. Raising two kids, neither of whom has ever been arrested. At least to my knowledge. And they have four grandchildren that they adore and who adore them.

There’s a lot of history between our families. We've shared Thanksgiving for as long as I can remember, alternating homes from year to year. They were at my Bat Mitzvah. And both of my weddings.

Their daughter is my life-long friend. My non-blood sister who I did everything with from junior high and high school to sleep-away camp to college.

We're close. Family close.

Ten years ago, I was helping Aunt C and Uncle D celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary. A big bash at my friend's house with good food, drinks and lots of people who wanted to share in the love.

I was still married to my first husband. He was with me but we were just a few months away from separating. And I wish I could remember how I felt then, knowing that my marriage was crumbling. That I hadn’t gotten it right. Surrounded by couples who had.

I'd like to think that maybe instead of feeling depressed, I felt hopeful. Hopeful about marriage and what can happen when two people really work at making themselves better people and better partners. Committed.

Because I’m sure Aunt C and Uncle D have had their share of issues and struggles to go along with all of the wonderful. Unlike me, they don’t over-share but from what I've seen over the years, whatever bumps in the road they've had, they've overcome together.

And tomorrow night, when I'm at their party with my husband of five years, I'll be thinking that I probably won’t make it to 50 years with my husband. It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that in 45 more years, I’ll be 91 and he'll be 93. But I'm happy knowing our marriage is strong. And that we support each other and enjoy each other too. Just like Aunt C and Uncle D.

But I'll also be thinking about how wonderful the two of them are. How much I love them, even though I think that they like my husband more than me. (Don't forget, I'm the one who brought him in to the family. Turkey, stuffing and gravy.)

Fifty fricking years. I’m in awe.

Only 45 more years to go

Me And My Not-So Baby

2012-01-23T12:07:00.000-05:00

Me and my baby, Summer 2000

Being a parent is hard.

Being a parent of a 12 1/2 year-old girl is even harder.

My relationship with my daughter these days has a lot of ups and downs in it, more so than with anyone else in my life: her almost 15 year-old brother, my husband, my mother. Even my ex-husband.

To say that I love my daughter is an understatement. Add admire, respect, adore. I am in awe of the fact that she is my kid.

She is a lot of things that I was at her age and that I am now. She is funny, a rollerblader, stubborn and, admittedly, moody.

And she is a lot of things that I have never been. A lover of rap music, a could-be dancer, a blue-eyed beauty. Fearless.

Spring 2007

This is a tough age, almost a teenager but not quite. Multitudes of hormones running rampant inside her body. Trying to learn to recognize the effects they have on her. And control her reactions to them. Adjusting to her constantly changing body. And the mind that goes with it.

Middle school isn’t easy either. It is so much more the real world than elementary school ever was. There are the mean kids. There are the “popular” kids. And then there are friends who aren’t always the kind of friends that they should be. And those that are. And don't forget the boys.

But there are also her personal triumphs. Her good grades. The award for her Science Fair project. The closeness she has with the little boy down the street whom she babysits. Closing in on passing her mother in height.

It’s not that I don’t want her to have the bad experiences with the good. She needs all of it to grow up in to the kind of person she is trying to become. Kinder, more even and able to deal with adversity. Able to deal, most importantly, with the little things. The daily things. When things just don’t go her way. Or when her brother relentlessly teases her.

But it is hard.

Hard for me. Remembering my own insecurities when I was her age. Having silent tears when it is tough for her. Wanting to pick her up every time she falls. But knowing that I shouldn't. That I can’t.

And it's hard for her. She's never done this before either.

Winter 2010

But we’ll get there. We are getting there. Together. From “I hate you, Mom” to “I’m so happy that I can talk to you, Mom”. One fight at a time. Fights that are increasingly outnumbered by a loving moment baking cookies together to a bonding moment on our rollerblades to a heartfelt conversation about life while lying in the dark in her bed.

Patience.

It’s all part of growing up.

Right, Mom?


My mom and my not-so baby. Woodstock, NY. Summer 2011

What's At The Bottom Of Your Cup?

2012-01-20T12:44:00.000-05:00

Matheson Hammock. Scene of the trauma.

Some of my worst childhood memories have to do with cockroaches.

Which really sucks for me because I live in South Florida, home of the gigantic flying ~~cockroach~~ Palmetto bug.

(Did you know that when you crunch a Palmetto bug, it emits an almondy smell like Vidal Sassoon shampoo?)

But this particular scarred-for-life memory stands out from all of the rest.

Picture a blissful mid-1970's day at Matheson Hammock park, a little local swimming hole off of Biscayne Bay. I used to ride my bike there, back in the days that parents let their kids ride a few miles away, alone, to go swim in a big body of water.

Matheson had an awesome snack bar. With the best Slurpees, even though they weren’t from 7-Eleven. I was there one day with my childhood friend K. Of course we were hot. It was Miami. And we needed something to quench our thirsts.

So we moseyed on up to the snack bar and ordered a couple of Slurpees. I swear, I can remember that mine was blue. And there we sat. Me and K drinking our Slurpees. Cold, icy, sweet. Sipped through a straw. Dripping down our throats. Heavenly.

You know that sound a straw makes when you get to the bottom of your drink? That slurpy sound. (Those 7-Eleven people weren’t stupid when they named that drink. Actually quite genius.)

Well, mine wasn’t making that sound. In fact, my straw felt like it was pushing down on something hard. Too hard to have been the bottom of the waxed paper cup.

So I looked. I shouldn’t have.

I look at a lot of things I shouldn’t look at. Like my county’s Police Blotter, where oddly enough I frequently see people that I know. Or county court records that document how much that snotty couple, a few neighborhoods over, paid for their house. And how much they refinanced it for during the housing boom. And what it went for when they had to short sell it.

Yes, I looked. And down at the bottom of the cup, where it had been the whole time I was sucking down my blue Slurpee, was a Palmetto bug. Not just any Palmetto bug. A frozen one. With it's antennae hanging limply in the Slurpee residue.

I dropped the cup and screamed. Or it may have been the other way around. K was just happy it wasn't hers.

And I haven’t been the same since. Not even my own parents' divorce, at the age of 16, was as traumatic.

Divorce didn't deprive me of the ability to enjoy frozen drinks. Because you never know what's on the bottom. Drinks like Pina Coladas and Rum Runners. Or frozen Margaritas, though I do enjoy a good one on the rocks.

Divorce doesn't send me cowering in to a corner screaming out, "Mommy. Mommy. Come quick. You have to kill the roach." Even though I'm 46 years-old and my mother lives 75 miles away.

No, I blame all of my issues, of which there are many, on Eurycotis floridana.

Thank goodness it wasn't a penis down at the bottom of that cup.

Even just looking at this makes me lose my appetite.

Matheson Hammock images via Vitamin Sea

One Step Away From Ugly

2012-01-19T14:57:00.001-05:00

Some days, I think I’m only one step away from ugly.

Other days, two or three steps.

Before: Early morning, post-run, pre-teeth brushing

After: Shower, shave, blow dry and make-up. Teeth brushed too.

See what I mean? If I drop a few of my beauty and fashion must-dos, and don't "doll" myself up, I quickly age a few years or look like I’ve gained a few pounds. Or worse, look like a middle-aged woman with two teenagers.

Yes, I know. You’re only as old as you feel.

Bullshit.

You’re as young as you look.

Now, I’m not vain. But when I think that I look good, I feel younger and everything in the world is alright.

I mean, I already feel young in many ways.

I have the maturity of a 14 year-old boy. I giggle when I pass gas and can recite the alphabet by burping. I'm about as mature as my 47 year-old brother. (He’s 18 months older than me and is the world’s Hang Spit champion. The key is a mix of orange juice and organic whole milk.) You should see us when we get together. We drive our mother crazy.

And there’s nothing wrong with my sex drive. If anything, it’s increased as I’ve gotten older. Or maybe it’s just that my second husband is a better fit for me sexually. (Ha, ha. Get it?)

I think my body looks pretty good. When I put my mind to it, I can even feel down right hot. Not as in peri-menopausal hot flashes but as in sexy hot. Which usually requires putting on some high heels and wearing a short(ish) dress or a low-cut blouse, though not both at the same time. There’s a fine line between sexy and middle-aged hussy.

But the other day, I took a glance at myself in the mirror. I looked kind of like I do in the above "Before" picture. Sure, I had just woken up. But still, I was a little taken aback. Like who the hell is that looking at me. I don’t know if you ever saw the 1997 Seinfeld episode (see I’m dating myself here) where the woman Jerry is seeing looks pretty in one light and not so pretty in another. Almost downright frightening. I think George called her “two-face”. I felt the not-so-pretty face way.

Honestly, if I do all of the things I should do, I’m looking, if not great, than good. But lately, the list has gotten longer. And I’m struggling to keep up. From getting rid of my grays to the amount of make-up I’ve started wearing just to look “natural” to the exercise I need to do to fit in to all of my clothes and not have to start wearing mom jeans. (You will never, ever catch me in “Not Your Daughter’s Jeans”.)

For example, I used to color my hair myself, until I realized that over half of my head was gray. And I was missing patches. Now I have to go get it professionally done every four weeks. Or I look like a deranged skunk.

I get waxed every two months: eyebrow and semi-Brazilian. Did you know that you can grow gray pubic hair? Those get plucked. A year ago, I added in an upper lip wax so my mustache didn’t look my teenage son’s.

I used to just wash my face with soap before I went to bed. Now I wash with an expensive, special exfoliating cleanser, and put on eye cream and night cream except every third night when I slather my face in Retin-A. And I have to remember to put my retainers in so my teeth don’t spread.

And don’t even get me started on the makeup. My day time makeup requires Vitamin C serum (keeps my rosacea in check), tinted foundation with SPF 20 (evens out my discoloration), eyeliner, mascara, blush and lipstick. That’s all just for the natural look. (See the "After" picture above.)

But probably the most important of all? Exercise. I’m not fat. At the age of 46, I’m still in decent shape. But I did birth two children, both by C-section, and then breastfed them.

So if I fall off of the exercise path, like I did over the summer, my ass flops around and my stomach gets poochy. And my breasts sag but I wear really good bras. (Have you ever heard of those “Mommy Makeovers”? Breast lift, tummy tuck, liposuction. Some days, boy does that sound appealing.) Pretty soon I’m going to have to start lifting weights for some extra tightening.

Some times, I just don't want to bother with all of it. It's enough to give me a migraine. Who gives a shit what I look like? I'd still get laid. My husband would always eat it no matter what. I could be happy looking gray, wrinkled and flabby.

Couldn't I?

Hell, no. Looking good, feeling good. And I want to feel good.

So I'll be looking over my shoulder, making the effort, always staying one step away from ugly.

Vegas, August 2011

Sloppy Sunday Brunch (A Slice Of Heaven)

2012-01-15T19:27:00.001-05:00

I went to brunch today with my husband and a good friend of ours. We never go out for brunch. You can make that kind of food at home, right? Some eggs, some toast, coffee.

Wrong.

We went to brunch in a town about 30 minutes to the south of us. To a restaurant that we had been to before. One that calls itself a "pizzeria" but that's like calling me a housewife. It is so much more than that.

Pizzeria Oceano is small, operating out of a little bungalow, with most of the seating on a deck in the front of the restaurant. There's a counter inside that has six spots, where you can watch the owner and his staff cook up heaven.

Really.

Today, they were open for brunch. They called it Sloppy Sunday. They're not normally open for brunch. I think this may have only been the second time. And who knows if they'll ever do it again. It's that kind of place. We only found out about it because we were there a few weeks ago and our waiter mentioned it.

You order from the small menu that’s printed daily. You don’t ask for any substitutions. And you don’t call in for takeout. It’s cash only, the wine is poured in to small plain glasses and the water is served in plastic cups. And if any of this is upsetting to you, then you’re in the wrong restaurant.

Usually, the origin of the main ingredients, like Swank Specialty Produce in Loxahatchee or Edwards Ham and Bacon in Virginia, are listed at the bottom of the menu. And the ingredients are either locally sourced or purchased from artisan producers. And they're always unusually paired. Successfully. I’ve never had anything there that hasn’t made me stop and go hmm, and then yum.

Here's what was on the menu this morning:

And we said we'll take the first two items, the fourth one and the Cured Foie Gras pizza. Oh, and a carafe of Mimosas.

Now, I love my food. One of the reason's that I married my husband, other than I think he's sexy and has a big, um, heart, is that he owns a restaurant. And cooks for me and our mixed bag of kids. So I get fed well all of the time. Some might call me spoiled.

But I sat at that counter today, taking it all in, seated between the two men I was with, and I was blissful.

But I also was distracted, and hungry, and so I didn't take as many pictures as I wanted to.

Here's the pizza topped with thin slices of foie gras and, in case you can't read the small print on the above menu, Soba Ale cheddar, bacon, black pepper Bechamel, roasted onions, honey glaze and purple scallion. A brilliant mind came up with that combination. And luckily the pizza was cut in to six pretty evenly sized slices or else we would have fought over it.

And the last little bit of omelet with gingered onions, chick peas, potatos and a few other ingredients, topped with a curried heirloom tomato gravy. Say what? I love curried chick peas. It's one of the few dishes that I actually make. But my dish can't compare to this.

The third dish was baby escarole served with a soft-fried egg and a bacon vinaigrette. It was sublime. The escarole was so fresh tasting, like it had just been picked. I've never had escarole that wasn't cooked to a pulp and served with white beans. And the pickled onions? Perfect.

Our fourth dish, the mozzarella, which they make in-house, was served with some of the freshest strawberries I've had in a long time. And thin strips of orange zest. It tasted bright. And there were some leaves on the plate that looked a little like oregano. I couldn't place the taste but when I looked back at the menu I figured it must be the nepitella, which I had to Google. An Italian herb from the mint family. (I love learning new food facts.)

At some point, we had to order a second carafe of Mimosas. The first one came and went. It didn't last long. None of the food did either. Part way through the meal, I leaned over to my husband and said, "I think I just came in my pants." Crude? Yes. But I wasn't kidding.

And I said to our waitress, "I'm going to cry because I'm so happy. And so upset that my stomach isn't bigger."

Well, it's going to be if I keep eating like this.

Happy Sloppy Sunday.

Un Gato Negro

2012-01-13T17:38:00.002-05:00

Jazzy is our neighborhood black cat. She doesn’t belong to my family. She lives in the house across the street. Her real name is Jasmine. And one time, by accident, I called her Jizzy. That made my 14 year-old son giggle. And the 14 year-old that lives inside my brain.

Jazzy shows up at our house at all hours: when I pick the newspapers up outside at 5:30 am, when I get home from work, when I bring the kids home from school. And she announces her arrival with the loudest meows I’ve ever heard. And rewards your meows to her with more back. I love that.

When her owners walk their dogs around the block, you can see Jazzy trotting right along behind them. I’ve never seen a cat do that. It’s like she’s a dog. A small, all-black dog.

Jazzy pretty much owns the neighborhood. She's on my porch. She's in my backyard, which she uses as her litter box. I see her down the street. And the other morning, I went for an early run and when I looked up on the porch next door, there she was all curled up in a ball on their chair. It wasn’t her house. She didn’t care.

Jazzy is special like that. Always happy to see you. Making my kids feel, in a very slight way, that they have a pet. Which is great because, chances are, they'll never have one.I know, I suck.

So, on this Friday the 13th, here’s to you Jazzy. Please don’t walk in front of me today. The year is starting out pretty smoothly. And I'd like for it to stay that way.

Nicki Minaj, Michael Kors and My Husband’s UTI

2012-01-12T11:40:00.000-05:00

My husband is recovering from a urinary tract infection. (Don't laugh. Real men do get them.)

He never, ever, ever gets sick, unless it is self-induced overindulgence. So when he started running a fever a few days ago, and told me that it hurt when he peed, I was a little concerned. Ironically, he had just been to the doctor for a complete physical the day before. His first in a few years. And that doctor just happens to be a friend as well. So I texted him the details of hubby’s symptoms. Around the same time, some of his initial lab results came in. And he had an elevated white blood cell count in his urine. And pus. (Sorry but want to be factual.)

The doc called in a prescription for Cipro and asked that hubby pee in a sterilized container to take to the lab in the morning. So I found the oldest, and smallest, tupperware container I could find and poured copious amounts of boiling water in to it. After drying the container, I took it upstairs where I watched my poor, shivering, 102 plus febrile husband sit to piss in it. Not a pretty site. Because it was the evening, I popped the container in to the fridge, next to all of our 50 plus condiments, and hoped that none of the children would mistake it for lemon juice.

The next morning, I fished around in the closet for a small shopping bag that would be appropriate for taking a small tupperware container of pee to the lab. And found the perfect one. A Michael Kors bag. I’ve never bought anything by Michael Kors. Too expensive. But there was this one pair of leather sandals (strappy, simple, perfect) that my sister-in-law had a few years back that I still covet. Anyhow, this Michael Kors bag ended up in my house because it was used to hold a bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon given to my husband by one of his employees for Christmas.

While I was driving the pee-filled Michael Kors bag to the lab, I was listening to one of my daughter’s favorite radio channels. One that plays rap and hip hop. And this song came on: Big Sean’s Dance (A$$) featuring Nicki Minaj. You know the one. Of course you do. I’m sure it’s on all of your playlists. If not, just ask my 12 year-old daughter about it. She knows all of the words. (Parenting fail but falls under the category of “pick your battles”. Plus, on the radio, they bleep out most of the offensive language.) It starts off with the lyrics “Ass ass ass ass ass ass...”.

I was singing along, the best I could, and my favorite part came on, the part with Nicki Minaj singing, “Couldn’t get Michael Kors if you was fuckin’ Michael Kors.” I sang it loud and proud while looking lovingly at the bag on the seat next to me. It was one of those moments when the world just seems perfect.

I also like the line where Nicki sings, “Kiss my ass and my anus, 'cause it's finally famous.” Which of course leads us back to the whole UTI thing. Because one of the ways a man gets a UTI? Putting his pecker where some might say it doesn’t belong (except on his birthday or when you’re on a cruise ship in foreign waters and a few other lifetime milestones). What a perfect song. Right?

A few days later, the results of the urine culture came back. The culprit was E. coli. (Did you know we all harbor E. coli in our bowels? WebMD says so.) Hubby has been on the right antibiotics so he's feeling better. His physician/friend has advised him not to put his urethra in certain places. (But sometimes, you know, it's dark and well, you know, it gets a little slippery back there.)

But I'm not certain that's how hubby got sick. Because then we had this conversation where I shared one of my preventative measures with him, learned the hard way when I had a kidney infection a few years back due to a UTI gone rogue: If I take a somewhat virulent crap, I stand up slightly when I flush the toilet so I don’t get splashed by the perhaps E. coli contaminated toilet water. Hubby said he didn’t do that but that sometimes, when he is sitting down to defecate, and then flushes the toilet, the water rises up to his wiener. Whoa, this could be the UTI culprit because no, your dick should not be touching the toilet water in which you just shat. Lift your penis up out of the water. Problem solved.

And yes, I know. I’m lucky I have a husband whose penis is long enough to touch the toilet water. And unlucky that I can't the image out of my head.

Rock on Nicki Minaj.

(Nicki comes on around 1:23. If you're curious.)

PS The lab kept my Michael Kors bag. Anyone have an extra one?

Happy Yeasty Holidays!

2011-12-23T07:43:00.000-05:00

I have a yeast infection. And it’s a bad one.

(Yeah, I know that’s gross. And maybe even a little bit TMI. But I haven’t written in a while and this was what inspired me. Besides, I like to write about what I know.)

This is only the fourth yeast infection that I’ve had in my entire 46 year-old life. And it couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time.

(You know, if you type yeast too fast it comes out Yeats which makes you seem really smart.)

Because in addition to me just being physically uncomfortable, it’s the holidays. In my house, this means a little alone time for me and my husband.

(Second marriage for both of us means our kids are with their other parents, which is fine with me since I’m Jewish and my ex-husband is Catholic.)

And all I wanted for Christmas was a little cunninglingus.

But yeast infection = unpalatable.

I know why I got the infection. Last week, I dropped my daily routine of eating non-fat Greek yogurt, what with all of it’s good-for-the-vagina bacteria, because I was too busy eating other things on my trip to Las Vegas. And I’ve been a little stressed out what with the holidays coming and having two kids sick with stomach viruses at different times, while they were trying to study for their final exams, and a husband who is working almost 80 hour weeks. (I know I’m not the one working 80 hours but it still stresses me out.)

So I have to point my finger at stress, and my failure to ingest Lactobacillus acidophilus, for allowing the bacteria Candida albicans to multiply and take over my inner paradise. Over running my vaginal environment and turning it into a factory producing excess quantities of well, you know what a yeast infection is like.

I’m not screwing around with this. I want this yeast infection gone. So I’m taking a three prong approach. First and foremost? I’m back on my daily dose of Greek yogurt. Second, I refilled an old prescription for Diflucan. (Actually I got Fluconazole, the generic form, and it only cost $2.09 for two pills.) And third, the part I hate, I purchased a three dose pack of Miconazole cream in pre-filled applicators.

Go away yeast infection.

I have two more days to get this shit cleared up. Two more days until I get to celebrate Christmas with my Catholic husband. (Don’t get me wrong, we celebrate the eight nights of Hanukkah too but somehow, it just feels right that oral sex should be a Christmas present.)

I’ll let you know if I get my Christmas wish. Or, maybe not. Some things should remain private.

Happy Holidays. May you be healthy, happy and yeast-free.

Some Of What I Am Thankful For

2011-11-21T15:42:00.000-05:00

Since Thanksgiving is looming large, I figured I should get in to the spirit of being thankful. Not that I’m not thankful every day. I know I’m the LWA (Luckiest Woman Alive). And if I ever forget, my husband reminds me. Again. And again.

I’ve already had two turkey dinners in preparation for the big day. One turkey, with curried sweet potato chips and squash with pancetta and sage, cooked by my husband last Saturday night just because he felt like it. And fresh turkeys were on special at Costco.

Saturday's turkey dinner

And one yesterday, down the street at my friend’s house. In a caja china. (Do you know what that is? It’s a miniature coffin-looking wood box that you put meats in, usually a whole pig, cover it up and load the top with hot coals and slow roast the contents.The turkeys were delicious.)

La Caja China

So I’m deep in to the thick of the holiday. The kids have one more day of school this week. I’m partly packed for my Thanksgiving adventure. And I just made some turkey salad, with light mayonnaise and spicy banana peppers, for lunch.

So here we go...

15 Things (Other Than The Normal Ones) That I’m Thankful For:

1. I have neighbors who are friends. And friends who are neighbors. We help each other out, bitch together, mourn together and laugh as often as possible.

2. I don’t have to fly in order to be with my family on Thursday, like I used to when I lived in New York. A two hour train ride on Tri Rail rocks. And you can carry on more than 3 ounces of ~~vodka~~ liquid.

3. I won’t have to eat any turkey leftovers. I've already had my fill. Because the day after Thanksgiving, I’m going on a three day cruise with my husband and some of our favorite people.

4. After five years of marriage, I still have sex with my husband. Because I want to, not because I have to.

5. Our local public library is only a few miles away. I’m not an e-book user. And my kids read too fast for me to fund their iBook accounts.

6. My washer and dryer can keep up with the clean clothes needs of my family, even if I can’t.

7. My parents (and their respective spouses) are still alive and kicking.

8. Even at my advanced age of (almost) 46, my mom still takes me clothes shopping. (See you Wednesday, Mammoo.)

9. That I actually like my brother. And love his wife.

10. My children, at the ages of 12 and 14 years old, have done less delinquent things than I had done at their ages.

11. The public schools in my district are really good. So I can spend my money on things that really matter like getting a semi-Brazilian wax and my hair colored.

12. I live in my version of paradise: near the beach, warm weather in the winter and even warmer weather in the summer.

13. Second chances. (See number 4. He's husband number 2.)

14. That I know what happiness is, because I've been unhappy before, and that happiness comes in many forms.

15. That there are people out there who have the same warped sense of humor that I do.

Happy Thanksgiving. Hope you have at least 15 things to be thankful for.

Disclaimer: This list is not meant to be the end all or be all of my thankfulness. It is just a (very) quick glimpse in to my hamster wheel brain.

The Way It Used To Be Thursday: 5 Years Of (Mostly) Wedded Bliss

2011-11-17T18:07:00.000-05:00

November 18, 2006

The way it used to be was like this: I got married (1995). Had two kids (1997, 1999). And then got divorced (2002).

After my divorce, I figured I would get married again. Someday. But the circumstances surrounding that someday were not yet imaginable. Post-divorce for me was filled with worries. Worries about how my kids were going to be. About my finances. And about how many cigarettes I was smoking. (Ooh, I was really skinny.)

But I also felt relieved and more like myself than I think I had ever felt. And that part felt really good.

In that post-divorce period of time, Thursdays were for me. My kids spent Thursday nights with their father so those were my nights to get out, throw back some Cosmos, blow off some steam and do a little flirting.

Thursday nights were spent with my best neighbor, at the local bar where we knew the band. And drinks were inexpensive. Even free, if the right bartender was working. My friend and I would show up there, commandeer a few seats outside, or belly up to the bar, and wait for the fun to begin. Actually, the fun always began the moment we left our houses. In our defense, he and I never drove drunk, choosing to either walk home, get a ride or catch a cab. And we utilized the buddy system. Never leave a man behind.

Thursday nights at the bar were where I got to know my current husband, after having met him a few months before at his restaurant. Almost eight years ago tonight, he offered to give me a ride home from that bar. But I didn’t make it home that night. No, I lost my virginity (kind of) to him, before we even went on a date. The date came over a week later. (You can read the whole story here. Don’t be so shocked. It worked out, didn’t it?)

And then, five years ago tomorrow, I married him. (Here's our faux New York Times wedding announcement.) I was older and wiser the second time around. And really, really in love. Because once you’ve been married, had a couple of kids and then been divorced, you’re only going to get married if you really, really want to.

For those who get it right the first time, kudos. I wish I had. Divorce sucks. Divorce is hard on everyone involved. Divorce is forever. But sometimes, divorce is the right thing to do.

But I can’t say that my first marriage was a mistake because if I hadn’t married my first husband, the father of my children, I wouldn’t have my children. Sure I would have had children but they wouldn’t be the specific ones that I have now. Half me, half their father. And I love, adore and cherish who they are. (Even though they fight too much.)

And if I hadn’t married their father the first time around, I wouldn’t have ended up here, in my small town in South Florida. Which means I would never have walked in to my husband’s restaurant that late summer day back in 2003. I never would have met him. Never flirted with him. Never would have had that (humorous) first night together. And never married him and started this amazing, imperfect life that we have together now.

Happy 5 Year Anniversary to my husband. I love you. And this counts as your card.

July 29, 2011

The Way It Used To Be Thursday: Counting Crows Feet

2011-11-10T14:13:00.000-05:00

It's Thursday. You know, The Way It Used To Be Thursday. My new weekly feature where I revisit the past. My past, your past and just the past. (If you missed last week's inaugural post, here it is.)

This week's post is about the power music has to transport us to another time. Take us to a specific event or remind of us of a person or place. Like that time you had sex with your ex-boyfriend's best friend for at least three loops of Tracy Chapman's debut album.

Or how James Taylor's "You've Got A Friend" takes me back to my many summers at camp in Cleveland, GA. Ja Rule and Ashanti singing "Always On Time" makes me re-live my post-divorce hey day. (Don't ask.) And Phil Collins' "Like China" is freshman year in college. (Yes, I was virgin when I went away to college.)

Yesterday, though, the last part of my run was bolstered by a song that I had forgotten was on my iPod. Mainly because my kid has had my iPod for the last two years. I took it back from her when I started running again a few months ago.

It was The Rain King. A song off of the Counting Crows’ 1993 debut album August and Everything After. What a f*#@ing song. And from a long time ago. It was before I had kids. Before I had moved back to Florida. Before I got rid of my moustache. Before a lot of things. I was 28 years old.

Listening to the song took me back, way back to when I lived in New York City. To a particular night during the Christmas season of 1994. I had graduated from business school a few months before. And was dating the guy who would become my first, but not last, husband.

We were at a friend’s apartment in NYC, in the West Village. She and her husband had their tree up and the apartment was all decorated. There were a handful of other people there (including my best wombat friend). There was eating and drinking. Lots of drinking. There were a lot of laughs. And then there was dancing. To this song. For what seems to me today to have been for hours. Uncoordinated, arms flailing dancing. Before the days of phones with video cameras, thank goodness. But still clear in my head.

One of those nights that you want to have last forever.

Listening to that song, I could almost feel the past. The halcyon days of youth. Simpler times. And I started getting nostalgic. Well, nostalgia with a touch of melancholy. (I’m a little emotional these days. Peri-menopause perhaps? Global warming? Lack of sleep? Don't worry. I know it's annoying. I'll snap out of it soon.)

Then before I knew it, my run was over. I was in front of my house. Getting ready to step back in to my present day reality. Taking the good with the not-so-good. The complicated with the more-than-complicated. Counting my blessings and realizing that they outnumber all of the other things. And still humming The Rain King.

On my next run, I think I'll listen to something new. Something that'll get me more forward-thinking and open my mind. Maybe that song "Fly" by Nicki Minaj. Or Miranda Lambert's new song "Baggage Claim". Or even Jay-Z and Kanye West's "N***as In Paris". No, not that last one. I went to Paris on my first honeymoon. See what I mean.

In the meantime, think Christmas tree, cold weather and vodka. And let the Counting Crows take you back to my 1994.

The Way It Used To Be Thursday: Of Moles And Weddings

2011-11-03T15:19:00.001-04:00

April 1995

I’m starting a new weekly feature on Life’s Dewlaps: The Way It Used To Be Thursday.

A lot of bloggers have weekly features, posting to a certain theme on a particular day of the week. Wordless Wednesday is a very popular one. On that day, a blogger might publish a photograph or five that are especially joyful, endearing or smile-inducing. I’ve also seen a lot of Fun Friday features but my Friday fun may not be someone else’s idea of fun. So I’m choosing to make up my own.

I know The Way It Used To Be Thursday is not a very catchy name but the subject matter is going to be enticing. You’re going to want to read about the way it used to be. We’ll take a walk down my Memory Lane. Some Thursdays it might be a remembrance of a long ago psilocybin-induced hallucination or a look in to the history of vibrators (the entire industry, not just mine.) Some posts will be from my personal past. Like the time in my life when I wore a bikini and my boobs didn’t sag. There will be some broader subjects as well like a look at rotary phones that took forever to dial or how we used to make tape recordings off of the songs on the radio.

For the inaugural edition of The Way It Used To Be Thursday, I’m going personal. Here it is:

I used to have a mole on my face. Cindy Crawford-ish like. Just above the left part of my upper lip. I always hated it. I had one boyfriend who was aroused when he licked it. Not kidding. He didn’t last. (Don't judge me. I wasn't the one with the problem.)

I had it removed a few months before I got married the first time. I didn’t want the mole in my wedding pictures. I went to a plastic surgeon and, after a little local anesthesia, he lopped it right off with a really, really sharp scalpel. No stitches or anything.

I was thrilled with how my pictures came out. My 29 year-old face looked exactly how I wanted it to. Smooth and without too many blemishes. The marriage though? That was another story. Sixteen years later, I find myself divorced and remarried. Fighting the battle of an age-induced speckled face caused by too many years of sitting in the Miami sun slathered with baby oil. Applying a nightly layer of Retin-A and Vitamin C serum. And perhaps, in the next few months, undergoing microdermabrasion or even laser skin resurfacing, if I win the lottery.

But I wonder how much different my life would be if I still had the mole. Would I be more successful? Bitchier? Or a supermodel? Would I still be married? Maybe the mole was my center of power. Where I got my joie de vivre from. I'll never know. And from time to time, I catch myself touching my face, just above the left part of my upper lip, trying to feel my phantom mole.

If I had kept the mole, I definitely wouldn’t have found this scene from Austin Power’s Goldmember to be funny. Sans mole? I thought it was hysterical. Enjoy. And happy The Way It Used To Be Thursday.

Lesson From A Gopher Tortoise

2011-10-31T12:27:00.000-04:00

About halfway through my run this morning, in the darkness of my neighborhood, I came across a baby gopher tortoise lying upside down in the road. It was the smallest gopher tortoise I have ever seen and its little legs were moving but its body wasn’t going anywhere.

The road the tortoise was stuck on leads to the neighborhood elementary school. And in about an hour, cars, driven by mothers and fathers texting and talking on their cell phones instead of talking to their kids on the way to school, were going to start whizzing by. The little guy would have no chance, his hard shell no match for the abundance of SUVs and minivans that populate my town.

So, of course, I had to stop running and help it. Especially since the gopher tortoise is a threatened species. (I was really pissed that I didn't have my camera because my kids would have loved to see it. And then I would have had a really cool photo for this post.) I picked it up and gently placed it back in to the preserve area that it must have come from, feeling smug about doing my good deed for the day before 7 a.m.

I spent the next part of my run thinking about the baby gopher tortoise and hoping that some hawk doesn’t end up picking it up from its habitat of saw palmettos and pine trees. And I also spent a few minutes wondering about the familial traits of gopher tortoises. Was somebody missing him, their baby? Was he on his first solo mission out of the burrow? Did he get in a fight with his sister and was trying to have some alone time?

And, because I run at a really slow pace, I also thought about this: I’ve felt like that gopher tortoise before. Like I’ve fallen off the curb, legs figuratively (and maybe once or twice literally) up in the air flailing around, unable to right myself. And then along came someone, a friend, a family member or quite frequently these days, my husband, and helped me get set straight. Gently. Depositing me back in my habitat.

And while I was thinking that, about how lucky I am to have that kind of support, I felt a kind of sadness wash over me. Sadness because I’ve known too many people who have recently suffered losses. People my age losing their spouses. Kids, the ages of my kids, losing a parent.

And I hope those people will, at least one day, feel like me and my gopher tortoise. That they have friends and family around them that will pick them up when they've fallen off the curb. And gently put them right side up so that they can make their way back to where they belong, to the warmth and comfort of their burrows.

I was glad that it started to drizzle towards the end of my run. I was embarrassed by my tears. But feeling fortunate about my life and thinking that I needed to help more than just gopher tortoises.

Image via USFWS Headquarters/Flickr

If My Car Had A Sticker...

2011-10-27T14:11:00.000-04:00

My town is full of minivans and SUVs. And an overabundance of these family stickers conspicuously placed on their rear windows. You know the ones I'm talking about. Father, mother, son, daughter, cat and dog.

The first couple of times I saw them, I felt a little left out. I never saw a sticker for my non-nuclear family, assembled as a result of divorce and remarriage. But I got over it because I've never really been a put-a-sticker on your car type of person. No "My Child Is an Honor Roll Student" or "Vote For Mr./Mrs. Politican".

(Though I have coveted those metal testicles people hang from the bottom of their trucks. Just kidding. My daughter saw a set on the way to school a few months ago. That took some explaining. Thanks for nothing. Aren't there obscenity laws in my state? And, by the way, it's not going to help you with the ladies. Seriously, I can't think of a better way to say "I have self-esteem issues" or "I am not very well endowed" than hanging metal balls from the back of my vehicle.)

I digress. Back to the stickers.

The other day, I was in a particularly foul mood, grumbling about some poor decision someone in my extended non-traditional family had made. And I saw three cars in a row with pretty little stickers and intact families not marred by divorce. So by the time I saw the third car, I just had to flip them the finger. I don't think that they saw me. (I know I have some unresolved issues).

I came home, drank some soothing ~~vodka~~ chamomile tea and calmed down. Then I did a Google search and found this web site where you can make your own family assortment. So I did. I think it came out great. I haven't ordered it yet. I'm going to have to get a bigger car so that we'll all fit across the back.

Top image via cjc4454/Flickr

Happily Making A Spectacle Of Myself: 1800Specs.com

2011-10-24T15:23:00.000-04:00

I’ve been wearing glasses since I realized I couldn't see the board in my business school class. I was 26 years old and had no idea it was possible to be so vision-challenged at such a young age. By contrast, I could see the boys just fine.

At that point, I had been living in NYC for five years yet still went back to Miami, where I had spent my childhood, for all of my medical appointments. And haircuts. I was flying home soon after I realized I had a sight issue and had my eyes examined. My first pair of eyeglasses were from an small boutique in South Miami that gave very personal service. Now, almost 20 years later, it’s still the only place I’ve ever purchased glasses from.

So when I had the opportunity recently to trial a new site called 1800specs.com, I was a little wary about ordering glasses online. No skilled sales professional to guide me? No ability to try the frames on? I don’t buy a lot of clothing or accessories online for this very reason but in browsing through the 1800specs.com site, the following FAQ gave me some reassurance:

What if I wish to return the glasses?
Our guarantee is simple; you have 365 days from the date of purchase to return your glasses for a full refund or replacement. Simply contact us via e-mail at customerservice@1800specs.com.

No worries there.

I spent some time perusing the site, storing the possible items on a “My Favorites” page. It wasn't easy to narrow down the choices and pick the final pair but the frames I liked all ranged in price from $20 to $40, which included the cost of the prescription lenses. I ultimately chose a $40 Nicole Miller cat-eye shaped pair with a deep reddish burgundy colored frame. I’ve never owned a pair of glasses in a color but now that I’m getting a little older, I thought a little color framing my eyes might be nice.

Because I hadn’t had my eyes checked in two years, I went and did that before I placed my order. After my exam, my optometrist asked if I wanted to look at some new frames and I told her about the 1800specs.com site. She was curious, and like me, a little skeptical. But she happily printed out a copy of my new prescription and I hurried home to place my order. (I didn't have to get an exam done to get my prescription. By law, the person who does your eye exam is obligated to give you a copy of your prescription, no matter how long it’s been since you've been tested.)

Two weeks later, my new frames arrived and I've been wearing them for the last couple of days. And loving them.

My daughter says I look like a catty librarian. I think I look really, really smart. What do you think?

Now if they could only help me with a few other age-related bodily changes, like drawing attention away from that crease between my eyebrows (no Botox for me) or the age spots on the backs of my hands. No, unfortunately, the 1800specs.com site can’t work miracles. But it sure can help you get a pair, or two, of new hip eyeglasses for a good price.

1800specs.com provided me with a pair of glasses, free of charge, in return for this review. All opinions are solely mine. And are honest.

Top image via 1800specs.com

Housewife Is Not A Nice Name

2011-10-17T14:23:00.001-04:00

A typical Tuesday morning at my house. NOT.

My husband called me a housewife the other night. Boy, did it hurt. Those words felt like the equivalent of him punching me in the stomach. It was as if he had told me that my last blog post sucked or worse, that my vagina was too large.

I mean, he could have called me so many other things that would have been better like a slut or a frigid bitch or even Chunks. I don’t call him a chicken-loving pasta cook or a dirty old man. Or a dirty, balding old man with a hairy lower back.

Does he hate me that much?

And when I indignantly said to him that I am so much more then a housewife, sure of the fact that he was just kidding around and would utter a retraction, he said, “I know you’re not just a housewife. You’re a domestic engineer.” Oh, so much better.

Housewife.

The word conjures up the image of perky, perfectly coiffed, apron-wearing, perpetually smiling, cake baking women. And images of submissive women who lie missionary position in bed while their husbands, who are their first and only sexual partners, pound away at them grunting and grasping for ten minutes before they roll over and start snoring.

She's a woman who has slippers and scotch ready for the man of the house when he gets home from a long, trying day at his desk job. The kids are all scrubbed up and dinner is ready to be put on the table. There is always a vegetable on the plate, in between the meat and the starch, and it's probably Birds Eye.

Then there's this definition of a housewife from Urban Dictionary: An uneducated woman with no self-esteem and no life who thinks she has to devote herself to rearing children, her husband, the home and the pets.

Okay, that takes it a bit to the extreme. We don't have any pets. But you get my drift.

Sure my husband is the primary breadwinner in our house. By more than a multiple of 10. So sometimes, I let him be dominant in bed. And yes, I do all of the laundry, even his really smelly, chicken-encrusted, bleach splattered work clothes. (Separate from everything else, of course.) I pay all of the bills, which allows me to put my MBA to good use. And I empty the dishwasher, clean the kitchen and go grocery shopping. And of course, am raising two, and sometimes three, teenagers.

But I also work part-time as a bookkeeper. Yes, it’s under 15 hours a week but I make enough money to make a difference. And I like doing it. It gets me out of the house and in to a different environment where I can use my brain and still get to talk about sex toys.

I’m also a come-to-it-later-in-life writer. I started this blog three years ago and went from dreaming of being a writer to actually being one. I don't make much from my writing but I’m honing my craft, working on a book and making people alternatively smile and grimace while I do it.

So all of this thinking, about being called a housewife, made me lose some sleep last night. And today, after I made my husband his morning coffee, folded the laundry and cleaned the kitchen floor, I went for a run and gave some thought as to why I was so upset by his characterization of me.

And I came to this conclusion: Like it or not, I am a modern day housewife. I’m sensitive about it because I guess I don’t want to be seen as being a housewife first. And I definitely don’t want to be pigeonholed as being any one thing. Nobody is just one thing. Definitions can be so limiting.

Of course, what my husband thinks of me holds a huge amount of importance for me. I know he thinks that I’m a good writer. I hear him laugh out loud from the other room when he reads one of my pieces. And I know he thinks that I'm a good mother because he tells me so. He's aware of the multitude of my talents. And he takes me seriously. So seriously that, knowing I was a little peeved by his housewife comment, he bought me these:

Talk about being sweetly old-fashioned.

But seriously, at the end of the day, if you feel the need to characterize me as being something? Please make it something a little more exciting. Like a sexy, modern day woman who happens to be married and runs a household, can help a kid with his pre-Calculus assignment, wire a dimmer switch, get rid of a virus on the computer, analyze a P & L and translate every day events in to words that will make you laugh, shed a tear and even cringe.

Gosh, I feel like Helen Reddy. Roar.

Top image via x-ray delta one/Flickr

The Only Thing I Miss About Being Married to the Father of My Children

2011-10-14T15:19:00.000-04:00

I have a new piece up today over on the Huffington Post Divorce channel. A really great title for it would have been "The Only Thing I Miss About Being Married to the Father of My Children". But I thought that would be a little too long.

So I titled it The Most Lamentable Part of Divorce. Can you guess what it is? I'll give you a clue: it has nothing to do with sex.

Chunks Visits Her Gynecologist

2011-10-06T13:54:00.001-04:00

This year's outfit. I'm looking irascible.

Yesterday was one of those days I dreaded and yet, in an odd, maybe mentally unhealthy way, looked forward to. It was my annual visit with my gynecologist: getting felt-up, having a pap smear and a rectal exam with a boob-squashing mammogram on the side. What's not to like?

I’ve already chronicled my annual preparation for this visit (shaving, waxing, coloring my hair but not down there and, of course, plucking my errant nipple hair.) Maybe it’s just how I was raised but I always get dolled up and dress nicer to go the doctor than I do when I’m picking my kids up from school. Plus looking good gives me the confidence to sit there, on the examining table, naked but for only a paper suit.

My visit started with the dreaded weigh-in. I already knew I would be in trouble there. I’ve gained a little weight in the last year. And even though I’ve been running a couple times a week for the last month or so, it's damn hard to lose weight when you’re over the age of 40. I mean 45. And I knew that my gyno would bring the weight gain up because it is part of my overall health.

He’s been my doctor for over 10 years so he knows me pretty well. Inside and out. Knows my marital (divorce and remarriage) and sexual history, knows how old my kids are and, most importantly, knows my sense of humor. He's always had a sense of levity about him even when he was lancing my Bartholin’s Abscess a few years ago. And that manner is one of the things that makes him such a great doctor.

First up? The breast exam. He’s very observant, which is another good quality in a gynecologist. He noticed that I had a new scar on the top of my left breast. I explained to him that the dermatologist had found a pre-melanoma spot and had to excise a hefty bit of tissue, requiring both internal and external stitches. So much tissue, that she inadvertently gave me a breast lift. Unfortunately, it's only in one boob. (Hmm. Idea. On next visit to dermatologist, make a suspicious looking mark with a Sharpie in the same spot on the right boob. Then, the boobs will match.)

Because of the scar tissue, he had to spend a couple of extra seconds examining that area, which is right above my nipple. I was hoping he’d hurry up and finish. I hate when my nipples get erect for someone other than my husband or the air conditioning. (My husband is actually called The Nipple Whisperer, for his dexterity.)

After the breasts, it was time to move on to the nether area. I'll spare you the details. I've never been one for TMI. But just say that everything else went off without a hitch and before I knew it, he told me to get dressed and meet him in his office. Actually, what he said was, “Okay Chunks. You’re done.” (It's okay. Like I said, he knows my sense of humor.)

In his office, we talked about taking calcium and vitamin D. About having my kids vaccinated against the HPV virus. And, of course, exercising more and eating less. He said that I looked good, we hugged goodbye and I headed over to the mammography unit to see the really outrageous ways a size C breast can resemble a pancake.

So I’m done for another year. Hopefully. You should go to your gynecologist once a year. I'm talking to those women out there who don't go. You know who you are. Find a doctor that you like just as much as I like mine. Build a relationship with them. Then you’ll feel comfortable asking them lots of questions and talking to them about anything including sex toys and cunnilingus.

And, unfortunately, becoming peri-menopausal. At least then I'll have an excuse to be irascible.

Black (Snake) Friday

2011-09-30T12:43:00.001-04:00

My Friday didn't start off too well.

I didn't sleep well the night before. I woke up to a messy house. And my toe, that I dropped a Lucite pepper grinder on a few days prior, was throbbing.

And then a few other things happened that led to the following tweets. Because tweeting about things, both good and bad, makes me feel better. I don't care if any of my 100 followers read it. (Well, yes I do. Please don't unfollow me.) But tweeting is like cheap therapy for my soul.

So here is my morning succession of 3 tweets:

So I did. Go home that is. And to give myself an attitude re-adjustment, I did what I usually do: clean, drink more coffee and do laundry. But while I was cleaning, something just outside my sliding glass door caught my eye.

Now usually, I'm not easily distracted but I was in awe of this very long black snake because around his middle was skin that had not yet been completely shed. I wanted to get a closer look so I opened up the slider.

The thing didn't even flinch when I made some noise so I started to get pissed that it wasn't the least bit scared of me. I mean I'm an imposing figure, all 5' 2" of me in my pajama top and my sweatshirt, braless, extra cup of coffee in hand and teeth not brushed. Even my husband knows not to mess with me when I'm like this. The guy should have high-tailed it out of there. But he didn't so I figured I'd go outside and see what the fuck his problem was. I went out the kitchen door, through the patio and around the back yard to get this shot.

You can see that he barely moved. Then I thought that maybe there was something wrong with him and I started to feel badly that I had all of these thoughts of picking him up by his tail and flinging him against the fence. (Misplaced aggression plus extra cup of coffee and lack of sleep starting to kick in. I'm usually an animal lover.) Who cares that he eats bugs, lizards and maybe even my neighbor's cat that shits in my fenced in backyard. I wanted to see Black Snake slither.

So I did something uncharacteristically mean. I turned the hose on and sprayed him with water. At first, he just looked at me and kept sticking his tongue out, just like my kids do when they're being awful. But then he turned away. And I thought he was going to slither in to our little garden. But no.

He gave me the old F U.

Yes, that is his tail you see. Going up the side of my house. In between the pressed wood siding and the concrete blocks that it covers. Now I'm really screwed. I don't really think he can actually get inside. But the house was built 13 years ago and there is a chance that one of the blocks has been compromised and that he can squeeze his narrow snakey body through a crack. And slither upstairs to my bedroom. And that is not the kind of snake that I look forward to greeting in my bed. So now, I have to sleep with one eye open. And my legs closed tight.

TGIF.

Short Order Mother

2011-09-27T08:21:00.000-04:00

One thing I never thought I would do much of? Making breakfast. It was just never my thing. But I’m spending a lot of time in my kitchen on school mornings. My son’s new high school schedule means he has to get up at 5:25 am so that he can catch a 6:30 bus to school. And I’ve been getting up with him. Every single day. And making him breakfast.

And even though I bitch and moan about getting up early, I know it’s my choice. Some would say, “Let him get up by himself.” Others may scoff and say, “Let him make his own breakfast. Or give him a granola bar.” And I could do that. But I want him to go to school with something nutritious in his stomach. I mean, how many times have I read that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

And I also know myself. I wouldn’t be able to sleep, even though I’m snuggled up next to my husband under a down comforter, staying warm in the coolness of my air conditioned bedroom, knowing he was downstairs by himself. It would just be so lonely. And I don't think that’s a good way for him to start off his day.

So I’m making him a hot breakfast. Most every morning. Usually, it's a few eggs, poached or fried, with toast or grits or even bacon. Or homemade pancakes with some ground flax seed thrown in to balance out the chocolate and butterscotch chips. But sometimes he pours himself a bowl of cereal and has a side of fruit or a glass of orange juice.

It’s not like we even talk that much. I drink my coffee and read the two daily newspapers that arrive outside our door. (More likely, in the bushes. The prickly Crown of Thorns.) He reads the sports sections. I fold a load of laundry, empty the dishwasher and do some work on my computer. Sometimes he looks at the weather forecast on his iPad. But then he takes a 15 minute shower and I clean up the breakfast dishes. And I have to knock on the bathroom door and tell him he's going to miss his bus and I'm not driving him the 10 miles to school. Before we know it, we’re out the front door and walking the couple of blocks to the bus stop.

Honestly, I don’t mind doing it, getting up with him and making him breakfast. Contrary to what you might think, he’s really sweet at that time of the day. No complaining about what time he has to get up. Or if I break the yolks of his fried eggs. And it’s our time together, even if not much is said. I keep thinking that in four years I won’t have the opportunity to get up early with him because he’ll be gone. Off to college.

I don’t think I’m spoiling him or giving him a feeling of entitlement. He appreciates it. And I'm just trying to ensure that he gets off on a good foot every day. And in a way, it's an expression of how much I love him and support him. I mean the kid is getting up at 5:30 am. It's not an easy time of day to awaken. And, as my husband has said on more than one occasion, “I can sleep when I’m dead.”

Plus getting up with him is helping me get back in shape. At 6:30, I walk out with him, down to the bus stop and start my run. I’m loving running at that hour of the morning. It’s not hot yet and no one is around to see how slowly I run. It’s only been a few weeks since I started but I can feel that I’m already running a little faster because I need to go further in order to run for the same amount of minutes.

When I get home, after my run, my endorphins are going and I feel great. I have time to switch out the laundry, check my email, take a shower and get dressed for work. Then my daughter wakes up. She has two more years until high school so she gets to sleep in, which is good. She needs it. She eventually stumbles downstairs and the kitchen re-opens. Bacon? Pancakes? Whatever she wants. She has needs too.

I am a Short Order Mom. And I love it. Most of the time.

Image via billbooz/Flickr

Of Sex, Kids and Blogging

2011-09-23T12:34:00.000-04:00

National Survey of Sexual Health and Behavior (p. 26)

You know that post I wrote earlier in the week, the one about my husband, his birthday and the kind of gifts that all men want? Yes, the one that ended with mention of blow jobs and anal sex. Well, something happened this week that made me think about the potential repercussions of what I write, which is something that I hadn't given much thought to lately.

A couple of our guy friends stopped by a few nights ago to pick up my husband and take him out for a celebratory birthday dinner. We were all hanging around the kitchen, as people tend to do in my house, and my kids and I were eating our dinner, which my husband made for us even though he was going out. (It was really yummy chicken lettuce cups but with jasmine rice and not lettuce. He's a nice guy.)

And one of the guys, who had read my blog post, said, “Hey, I can’t wait for the kids to go to bed so I can hear what Jen gave to Fred on his birthday night.” Now, my kids are 12 and 14. They are getting deep in to puberty with all of it's accompanying body changes and growing curiosity about sex. Not much gets by them. They understood what was unspoken. My son, the 14 year-old, didn’t say much but he did grimace like he had bitten in to an extra large lemon. My daughter let out a great big “Ewwww.” And I don’t blame either of them. They don't want to think about their mom and their stepfather having sex. No one wants to think about their parents having sex, including me.

But I felt like I had been caught doing something bad because my kids knew that I had written about sex and their stepfather's birthday.

I’ve spoken to my kids about my blog and it's subject matter. That its not for kids. They know that I wrote for the Love and Sex channel on The Stir for almost a year. I've told them to not read my blog. That it will scar them for life. And I’ve blocked certain sites from the family computers to the best that I can. But could they get to my writing if they wanted to? Of course. I’m not really concerned that my son would but my daughter? At some point, she will. And as my son said, “What goes on the Internet, stays on the Internet.”

So what is a mom blogger, who happens to write about sex, divorce and her kids among other things, to do?

I mean, this is who I am. A writer who happens to be a woman who is open about, and embraces, her sexuality, her divorce and remarriage and the humor of the many imperfections in her life: her children, her husband and even her vagina.

A few days have passed and I'm over the feeling that I’ve done something wrong. I've decided to just take it as it comes with the kids. I'm really proud of the fact that we have open conversations about all sorts of things, including sexuality. They ask me lots of questions, including a recent one about masturbation. And I try to answer them honestly, but on a level that doesn't overwhelm them with too much information.

But in addition to my kids knowing that their stepfather and I have sex, there was a little bit of backlash from my adult readers at the mention of anal sex at the end of my last post. I understand. And I put it in there more for shock value than as a statement of my own sexual activity. Heterosexual anal sex is still a taboo and many people consider it dirty or gross. But the truth of the matter is, based on this all-encompassing survey of sexual behavior that was published last year, anal sex among heterosexuals occurs in fairly large numbers. The graph above shows that almost half of women ages 25-29 have, at some point, had anal sex. Another survey result? Almost 41% of women in my age group, 40-49 years-old, "received penis in anus" in their lifetime.

To each his own.

And ironically, I got an email yesterday from one of my contacts from back when I reviewed sex toys for The Stir (see "12 Days of Orgasm") asking if I wanted to do a review of one of their new products on my own blog. Of course I said yes. Look for it in the next couple of weeks. Or don't, if it's not your thing.

What a Man Really Wants for His Birthday

2011-09-19T14:02:00.000-04:00

Binder of Yummy

William Wallet

Wife-made cupcake

Today is my husband’s 48th birthday. Happy birthday babe but WTF? How did I end up married to someone so old? Ok, so he's only two years and three months older than me but somehow, 48 just sounds old. Like you're talking about the guy down the street who's already a grandfather and drives a tan Buick LeSabre.

Truthfully though, you wouldn’t think he was so old if you saw him in action. Like working 50 to 60 hours a week in his restaurant. Putting all of his much younger employees to shame with his stamina and his dedication to perfection. Boy, do they respect him, respect his knowledge and experience.

And you wouldn’t know how old he is by his joie de vivre. Hanging out with our family and friends. Being goofy and always laughing at my stupid quips about life. Going on our 45 minute power walks even when he doesn't want to. Getting excited about hitting the 10th race at Aqueduct. Or trying to teach our kids the meaning of life and the value of the dollar while keeping his sense of humor.

And you wouldn’t know how old he was by the way he acts in the bedroom. But we won’t go there. I’ve already written way too much about that. Suffice it to say, all the equipment is in prime working order and I have a hard time keeping up with him. No complaints there.

So hey, there’s nothing wrong with getting older.

But some times are harder than others. Like the incident this past summer, when he was looking at a picture from our trip to Saratoga Springs. There was a guy in the picture with his back to the camera. The guy had what we jokingly refer to as a "yarmulke": a roundish bald spot on his head right where a real one would be. My husband wanted to know who that guy was because he didn’t remember meeting him. And the guy was wearing a shirt suspiciously similar to his. Sadly, and holding in my laughs, I had to tell him that the guy was him. I mean how was he to know he was balding? How often do you see a picture of yourself from the back and from above. Poor guy. I think he was a little crushed.

So I wanted to make him feel extra-special this year but it’s not easy buying him a birthday gift. Clothes? Forget it. His idea of a good shopping expedition is the local Goodwill Thrift Shop, especially on a day when they’re offering an additional 30% off. (Hmm, $8.99 less 30% equals $6.29. Bargain.) And sure he’s gotten some nice shirts from there. Even a like-new Pringle short sleeve shirt. But I can’t buy him someone's unwanted clothes for a birthday present.

And cooking him a romantic dinner? Not on your life. It would be like me giving a guitar lesson to Dave Grohl. Pointless and painful for all parties involved. My husband is the best self-taught chef I have ever met. One of the many (ok, main) reasons I married him was so that I would never have to cook again in my entire life. And so far that is working out well for me, except for the extra weight I carry around on my ass.

No, for his birthday this year, I bought him a not-wallet. I saw it in one of those in-flight magazines when I was traveling over the summer. It’s called the William Wallet and is made by Wintercheck Factory, this cool little company based in Brooklyn. The wallet is really just two pieces of aluminum held together by a heavy duty hairband. Industrial looking and completely functional. My husband hasn’t used a wallet in years. He just stuffs his driver’s license, credit card and a myriad of currency in to his pocket. I’m hoping this will work for him. If not, I’ll be happy to take it over.

And I also compiled all his loose recipes from over the years into a binder, organizing by main ingredient and giving each recipe a home in a plastic sheet protector that can be taken out when needed. It was fun to search in the kitchen drawers for his favorite recipes, coming across some of my all-time favorites written in his very recognizable handwriting and framed by stains of meals and cocktails past.

And just because everybody needs to make a wish and blow out a candle on their birthday, I made him cupcakes. He doesn't really like sweets but he'll appreciate the gesture. Especially when I show up at the restaurant today, cupcakes in hand, and embarrass him. He says he doesn't like the attention but, after being together for almost nine years, I know he likes it a little.

He is probably one of the most under-appreciated people I know. He's generous and thoughtful and takes care of me and our family like we are, well, the most important things in the world. And I want him to know how much I care about him, how much I love him and how much I appreciate all he does. (This doesn't mean he's perfect. But he's perfect when he needs to be.)

I hope he has a great birthday. And gets what he wants. But of course, all he probably really wants for his birthday is a blow job. And maybe some anal. Thank goodness it only comes once a year.

My Towels Are A Dingleberry-Free Zone

2011-09-15T06:56:00.001-04:00

Mine, mine and his

Three towels hang in a row on my bathroom wall. They hang there in the same order that they’ve been in for the last five years, ever since I married my second husband, the love of my life, who I recently learned, knows me a lot better than I thought he did. And that isn't always a good thing.

The towel that hangs in the middle of the row is kind of a sage green color. I’m not sure what color it was originally, when I got it as a gift off of my bridal registry from my first wedding. That was over 15 years ago. Yes, I know that 15 years is a long time to have the same towels but they only recently started fraying. And, well, I’d rather spend money on other things. Like my children's college educations or a week-long trip to Vegas.

The other two towels, the ones that flank old greeny, are off-white and were a gift from my parents’ friends for my second wedding. I didn’t register for them that time around. As a matter of fact, I didn’t register for anything the second time I got married. I figured I already had enough crystal, china and silver that I never used. But the towels were a thoughtful present. I mean, did I really want my second husband to dry off his ass with the same towel that my first one used?

And the towels are really nice. They're monogrammed with mine and my husband’s first initials on either side of a big B. My husband’s last name starts with a B. Though I didn’t take his name when we got married. My kids were still young and in elementary school and I wanted to have the same last name as them. Plus my second husband’s last name isn't better than my first husband’s. I mean if I had had some hard to spell last name with lots of vowels, maybe I would have changed it. But still, I like the monogram. It makes the towels look fancy. I never owned anything monogrammed before.

Now, this may be hard to believe but, I’m not a real neat freak. I don’t make my bed every day. I let my pots and pans dry on a dishcloth on the counter. Overnight. And I once covered a box, containing a grill that needed to be assembled, with a tablecloth and used it as a coffee table for six months.

But I like using one towel for my face and hair and one towel for my body. And I don’t like to share. Towels are kind of like toothbrushes and I don’t want anyone's germs on mine, even the person I do all sorts of other things with where more intimate bodily fluids are shared. But I usually shower after that. And dry off with MY towels. Full cycle going on here.

For the over seven years that I was married the first time, that husband abided by the towels rule. Never once broke it. Never once wiped his face, his hands or any other part of his body on my towels. But we got divorced any way.

And a few years after that, in came husband number two. And the the new wedding gift towels. Arranged across the three hook fixture in the bathroom, left to right: My off-white hair and face towel, my sage green body towel, and his off-white do whatever he wants with it towel. I picked the green towel for my body towel because well, I’m only 45 and haven’t stopped being visited by my friend Flo on a monthly (actually 28 days to the hour) basis. Stains are less noticeable on green than off-white. And really, you can't bleach an off-white towel.

So the other day, I put one set of towels in the wash but failed to hang up the replacement set. (I’m not the best housewife.) I happened to walk in to the bathroom after my husband had taken his shower and saw that he had pulled the back-up green towel out of the linen closet. To use on his body. And then hung it up on my hook, the middle one, like nothing was amiss. Really?

As soon as the other set came out of the dryer I high tailed it upstairs and replaced that green soiled-by-his-one-use towel with three new ones. The right colors, hanging in the right order. As I was hanging them up, he came in to the bathroom and started laughing. At me, not with me because quite frankly, there was nothing funny about it. Now I have no choice but to be a bathroom towel paranoiac. Because if he thought that was funny, who knows what else he has done? Wiped his ass with my face towel? Dried his man thing, and it's next door neighbors, with the towel I dry my vajean off with? My perfectly manicured high temple mixed with potential dingleberries from his sphincter area?

Oh my. This is so much more than I can bear.

I didn’t even know that he knew this about me. That I was towel-anal. Now, I’m going to buy new towels. And I’m getting them monogrammed. No, not monogrammed but embroidered. His is going to have a picture of me on it. So he can rub his body against me and get as close to me as he wants. But mine? One of mine is going to be embroidered with a picture of Dave Grohl just because, well, I think he's cute. I'll use that one on my body. The other one, the one for my face and hair, will have a giant picture of my mother embroidered on it. That’ll teach him.

Yes, I know I have issues. But at least I'm really clean.

A Decade I'll Never Forget

2011-09-10T10:43:00.000-04:00

The view hasn't changed in 10 years

I don’t get bent out of shape too often. At the age of 45, having been married, divorced, and re-married, with two teenagers and a pre-teen, not much phases me. Clog the low-flow toilet again, kid? Get the plunger and fix it. Don’t like what’s being made for dinner? Make yourself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Ex-husband dates my next door neighbor? Hope they had fun. And used protection.

But the anticipation of an upcoming trip to my former in-laws’ summer house in the Poconos was starting to get to me. Three days spent in their company, and in the company of the 99 year-old matriarch of the family, staying in a guest bedroom on the second floor of their all-too familiar three story stone house. Sharing my meals with them. The same meals they used to prepare when I was married and joined their son at the same table on countless weekends and holidays.

My 14 year-old son was already at their house, having gone up a week before. And I had agreed to fly up there with my 12 year-old daughter so I could drop her off for a few weeks. Coming here is one of the highlights of my kids' summers. They love this place. This idyllic community with nothing to do but hang out with family and friends, play golf and tennis, swim in the massive outdoor pool and hike in to the woods to a natural slide nestled in to a waterfall. The same community where their father, my ex-husband, spent his summers as a kid. Except now, my ex’s friends have all married and have kids of their own who, in turn spend their summers here with my kids. Phew, that’s a lot of history.

So here I was, a decade later. Divorced and re-married with a lifetime between me and this kids’ version of heaven. Flying in to the Newark airport and going back to the Poconos but this time as a slightly anxious outsider. I’m not normally an insecure person but I planned my wardrobe with great care. Cute not-too-short shorts, a few new t-shirts, a black one piece bathing suit that showed some (tasteful) cleavage, a matching embroidered cover up and a cute hat. I had my hair colored and highlighted professionally for the first time since, well, the first time that I got married. Manicure pedicure. Got my eyebrows and bikini line waxed along with a first ever upper lip wax. (I didn't want to look too much like my teenage son.)

Because, even at my age, I care what people think about me, especially in this situation, being divorced from one of the community’s golden boys. I want them to know that my ex and I are on really good terms. That we are still raising our kids as a team. That we talk on the phone a couple of times a week, coordinating our children’s busy schedules. That we bounce ideas off of each other (well, mainly him on me). That I sometimes feel badly that I’ve found love and partnership in my second marriage and he hasn’t yet. But I’m hoping.

I want them to know that we have a “good” divorce. That there were no affairs, no cheating, stealing or lying. Just two people trying to be happy together. But we couldn’t. Well, I couldn’t. And that no, it wasn’t easy in the beginning to co-parent and do what was best for the kids. But we got through the tough spots. And as a testament to our relationship and to each other's families, there is this: me going to stay with my ex-inlaws for a few days and him staying for a night at the beach house we rented in North Carolina so he could drive the kids to a family reunion in NY.

Losing that part of my life was sad for me. The people there, especially the women who were my age, soon to be or newly married, were so welcoming and so warm when we first met. And I hit it off with them like you do with people when you are at the same stage in life and have so much in common. We were pregnant together, birthed our first kids around the same time and shared a lot of special memories. It was such a loss for me after the divorce but loyalties fall certain ways and I can't complain. I got my fair share.

I went back to the Poconos this summer because neither of my kids has any memories of my time with them at this place that they love and they’ve been begging me to come for a visit. My last trip there was ten years ago. 2001. The summer before their dad and I decided to separate. A month before the Twin Towers fell. I remember being in the Newark airport waiting for our flight back to South Florida, sitting with my four year-old son and two year-old daughter and admiring the downtown Manhattan skyline. Where my husband and I met at graduate school and where, a few years later, my son was born. Looking at that view, my husband said to me, “Isn’t that a great sight?” “Yes,” I murmured in agreement, “Wonder when we’ll be back?”

And the answer was never. We never went back there together and neither one of us ever saw the World Trade Center again. The towers fell less than a month later, taking one of his best friends with them, and my marriage, which had already slowly begun crumbling, collapsed not too soon after. A collapse caused partly from learning the stories of all the lives taken too soon and the resulting feeling that permeated my day-to-day life: life is too short to live it unhappily.

I consider myself fortunate. My life has gone on. It's not the life I thought that I would be living, getting divorced and re-married. But I still have it, it's mine and I love it. Perfect in its imperfections. Ten years later, I feel lucky to be able to visit a place from my past and still feel the warmth and the welcome, like I was one of the family. Which, I guess, I am. All that anxiety for nothing.

But I still get sorrowful, and bent out of shape, when I think about all those whose lives were lost ten years ago, on 9/11, and the families that were ruined by those events. They don't get to make mistakes and then change their lives. They don’t get to re-visit their pasts to find out that you can go back to places you thought you would never return to and have it be okay. And that is just not fair. That is tragic.

I’ll never forget.

High School Already?

2011-09-06T17:40:00.000-04:00

My Baby (Summer 2006)

My son is starting high school this week. And he's acting like he hasn't got a care in the world, cool as the six jars of homemade jalapeno sauce curing in our refrigerator for 21 days. Too bad I can't say the same about myself. The past couple of days, I've been feeling like I'm going to cry and throw up all at the same time.

Last week, we went to his freshman orientation. He was excited to check out his new school for the first time but I was nervous for him. Big school, big change. To calm my nerves, I was talking more than usual on the way there, joking around about how he'd grown two inches over the summer. And about the month he spent at his grandparents' house in the Poconos, enjoying the independence of being able to ride his bike everywhere. And, whew, didn't the summer go by quickly.

When we got to the school, he calmly strolled in to the auditorium and chose where he wanted us to sit. I could see him craning his neck, using the four plus inches he has on me to look around for some of his friends from middle school. And as we sat there waiting for the principal to begin speaking, the whole "my baby is going to high school" reality hit me and I started to get a little teary about my boy growing up and had to take a few deep breaths. Then these three kids got up on the stage and sang an incredible a cappella version of the national anthem and I had to say to myself, "Come on, you over-emotional mother. Get a grip on yourself. Don't cry now."

And I managed to hold the tears in.

But I probably overcompensated for my emotions by smiling just a little too broadly, and clapping too loudly, at the really talented percussion group that took the stage a few minutes later. And I probably looked a little too intently at my kid while he was sitting next to me, taking it all in. But when the speeches and performances were all done, I composed myself and we moved out with the masses to accomplish all the things that needed to be done: pick up his schedule, get his locker, figure out the bus schedule and get his picture taken for his ID.

I just wanted to give him a big hug and tell him how much I loved him. But I restrained myself.

I know I don't have a choice here. I know I have to let him grow up. And I really do want him to. I want him to become more independent. I want him to be more responsible. (Please pick your wet towel up off the floor and put your clean clothes away.) And I can't wait for him to experience high school.

No, my rampant emotions don't come from me being worried about him starting 9th grade. I know he's going to be just fine. He's ready. He's going to a great school: public, magnet and the right place for him to be. And I'm not weepy because his going to high school means I'm getting older. I'm happy getting older, honestly.

It's just that I'm so proud of him and of the person he is becoming. And I love him so much.

I still remember what happened three years ago, when I dropped him off for his first day of sixth grade, the start of middle school. Right after he got out of the car, he looked back at me, a little forlorn, and it was almost more than I could bear. I thought, "Just turn your back and walk away kid, unless you want to see your mom bawl like a baby." And he did and I high tailed it out of the drop off line with tears streaming down my face. By the third day, I was fine. He was fine after the first.

He has been a part of me since the day he was conceived. Our bond is strong. But for the last couple of years, he and I have both been working on the unspoken task of letting go of each other. He's a teenager and I'm going to give him some space. But I'm still his mother. I'll continue to wash his clothes, tell him to brush his teeth and hug him goodnight. And I'll be there when he asks for my advice or gets off course and needs a gentle push back in the right direction.

Tomorrow, I'll get up early with him. I probably won't be able to sleep anyway. I'll make him a couple of fried eggs and some bacon, his favorite breakfast. And walk him halfway down the block to the bus stop. Just far enough to feel like I'm a part of his first day but not so far that I'm an over bearing, nervous nelly mom. He won't hug me in public even though it will be still be dark out. That's probably for the best because then he won't see the tears welling up in my eyes.

Mother's Day Road Trip

2011-05-07T16:33:00.000-04:00

My grandmother, Mildred D'Lugin Evans, and her mother, Eva Kaminsky D'Lugin.

Tomorrow will be a one of a kind Mother’s Day for me.

I’ll wake up with no kids in the house. Just me and my husband and the Sunday New York Times. My kids will be brought over mid-morning by their dad, my ex-husband. We’ll have a little brunch, shoot some hoops and hopefully go on a bike ride. Just a few hours together and then I’ll be on my way to Gainesville. No, I’m not going to party at the University of Florida. I’m driving up to Shands with my good friend E. And it’s incredibly fitting that she and I are making this drive on Mother’s Day. Besides being my friend, witchy confidant and trouble making partner of almost a decade, E is the mother of two young kids and the wife of one pain-in-the-ass but incredibly loving husband. About seven weeks ago, E got a new kidney. Both of hers had been ravaged by lupus and, at the young age of 31, she had to do dialysis every night.

My grandmother, also known as Gaggy, and my mom

The dialysis would only help her for so long so her doctors started sniffing around her family tree looking for a donor. They figured out that E’s mom was a match. A match made in heaven and in some bedroom, with E's dad, over 30 years ago. (Well, you weren't delivered by the stork, were you?) And her mother agreed, both gladly and lovingly, to give her one. The ultimate parental sacrifice. But I'm sure they were both more than a little terrified.

The surgery went off without a hitch but accompanied by the requisite pain, discomfort and some big ass staples leaving a train track around E’s abdomen. But seven weeks later, both E and her mother are doing great. E’s been able to say goodbye to dialysis. Her kidney numbers are right where they should be. And I can tell by the amount of cursing she’s doing that she’s pretty much back to normal. And this puts a huge smile on my face and in my heart.

My mom, Maggie Evans Silverstein, and me

Tomorrow when we’re making the trek to Gainesville for her check-up, we’ll talk about a lot of things. The things that we usually talk about. Sex toys, our children, husbands who are perfect in their imperfections and, of course, our mothers. Her mother and the gift that will literally keep on giving for a long, long time. And my mother who would give me anything of hers if I asked for it. Like the awesome bracelet I snagged from her jewelry box the last time that I was at her house. I’ll talk about being sad for my mom for having to celebrate her first Mother’s Day ever without her mom. And my husband for not having his mom around. E will probably talk about being able to spend many more Mother's Days with her kids.

And we'll also talk about being moms. And all of the hard work, love, frustration and, yes, happiness that comes with the territory. And how we would give our kids whatever they needed. Because that's what moms do. We should know. We've learned from two of the best.

Happy Mother's Day.

Me and my baby, Julia D'Lugin

P.S. Thanks for the bracelet, Mom. Oh yeah, and the ring too. The one that started with Eva D'Lugin and has made its way through all of these years to end up on my finger. Love you.

Me, RB and My Underwear Drawer

2011-04-27T15:50:00.000-04:00


RB on the bathroom floor

Have you ever left something somewhere that it doesn't belong for so long that now, it seems as if it belongs there?

I have.

Last week, on one of my middle-of-the-night pees, I stepped on something squishy in the bathroom. I was kind of grossed out because it was dark and I thought it was some sort of cockroach, known in these tropical parts as gargantuan flying Palmetto bugs. The bane of my existence. The kind that, when flattened, smell like the almond scent of Vidal Sassoon shampoo. The one thing that can make me stop eating something really yummy in mid-bite. And spit the remainder out. The thing that I found, when I was 11 years old, at the bottom of my frozen slushy drink at the Matheson Hammock snack bar that I had sucked down at a speed faster than a middle aged man's urination stream.

And stepping on a bug in the middle of the night wouldn't be that far fetched since we fired our exterminator a few months ago. And haven't replaced him. (I thought I had heard him going through my underwear drawer one time when he was upstairs way too long to just be spraying for bugs.) So before I sat down on the toilet, just to make sure that the bug wouldn't come crawl up my vagina while I peed, I turned on the light and was relieved to see that all it was was one of those thick rubber bands. The kind you use to bind together bundles of cash. Or a bunch of vibrators. I left the rubber band there, turned the light off, did my business and went back to bed.

The next morning, when I walked in to the bathroom like I always do first thing in the morning, I stepped on it again. And was briefly disgusted until I remembered, "Oh yeah, it's just one of those big rubber bands." I left it there again and again and again until finally, I left town for a few days. When I got back, the rubber band was still there. I'm not sure who I thought would have moved it. Certainly not my husband who is too tired to even see it. Nor my kids who wouldn't even register any curiosity as to why there is a large rubber band on my bathroom floor or even consider picking it up.

And lastly, me. And I thought he looked kind of sweet, just lying there on the tile floor. So this morning, after stepping on him again for the thousandth time, I looked at RB kind of fondly and thought that I should take a portrait of my favorite non-Palmetto bug rubber band.

RB is going to stick around for a while. But I'm not going to take even the slightest risk that someone may pick him up and put him somewhere else. I've moved him to the safety of my underwear drawer, happy that I fired the exterminator and, now, don't have to worry about him stealing RB. I'm sure RB will be very happy and comfortable there amidst all of the thongs, bikinis and bras. See for yourself.

RB ensconced in my underwear drawer

Sixty Days

2011-04-18T06:34:00.000-04:00

You know how when you haven't done something in a while, and then you finally do it again, you enjoy it so much that you're not sure why you ever stopped?

And no, people, I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about writing. On my own blog.

I'm not sure what happened. I mean, yeah, I've been busy planting a garden, traveling to San Francisco to see my brother and family, keeping up with the progress of my friend who got her mother's kidney and going to my grandmother's funeral in Fayetteville, NC. Not Arkansas. But that's not what it was. No, my mind just stopped wanting to write. Not a writer's block, more like a writer's apathy.

But here's the thing: the more I write, the more I want to write. And I'm starting to write more. Again. But just in case you don't believe me, about being really busy the last two months, here's a rundown of what's been going on:

Went to California to visit my brother.

Watched my daughter get braces.

Celebrated my son's 14th birthday.

Lost a few pounds. And gained them back.

Planted a garden with my kids.

Went to my first professional golf tournament and walked the entire course.

Had a colposcopy (with good results).

Started an 8 week C.E.R.T. (Community Emergency Response Team) course. (That's me with my hand on my partner's shoulder. Feel safer now?)

Went to my step-niece's Bat Mitzvah.

Got the results of my son's ScoliScore.

Waited with bated breath as my friend underwent surgery to receive a kidney lovingly donated by her mother. (Both are doing great.)

Watched my garden grow big, beautiful zucchini blossoms.

Went to my grandmother's funeral.

Colored my hair. Twice.

Made blueberry muffins. Twice.

Ate radishes from our garden.

And watched my husband people watch at South Beach's Delano Hotel, his first time there. And then watch his jaw drop at spending $50 plus tip for three drinks.

There, now that we're all caught up, I can tell you the truth about sex. If you don't have it for a while, like for a few weeks, and then you have it, you'll hear not angels in the background but Madonna. "Like a virgin. Touched for the very first time."

At least I did.

Sibling Revelry

2011-04-15T14:40:00.000-04:00

My brother is a year and a half older than me. We fought a lot when we were growing up. He never broke any of my bones but he did instill in me a lifelong fear of milk-enhanced saliva. As we got older, the fighting lessened. Probably when he went away to college. It took a couple more years after that for me to realize how lucky we were to have each other. And to actually like each other. We both married in our early thirties, had a couple of kids each and stayed close, making sure our kids were growing up knowing their cousins. And we've been lucky that our spouses have felt the same way. And that they put up with all of the antics that go on when we're together. (Well, my sister-in-law doesn't just put up with it, she joins right in.)

In the last month, I've spent a lot of time with my brother. Which is surprising when you take in to consideration the fact that he lives in Northern California and I live in South Florida. We've had three occasions to be together: one planned family trip with me and my two kids flying out to see him and his family, one unplanned funeral and one brief 18 hour interlude at our parents' house before he shipped off on a cruise. All three trips were, well, memorable and each had their own sentiment.

The first trip, the five day family Spring Break one, was slightly marred by my son getting the stomach flu on one of the two days his as-close-to-a-brother-as-he'll-ever-have cousin had off from school. Poor kid. And poor me. I was the one down on my hands and knees cleaning up an incredible amount of vomit. Impressive actually. But both before and after the 36 hours of sickness, we had some memorable experiences. Lots of jumping on the trampoline, walking the Embarcadero and drinking pure molten TCHO chocolate. And walking through the drizzly, stately and awe-inspiring Muir Woods. Just me, my brother and his niece and nephew.

Muir Woods in the drizzle

The second trip, the funeral, was unexpected. My 94 year-old grandmother, Mildred D'Lugin Evans, passed away late on a Wednesday night. My brother and I met up in the Atlanta airport the Saturday after to hop on a puddle jumper to Fayetteville, NC. The town where our mom was born and raised. And where both my grandparents made a huge difference in people's lives. Something to aspire to. Though the funeral was sad, it was also beautiful. A celebration of a long life lived well. My brother and I shared a room at the hotel, double beds of course, across the hall from our parents. And after the funeral, engaged in our usual antics which included me putting my stepfather's pajama bottoms on over my pants and my brother and I throwing all of their pillows around the room. Stupid, silly fun.The kind that comes naturally to us. And one of the things that bonds us.

Gaggy, me and my brother (Circa 1970)

But the third encounter was the best. Short, sweet and with more laughs than one would think is humanly possible. My sides hurt and my eyes were wet. Our poor mother was at the receiving end of most of the goofs. And my husband gallantly tried to come to her rescue more than once. But she loved it. Who wouldn't want to be made fun of for hours on end by her two grown children, both in their mid-forties? And yes, I do know that what goes around comes around. When I'm older, I'm sure my kids will torture me. But it's so worth the karma.

The one thing that is still keeping me chuckling, a week later, is this note, scribbled on a Post-it in the handwriting of a 1st grader, that my brother left for our mom after we got in from South Beach late at night.You have to know that my brother is one of those early technology adapters, and makes a living ferreting out the next great Internet idea. So between his iPhone, iPad, iWhatever and the low-tech alarm clock in the bedroom, you think he could have figured out some other way to be awoken in the morning.


My brother's technologically advanced request for an early morning wake up call.

There’s no relationship like that of a brother and sister. I cherish it. And I love seeing it in my own kids, older brother and younger sister, who are a little over two years apart. They fight like hell, like my brother and I did, but then have their little moments, like the other day when they demonstrated their elaborate not-so-secret handshake. It warmed the cockles of my heart. And made me so happy that it didn’t go wrong and end up with one of them slapping the other one (by accident of course).

I hope my kids stay close when they're older. And that my sibling relationship is a good example for them, minus the mother torture. I love my brother, hang spit and all. I can't wait to see him again in two and a half months. I'll bring along a pad of Post-its. Wonder what other original uses he'll find for them. Here's an idea:

Here’s Your Valentine’s Day Card, Honey

2011-02-14T07:22:00.001-05:00

We met over chicken.
On a slow Sunday morning.
I’m glad you were working.
Chicken with pasta for my two young children.
Chicken Caesar salad for me.
A loaf of freshly made bread.

You asked their names.
And gave yours.
Checked out my ring finger.
Then charged my credit card for the food.
Full price. No divorced mom discount.
That would come later.

We met again, a few months later, sans children.
In a bar, of course.
You scared me and my friend with your memory of my kids’ names.
Then proceeded to dance with your girlfriend.
Around a pole.
And then smacked her on the rear end.

Who would have thought that four years later,
We would be wed.
No, I’m being serious.
Who would have thought.
Not me.
And most of the rest of our town.

But, here we are.
Over eight years after that first introduction.
Together in imperfectly wedded bliss.
Three children, and us, blended together
Like Neapolitan ice cream.
That over time melts in to one light brown color.

I love that color.
And I love you.
And the life that we have made together.

Our home, a mix of old, and older, furniture.
An ice maker that doesn’t work.
A kitchen faucet that’s falling apart.
And a boudoir that sees more action
Than a CR Chicks on any given Monday.
(People don’t like to cook on Mondays.)

We have our friends who share our love of food,
Laughs, cruises and trips to Oktoberfest.
The real one.
Thursday nights and Friday morning headaches.
Dinner parties with a cast of a thousand nations.
And meals that are the envy of many.

Our kids, growing up faster than the speed of light.
Good citizens, fighters at times and frequently funny.
All three looking like none of the others.
But gorgeous in their differences.
Red hair, light brown hair, dark brown hair.
Blue eyes, hazel eyes.
Tall and thin, tall and sturdy, and small and petite.

And then there is us.
Seriously, who would have thought?
On our first Valentine’s Day together, you gave me a lamp.
Not just any lamp.
A refurbished Capo di Monte.
And I don’t think that I’ve gotten another present since then.
Other than knowing that every day is Valentine’s Day.

People say to me, “You’re so fucking happy.”
And they’re right.
Though our life together is by no means without tears and heartache,

Disagreements and misunderstandings.

And dirty, smelly socks left on the floor in the den.

It is perfect in its imperfection.

I am the Luckiest Woman Alive (LWA).

Sidebar: Look Josh, I wrote a whole blog post and barely mentioned our sex life. But check out number 42.

Valentine's Day Ode To My Old Plaid Couch

2011-02-04T06:21:00.000-05:00

I thought about my old plaid couch the other day.
The one I bought from Rooms to Go, with matching love seat, coffee table and two matching end tables.
All for under $1,000.
Signifying a new phase in life.
Moving in to a new house with husband, toddler and another on the way.

The couch where my son held his baby sister for the first time.
Where we watched Sesame Street and the Teletubbies together.
And read Is Your Mama a Llama? and, later on, the whole Harry Potter series.
Where we sat the kids down and told them that Mommy and Daddy would no longer be living in the same house.
And we loved them both dearly.

But the tear-stained plaid couch stayed in its place.
And so did I.

Fast forward to four years later.
I am divorced, but happily on the cusp of remarrying.
And the couch is leaving me.
Being taken away from me while I am at work.
I didn’t get to say goodbye.
Maybe it is better this way.
Arriving in its place is a masculine leather couch from my fiance’s house.
He’s moving in.
The wedding is soon.

But in my mind, I can still see:
That the plaid couch is stained on the arm where my son, no longer a toddler at the age of nine, has repeatedly laid down his head every day for the last seven years.
That the cushions have been flipped over. And then flipped over again to hide more stains.
The stains from two kids spilling their morning hot chocolate on it.
And the grease marks from many bags of microwave popcorn.
And even, sometimes, the stains from the juice of fresh, organic fruit.

And I remember more than one post divorce, torrid sex session on that couch, including a few with my soon-to-be second husband.
But none from my first marriage.
The bedroom was the only place for that.
But my sexuality blossomed on that couch.
And it was a good thing we Scotchgarded it when it was new.

Its been over four years since the couch was taken away.
But I sometimes wonder where it is.
Did it go to another family whose children are leaving their own marks on it?
Is another repressed woman discovering her sexuality on it?
Or has it been abandoned, given up because it had seen too much?

Plaid couch, wherever you are, just know that I still miss you.
And I am forever grateful to you for spending those seven years with me.
Seeing me through happy and sad times.
And don’t worry.
The old green damask couch is leaving me soon.
No tears will be shed over it.
It holds no place in my heart.
It was purely functional.

My Man Boy

2011-01-31T15:43:00.002-05:00

Summer 2006

I stayed up late the other night finishing a book I didn’t really like but wanted to find out what happened in the end. The subject matter was disturbing; three out of five family members were murdered by the daughter’s ex-boyfriend. The mom and one of her teenaged twin sons survived.

The last quarter of the book focused on the relationship between the mom and her teenage son and the ups and downs of that relationship after the murders. And it was reading about this relationship that made me really emotional. That and the fact that 20 pages from the end, my almost 14 year-old son came down the stairs to tell me that he couldn’t sleep and that he saw the light on and just wanted to tell me that he loved me. Cue the violins and the body wracking sobs.

My husband was already asleep when I went to bed later that night. But the next morning he told me that I had been tossing and turning during the night. Something that I rarely do. And it was because of the book. That book got to me. The mother son relationship got to me.

Because recently, I’ve been dwelling on the fact that my son is a man boy. Temporarily stuck between being a kid and being a teenager. And though I’ve written about him growing older before, it just seems that my feelings about the passage of time and his aging get more and more intense as the days speed by and his 14th birthday approaches.

And I’ve been thinking back a lot about how he used to be compared to how he is now. One thing that has been consistent? That, like me, he has a mind that never stops. And he still asks me the most curious questions that are apropos of nothing while he is lying in bed in the dark. For example, “If two brothers married two sisters, what would their family tree look like?” Or, “Whose birth was more painful? Mine or my sister’s.” Hands down him and I told him so. 24 hours of labor, a little crooked in utero and then an emergency C-section. The kid didn’t want to come out and my epidural didn’t work. I hadn’t known that could happen.

Another night, he asked, “What does como se dice mean?” Since I grew up in Miami, I know some Spanish. I told him it means “How do you say?” For example, como se dice "orange" en Espanol? And the person would respond naranja. My son’s response to this late night, impromptu Spanish lesson was “Oh good, if I ever need to ask what something is in Spanish, I’ll know how.”

But there are also the things that are different now. And not just the physical signs of being taller, having more body hair and an increased appetite. He’s wanting to spend more time with his dad. His dad and I have been divorced for 8 years so this entails allowing my son to spend time with his dad when it’s really his time with me. And that’s okay. Most of the time it doesn’t hurt my feelings. But every once in a while it does.

And he’s starting to care more about how he looks and be more specific about how he dresses as well as his cleanliness. Two showers a day have become the norm, morning and night. He wears deodorant every day and washes his face with anti-acne soap. He takes really, really long showers with the door locked.

Yep, the times they are a changin’.

But the biggest change is in our relationship. We’re still as close as ever but I feel the need to keep myself from doing too much for him. He would be perfectly happy if I waited on him hand and foot for the rest of his life. And honestly, I’ve been known to do that in the past. He’s my baby. But it’s not the right thing to do. He’s perfectly capable of making his own breakfast, lunch and dinner. Of putting his own clothes away and making his bed. And making the decision that it’s time to get a fresh towel for his bathroom.

So, I’m stepping part of the way out of the picture. It wasn’t easy at first but it gets easier, for both of us, as time goes by. And it’s the right thing to do. He’ll be heading off to high school at the end of the summer. And before you know it, he’ll be driving. Gulp.

I know I'm getting ahead of myself. I’ll try not to think too far in to the future and live in the here and now. So when he gets home from school today, I’ll give him a stack of clean clothes to take up to his room and remind him to study for his test tomorrow. But first, I think I’ll take him and his sister to get ice cream. You're never too old for ice cream.

P.S. The book I read is Anna Quindlen's Every Last One.

Happy, Messy New Year

2010-12-31T08:03:00.005-05:00

Have you ever had a moment so pure that you never wanted it to end? I had one the other day. And it’s stuck in my head, like that catchy pop tune I keep hearing on the radio that I hated but now I secretly love.

I was running errands with my kids last weekend. It started with a rare trip to the bookstore to actually buy a book. We’re 99% library people but a percentage of the sales from books purchased that weekend were going to benefit the kids’ school.

Then we headed off to the grocery store to pick up some ingredients to make cookies with later that afternoon. We were almost home when I realized we had forgotten to pick up pasteurized eggs to use when making cookies later that afternoon so they could eat the dough and I wouldn’t have to worry about salmonella poisoning.

So we stopped one more time at another grocery store near our house. I left the two kids in the car for the few minutes it took for me to run in to the store. (Don’t worry they’re old enough, at almost 14 years old and 11.) And I was in and out of the store quickly because they didn’t have the pasteurized eggs. But as I approached the car, I saw something that made me stop.

It was as if time had stood still all around me except for inside of the car. They didn’t see me but I could see them. My son sitting in the front seat, mouth moving, as always, and laughing. My daughter reaching over the seat to touch her brother, not to hit him but for emphasis, and laughing as well. Animated conversation. I don’t know how long I stood there. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes but it felt like forever. And I didn’t want to move. I just wanted to savor the moment.

But my son saw me. Smiled and waved and the moment was over.

We went home and made the cookies. They ate the dough even though it wasn’t pasteurized and no one got sick. The cookies were great. And life went on.

But I still keep going back to that moment. I’m a sucker these days for sentimentality and there was something just so perfect about those few minutes. At this age, my kids are changing so fast and sometimes I just want time to stop or at least slow down.

This year, my son has grown taller than me. There’s no turning back on that one. And while I always knew that he would be, the reality of it is still kind of shocking. He’s going to high school next year. High school. I’m not that old and neither is he. Well, I guess he is. He’s showing signs of maturity. Finally. Shaking people’s hands when he meets them and looking them in the eye. Starting to understand how life works.

And my daughter is half way through her first year of middle school. Her transition has been smooth as silk. Feet as big as mine though I still have her on the height thing. And probably will for a while longer. But her physical change has started. Long legs, a few curves and a body that’s getting some hormonal ups and downs. But she told me the other day that I was her role model and she wasn’t joking. Though she is still one of the funniest people I know.

But other than going by too fast, 2010 was a great year for me. And for my family. Many adventures, lots of love and happiness. There were some tears, some hand wringing over whether or not I’m being the best I can be: parent, wife, friend and writer. But that’s just life.

So on this last day of 2010, as I get ready to clean my house for tonight just to have it get messy again, I realize that’s what life is like. All clean and straightened up until the first person tracks in dirt or spills chocolate milk on the kitchen floor. Or you get divorced and remarried. Or my husband cooks an absolutely fabulous New Year’s Eve feast and uses every pot, pan and dish in the cupboards.

But then you just clean it up again. Because a house that's always clean is one that isn't lived in. At least lived in the right way. Life is messy and there's no way to avoid the mess so you might as well enjoy making it.

Tomorrow morning, I'll probably wake up with a little headache, come downstairs and clean again. And the annual cycle will start over. I hope it's a messy year. For all of us.

Happy New Year!

Image via krisandapril/Flickr

Halfway To 90

2010-12-01T07:01:00.000-05:00

I’m turning 45 next week. I know, I know. I don’t look a day over 38. At least if I’m wearing my tinted moisturizer and you don’t get too close. And I've recently dyed my hair.

So back off. Thanks.

I’m not a terribly sentimental person, until I am. And birthdays seem to bring this out in me. More so than New Year’s Eve or Yom Kippur, my birthday makes me take a look around, glance at the past and try to see in to the future. And come up with a plan. I always have a plan.

Looking back over the last year, this is what I see: another year of better than average parenting, of better than good professional achievements and an increase in the intensity of my sex life. Take that peri-menopausal symptoms.

And when I’m done looking back and take a few minutes to look around and live in the present (which is how I should live more often), this is what I see: I have a cleaning lady again after an 8 month hiatus, I’m going on a birthday cruise with 6 of my closest friends, my kids are healthy and mostly happy except when I get mad at them and my husband loves me for who I am. And the feeling is mutual.

Ok, now for the hard part: the future. I know that you can’t really plan for the future but you sure as hell can outline it. So here’s my outline for the future, and by future, I mean the near future, one year out.

Be better. At everything. Because there’s always room for improvement. A better parent, wife, writer and friend.
Set some far-out wacky goals for myself because I think I’ve been setting mine too low. Challenge myself. Write my book, make health and wellness a priority and don’t forget about my family and friends.
Live in the present. This is by far the hardest thing for me. Sure I’m better at it than I was 5 years ago. But it’s hard for my mind-never-stops, semi-neurotic brain. I mean right now, I’m already thinking about next week, when I get back from my trip. And I haven’t even gone yet. Stop it.
Try to achieve some balance in my life. A little bit of work here, some exercise there and throw in a bit of planned spontaneity. It’s the only kind of spontaneity that I know how to have.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pack for my trip, tuck my kids in to bed, have a quickie with my husband, run around the block 4 times, finish up 3 blog posts and go to bed. I’ve got a ship to catch in the morning.

Bon voyage.

A Modern Family Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T07:32:00.001-05:00

It's early Thanksgiving morning.

I can’t sleep. Not for any different reason than the usual. Thoughts running rampant in my head, a little excitement. Just how my brain operates.

I’m at my parents’ house, sleeping on a pull-out sofa in the den. My son is on the floor next to me, too old at 13 to even consider sleeping in the same bed with me even though I am wearing my most modest pajamas.

My daughter is in the room next door, lovingly called the nursery though there are no babies left in our family. She’s sleeping on the top bunk and her cousin is in the bunk below. On the floor, on a blow-up mattress is my nephew. He’s 12 years-old. My daughter is 11 and my niece is 10.

In the bedroom at the other side of the house are my parents. My mom and my stepfather. They’re probably spooning and dreaming of a quiet house. Not really. They both love this week of chaos and commotion. Though I’m sure they’ll be grinning ear to ear when we all leave on Sunday.

In the little one room cottage out back sleeps my brother and his wife, my really “is a sister not a sister-in-law”. They’re both wearing sleeping masks and ear plugs because, well, the blinds don’t completely block out the morning sun and they're still a little bit on west coast time. Plus, the air conditioner is a little loud and sometimes, the parrots who escaped from the Parrot Jungle during Hurricane Andrew still fly around here. And they like to squawk.

On the floor back there in the cottage, on another blow-up mattress, sleeps the baby, my 5 year-old niece, the princess of the family who holds everyone’s attention with her very sage observations of life and her imitation of Louise, the one-eyed stray cat that comes around a few times a day.

Last night, my brother, sister-in-law and I, along with the 4 older kids, went out to a local Chinese restaurant to have dinner with our dad and his wife. We all sat around a big round table, ate chow fun, spicy shrimp and other specialties. My dad and I whacked back a few martinis and reminisced. The kids regaled their grandparents with stories of school, sports and special talents like turning cloth napkins in to “boobies”. Good times.

And now this morning, on Thanksgiving Day, my husband will drive the less than two hours down from our house with his 13 year-old daughter, my stepdaughter. Her mom dropped her off yesterday, on Wednesday, and my husband had to work because his restaurant, though closed on Thanksgiving, sells turkeys for the holiday cooked on the rotisserie. The turkeys are very popular so he’s been busy working 14 hour days.

But they’ll get here. After sleeping in for a change. Their car will be loaded up with 2 turkeys, homemade stuffing and gravy. And probably a bottle of scotch, a bottle of wine and who knows what else.

We’ll do some cooking this morning. Our from-childhood traditional corn pudding. Fresh cranberries and some broccoli dish my brother has decided to make that calls for 8 heads of organic broccoli. And probably just uses the florets.

By early afternoon the house will be full. Full of people, full of noise, full of love. My stepsister is coming by with her husband and their 3 kids. Just to say hi because they’re going to her husband’s sister’s house for their meal. My best friend from growing up will be here with her husband and their three kids. Her brother, his wife and their daughter too, in town from California. And of course, their parents, my aunt and uncle who aren’t really but really are.

This will probably be our last Thanksgiving like this. My brother and his family live in Northern California. Too far away to travel for just a few days and his kids are getting too old to miss school. We’ll have to do our celebrating over the winter break, which we do every other year anyway when my kids are with their dad and his family for Thanksgiving.

And that’s okay. Because we can be thankful for each other any day of the year. And any time that we’re lucky enough to all be together is cause for celebration.

But for this year, we’re all here. Here in South Florida, in my parents’ house.

I think that I couldn’t sleep because I’m excited about what the day will hold. About the laughs and the goofiness that will ensue. About listening to the buzz of 10 different conversations going on at one time. About feeling the whoosh of air behind my back caused by having 13 kids running in and out and around the house.

This is my Thanksgiving. My modern family Thanksgiving. And I can’t wait to enjoy every minute of it. I already am.

But first, I need my coffee.

Somebody For Everybody

2010-10-28T10:21:00.000-04:00

Bring out the Kleenex and queue up the in-room porn.

I’m going to a wedding this weekend and I'm staying in a hotel.

It's the wedding of two of the best kids around. The salt of the earth son of a close friend and his smart, personable, pretty, got-it-all-together bride-to-be.

But I'm using the term "kids" loosely here. Because that’s what you call people younger than you when you’re already in your mid-forties. I’m not old enough to be either one of their parents nor am I young enough to truly be their peer.

It’s been a while since I've been to somebody's first wedding. Or any wedding for that matter. I think the next to last wedding I went to was my own. Well, my second one. And that was almost 4 years ago. You can even read my faux New York Times wedding announcement.

But, you know, you get to a certain age and weddings just don’t happen as often.

When I was in my mid to late 20s, all my friends were getting married. It was a few years filled with expensive weekends away, fancy clothes, (sometimes) ugly bridesmaids’ dresses and lots of laughs and good cheer. I got married then too. For the first time.

Seven to eleven years into that marital wave, after we had birthed a few kids, some of the marriages fell apart. Mine was one of them. And not to be flip but, hey, someone has to be a part of the 50% of marriages that fail.

But I still believe in the institution of marriage. And I still believe in love. Sure it’s taken me two times to get it right. But who’s counting. And in 3 weeks, I’ll celebrate my 4^th wedding anniversary with husband number 2, who is also known as the last husband I’ll ever have.

So I’m really looking forward to the wedding weekend. For many reasons.

Weddings are full of hope and happiness. Not to mention good food, champagne, a little dancing and, in this case, tuxedos. I’ve never seen my husband in a tuxedo much less a suit. The closest he ever got was a navy blue blazer worn at our wedding. It wasn’t even his. He had left his at our house 80 miles away and had to borrow his brother-in-law’s. And it was too big. But I thought he looked handsome.

He'll look handsome this Saturday night too. Black tie. Gorgeous setting. Fabulous food. Helping our friend celebrate his son’s good fortune. And we'll spend the night, without kids, in a chichi boutique hotel on the beach. (That's where the in-room porn comes in, though we probably won't even turn the TV on because Husband + Tuxedo = Whew, it's getting hot in here.)

And I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.

That the two kids, who aren’t really kids, are bravely going in to this new world together. And, when they do, they’ll be surrounded by their family and their friends. And us: two survivors who have not soured on the institution of marriage, who haven’t given up on love and who love life and enjoy every moment we’re together. (Okay, that’s laying it on a little thick. How about every moment the kids aren’t fighting and I’m not cleaning the house. Still, we're happier than most.)

As the groom’s father once said, upon meeting me for the first time 7 years ago, there’s somebody for everybody. I've got my somebody and the kids have theirs.

And when the bride and groom say their vows on Saturday night, with my husband and I out in the audience holding hands, I’ll get teary eyed (bring out the Kleenex) and sentimental remembering my own (second) wedding. And feeling lucky that I found someone that I wanted to share my life with (including those fighting children and the dirty house).

I can’t wait to be a part of the celebration.

Sentimental Hand-Me-Downs

2010-10-04T13:45:00.000-04:00

My 11 year-old daughter and I cleaned out her closet a few weeks ago. It’s a twice a year ritual for us and we actually have fun doing it. We put on some music, take all of her clothes out of her drawers, go through her closet and figure out what to keep and what to get rid of.

And of course, as always, she wanted to try on everything, even the items that we both knew weren’t going to button at her waist. Lots of the clothes brought back memories. Her grandmother’s 70^th birthday party (black, grey and cream dress), a trip to North Carolina (royal blue top and white skinny jeans) and a favorite t-shirt she used to wear to her Catholic Sunday School that says “Gefilte Fish” on it.

Talking about all of these memories was like looking though the photo album that I always meant to make but never seem to have the time to do.

But this time, when we cleaned out the closet, she had grown a lot. Long skinny legs. A slight curve at the waist. A maturity in her wit. And I can see what’s coming. More growth spurts, puberty and hopefully not the attitude.

As we went through her clothes, we designated the items that didn’t fit her to one of three stacks: for the keep box (only items of tremendous sentimental value), for Camden (the 6 year-old who we’ve known since birth and who gets only the best preserved and cutest items) and for our local Goodwill.

After we cleared space in her closet, we took a stack of clothes off of a shelf. They were the hand me downs that’s she’s gotten from my friend’s daughter that we were waiting for her to grow into. And she tried all of these on and hung up the ones that now fit her. These hand me downs are the best: dresses, jeans and sweatshirts. All in the style that my daughter likes. Plus, she thinks my friend’s daughter, actually my friend and both of her daughters, are pretty cool.

The next day, we took Camden’s bag of clothes over to her and showed her everything that was in it. She seemed pretty excited and later that day her mom sent me a picture of Camden wearing an outfit we had brought over. An outfit that my daughter had worn a few years ago.

And the picture made me tear up. I’m not usually that sentimental. I’ve even been called a cold hard bitch before. But seeing the picture of Camden really drove home the fact that everybody around me is growing up. My 13 year-old son who’s now taller than me and who's going to high school next year. And my 11 year-old baby. Who’s in middle school and definitely not a baby.

And as much as I enjoyed my kids when they were younger, I absolutely love being with them at this age. Sure they can be annoying. My son’s mouth never rests, his favorite topics being the weather and the Jets. My daughter’s sensitivity makes her quick to take offense to comments from her brother and her selective hearing gets better and better by the day. And sure they fight with each other at inopportune times. And yes I've had to curse more in the past year than ever before in order to get their attention (it really works).

But when we’re running errands around town or driving to Miami to see my parents or flying on a plane to North Carolina. Or even just sitting around the table at dinner. And we get in to the kinds of honest conversations about friends, money and life that you can only get into with an 11 and 13 year-old, I know how lucky I am.

And then I get kind of foolishly happy. Because in addition to everything else I have in my life: friends, family, health, clean closets and not too many worries, I have these two kids that are loving, smart, engaging, interesting and just plain fun to be around.

Who knew that a bag of hand-me-downs could make me feel this way.

Yeah, I’m not sentimental. Sniff.

Images via Maggie Evans Silverstein

Ode To My 2 Cup Bialetti Moka Express

2010-09-28T06:58:00.001-04:00

Oh, my 2 cup Bialetti Coffee Pot, were you lonely hidden way in the back of the cupboard?

I haven’t meant to ignore you for the last 4 years. But you see, I was given a single serve Nespresso machine for a wedding gift by some tall foreign people. So I put you away. Out of sight, out of mind. Underneath the counter, next to the vertical chicken roaster. You should feel bad for the old roaster because he is destined to go to Goodwill. You see, my husband cooks chicken for a living and I don’t have to clean him when he is done. He cleans himself.

But you, my dear, are staying here. And I want to explain why.

Since I received my Nespresso machine, I have used it religiously, even going on line every few months to order the capsules for $.55 per cup. Expensive but delicious and easy to use. Fast and with no clean up.

But then, a month ago, a dear cousin gave me a special coffee that can not be used in my Nespresso. It’s from New Orleans and is called Community Coffee. Oh Bialetti, it even has chicory root in it. And I just knew that it would taste perfect coming out of you.

So after 4 long years, I brought you out, my dear Moka Express, and lovingly cleaned you. And once again fell in love with your Italian engineering. The durable aluminum. The fact that you only have three parts and don’t need a paper filter. That you make two perfect cups of coffee at a time. That you are pleasing to look at.

While I was cleaning you, memories of my time spent in Italy started running through my head. The bar where I first had a real espresso. The Italian man who pinched my rear end as I placed my order. Un café, per favore? How I had to pay for you when I ordered. The way I drank you down in one shot as if my hunger for you had been raging for days and was unquenchable. And I remembered how badly I used to wish that I was Italian and not Lithuanian. The fashion, the culture, the men and, of course, the mozzarella.

But I digress.

Let’s go back to the other morning, when you were almost virginal, dry and unused for so long: I filled your bottom compartment, up to the line, with fresh, cool water. Then my Bialetti, I inserted the metal filter and filled it with Community Coffee. After that, I screwed your top on. Tightly of course. I wouldn’t want any of the precious coffee to leak out of you.

Then I put you on my ceramic top stove and cranked it up to high. I wasn’t sure how you would react. It had been so long. But after a few minutes, I heard that familiar sound of the water gurgling up and in to your holding receptacle.

And I smelled you. Hot metal, fresh coffee. Oh how I missed that smell.

After heating up my fat-free milk in the microwave, I poured half of your contents in to my mug. Then I drank. Greedily. Oh, Bialetti, your liquid was so hot I could feel it make its way down my throat and in to my stomach. The purity of your taste, unencumbered by the bitter residue that remains on some other coffee makers but not on your aluminum. Clean. Tight.

As I sat down to read my newspapers and drink my perfect cup of coffee, I felt like I was home again. Which of course, I was. It was first thing in the morning and I was still in my pajamas. But Bialetti, you know what I mean. What I’m trying to say. I missed you. And I’m glad you’re back.

But please don’t tell Nespresso. His days may be numbered. In addition to being expensive, he has begun to leak ever so slightly. He doesn’t understand English and I’ve never been to Switzerland. Though I hear they make good chocolate.

You Bialetti Moka Express are my true coffee love. Strong and pure. Masculine. Italian. The lover I always wanted until I found my Polish one. But don't be jealous. They only make kielbasa and pierogi. No coffee and of course there are all of those light bulb jokes.

Ti amo Bialetti. Tu sei appeso come un mulo.

My Sake Cup Is Half-Full

2010-09-19T11:12:00.000-04:00

Every so often, I sit back with a cup of coffee, or a martini, and think about how I can be a better person and improve my life and the lives of those around me. Sometimes I’m forced to do this without the benefit of liquids or even food but with the addition of atoning. It’s called Yom Kippur.

Yom Kippur was yesterday. And I fasted. The whole day. I’m a (very) Reform Jew which basically means that I observe the Jewish holidays in non-traditional ways. But I do observe them.

This year, Yom Kippur coincided with two things: my 13 year-old son going to New York for the weekend with his Catholic father in order to go to a Jets game on Sunday (Hey, they went to the Carnegie Deli on Saturday and the kid ate a whole corned beef sandwich on rye. That counts.). And my husband’s birthday which is actually today, the day after Yom Kippur, but since he has to work, we were going to celebrate last night. A joint break the fast and birthday celebration dinner.

With my son gone, I had a unique opportunity yesterday to spend time alone with my 11 year-old daughter. The kid still likes to hang out with me so I took advantage of the situation and planned a little road trip bonding adventure. To IKEA, which is an hour from where we live. We had some time in the car to talk about important things like boy crushes, skinny jeans and domestic violence (thanks Rihanna and Eminem) and then spent a few hours walking through the IKEA showroom. (The place is huge. I was happy I wore sneakers instead of my usual flip flops but I did look like a middle aged tourist.)

While we were there, we got some great ideas for re-doing her room which is going to be her Hannukah present this year. Putting in a futon instead of an extra twin bed, installing some shelving above her desk and improving the lighting. She’s in middle school and her room has been the same for years. Well, since she was a newborn. It’s time.

She had been fasting because, I think, she wanted to share the experience with me but all that walking and idea-generating got to her. Or it could have just been the smell from the IKEA cafeteria. So my ultimate fasting test of the day was going through the lunch line with her, looking at gravlax platters and Swedish meatballs with lingonberries, and not getting anything. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. Not even a glass of water. But my kid got chicken fingers, French fries and vanilla frozen yogurt.

We made a few purchases but managed to spend under $100.00:

A birthday present of a full body pillow for my husband (AKA Mr. Fowler) because he’s been sleeping with a regular pillow between his legs. He sleeps naked and I’ve made the mistake of accidentally using that pillow. Not an easy mistake to recover from. Won’t ever happen again.
A floor light for my daughter's room. To help her see her homework better. She's already been using it as a microphone and performing in her room.
A new duvet cover (on sale) for my bed in handsome Fall colors that is more masculine than the pink and red tablecloth we’ve been using for a few years. I told Mr. Fowler that now maybe he’d start acting like a real man in bed.
And a white enamel covered colander to replace the plastic one my mom got for me at Zabar’s when I moved to NYC in 1987. A few boyfriends and one husband ago. The plastic is starting to fall apart. I didn’t think it was an outrageous purchase at $9.99.

When we got home, my non-Jewish husband (guess it's a thing with me) and stepdaughter were back from her soccer game. And in my exhausted state, I plopped on the couch and watched a movie with the girls. I’m embarrassed to admit that it was The Last Song with Miley Cyrus but it was a cheesy tear-jerker and it used up almost two hours of my fasting time.

And in between all of this mishegoss (Yiddish for craziness. Also spelled meshugas. See I really am Jewish.), I atoned and reflected. Really, I did. What I atoned for is between me and my God. But my reflections? Not so private.

My life has changed a lot since the last High Holy Days. I’m much busier now. Busier than I’ve been in a few years. And it’s all good.

But I’ve been trying to figure out how to fit everything in to my life that needs to be there. Time with my husband, time with my kids, cleaning the house (it’s been over 6 months since we let the housekeeper go so if there’s a little ring around the inside of the toilet, don’t freak out), exercising (I’ve only worn my new sneakers 4 times and I bought them in the beginning of August), writing for both myself and for my 6 posts a week paying gig, working as a bookkeeper and spending some time with friends and family who are important to me.

And I haven’t figured all of that out yet.

But the effort of all of that reflecting made the rest of the afternoon go by really quickly. And the next thing I knew, the sun was going down and it was time to leave for our favorite Japanese restaurant to have our break the fast dinner and to celebrate Mr. Fowler’s birthday.

I appropriately broke my fast with a JB (Jewish bagel) roll (cream cheese, salmon and a little scallion) and a bottle of sake. Then we cooked up some Korean barbecue with the help of our two girls and our temporarily single friend. Stuffed ourselves with Bulgogi, Galbi, kimchee, Korean gefilte fish and sweet potato noodles. And toasted Mr. Fowler’s birthday with the Chef and his wife over some champagne and fried bananas with ice cream.

While I was falling asleep last night, full and a little buzzed, I realized that, though I had been reflecting, I hadn’t figured anything out. But I was happy. My snoring birthday husband next to me with his new pillow between his legs. The two girls passed out in their bedrooms, growing up and becoming really exceptional individuals. My son far away in New York City in his aunt’s apartment, happily dreaming of going to the game today and wearing his Jets jersey to the new stadium in the Meadowlands.

And me. Sleeping on a fresh-smelling pillow. Blessed with having only good things to figure out. And, as always, Happier Than Most.

My Not-So-Secret Erotica Library

2010-09-04T11:41:00.001-04:00

I've fallen a little behind on my posting to Life's Dewlaps what with all of the writing I've been doing for The Stir lately and with the kids going back to school and any other excuse I can come up with.

And of course, I feel bad about this. Guilt is something I come by honestly.

(Mom, sorry for borrowing your book without asking. It was in plain sight, tucked away in the drawer underneath your black silk teddy.)

So in order to assuage my guilt, I'm giving you a link to my most recent favorite post I wrote for The Stir's Love & Sex channel.

It's titled My Erotica Library Is Not for Lending.

Enjoy your reading. I always do.

Like A Hamster On A Wheel

2010-08-27T12:06:00.002-04:00

My mind never stops. Which is both a blessing and a curse.

It’s a blessing because I am constantly thinking about how to solve problems (mine, yours and the rest of the world’s), coming up with ideas to write about and making mental lists on virtual yellow legal pads of all the things that I need to get done. For the next 10 years.

It’s a curse because too much thinking makes my neck muscles really tight. I think they’re my trapezius muscles. The ones that make you have poor posture and cause your shoulders to be all hunched up. And then because your neck is so tight, you get a lot of headaches.

It’s also a curse because it wakes me up in the middle of the night. And keeps me awake, thinking about things that don’t really matter. Here’s one train of thought I had a few nights ago:

Hmm, I’m almost out of my expensive face serum. The one that helps my rosacea.
I need to go online and order it. I think I’ll order the bigger bottle this time.
Which website has the best price?
Wonder if I can find a coupon?
What else do I need as long as I’m paying for the shipping?

Want another example?

This happened last night at 2:30 in the morning when my mind decided to get up and just start running at full speed:

Oh no, I left clothes in the washing machine for two days. They must smell. I’m going to have to re-run them.
Shoot, there’s still stuff in the dryer too. I’ll use the fluff cycle.

(Then I got up and came downstairs because I had sushi for dinner and I was really thirsty. I went back upstairs but it continued.)

Oh no, I never emptied the dishwasher and there are dishes in the sink. Tomorrow.
Oops, almost forgot about my dermatologist appointment to get my stitches out.
And I have to pay all of our month-end bills.
Is it Monday or Tuesday that’s the last day of the month? I’ll check my calendar. No, wait. Today is the 26^th. So it must be Tuesday.
Oh good. I can go back to bed now.

I’m not kidding. I couldn’t make this stuff up.

And the night before a trip? Forget it. I don’t even try to win that battle. That’s when I take my prescription sleeping pills. My mind fights and fights against the effects of it. Ultimately, the drugs win. Too bad I can’t take them every night.

I have found a few things that help still my mind and truly relax me. Reading a really good book does it. I’ll get engrossed in the story and not get distracted by anything going on around me. Writing can do it too. If I’m on a writing roll. The kind where my fingers are having a hard time keeping up with my brain. That’s good because then I’m not thinking about anything other than what I’m writing. Exercise helps. Cardio and lifting weights. My endorphins get going and my neck muscles relax. Plus exercising helps my sleep patterns. Then there’s sex, which helps most of the time. But sometimes even then my mind does wander. Sorry Mr. Fowler, it’s no reflection on you or my love for you. Or your sexual prowess.

And then there’s massage. I really enjoy getting a massage especially when I fall in to one of those comatose states where my mind becomes one with the new agey music playing in the background. It does happen. It is possible. But even then it takes a while. A few weeks ago, in Las Vegas, I got a hot stone massage. My train of thought before I went into my altered state went like this:

Glad I didn’t eat breakfast. Don’t want to have to pass gas.
Can’t believe I got my period 5 days early. No oral sex.
Am I pre-menopausal? I’m only 44.
Have to stop thinking or else she’ll know I can’t relax. That I’m a freak.
Ow, ow, ow. Okay, she already knows because she found my tight neck muscles.
Clear your mind. Go to your happy place. I’m on the beach, but under an umbrella, drinking a beer. Glad I went to the dermatologist and got rid of those pre-melanoma cells.
STOP THINKING.
Ooh. Those hot stones feel good. Focus on how it feels. Like I’m slipping into a warm pool of creamy butter.
Shit, now my stomach is going to growl because I didn’t eat breakfast. How long until lunch?
Wow, I love having my feet massaged. Okay, here we go. I’m slipping underrrrrrrr.

You get the idea.

It's not so bad having a mind that never stops. It's made me the unique person I am.

My only regret? My 13 year-old son is the same way. Poor kid. It takes him 30 minutes to fall asleep every night. But he probably really will go on to solve the problems of the world. At least some of them. You're welcome.

August Orchid Revisited

2010-08-21T10:03:00.000-04:00

Last year on this day, August 21^st, I wrote a blog post titled My August Orchid. The post was written in celebration of my mother-in-law’s birthday. She died almost six years ago so today would have been her 73^rd birthday.

The orchid she gave me before she died, that was described in last year’s post, still sits on my back porch. It’s still living. Thriving even. And as it has for the last six Augusts, the orchid has sprouted a long sprig from which there will soon be multiple blossoms. I am still amazed by this occurrence, coinciding as it always has with her birthday.

Later today, my husband, his daughter and I will go to his sister’s house for dinner. We’ll raise a glass to Marie. And hopefully the two siblings will tell a few more stories about her. Ones that will make us laugh and ones that will make us all wish that she were still here. And my step-daughter will learn a few new things about the grandmother she didn’t get to know well enough. Neither did I.

Happy Birthday Marie. We still miss you.

The Little Dysplastic Nevus

2010-08-20T14:54:00.000-04:00

I read a piece on Laura Linney in the New York Times a few weeks ago. I’ve always liked her as an actress and the article made her sound so appealing and normal that of course I wanted to watch her new series “The Big C”, a dark comedy. She plays a schoolteacher who is diagnosed with Stage IV melanoma and decides not to tell anyone. Not her husband, her son or even her brother.

The show happened to have its premiere the night before I was due to return to the dermatologist. I needed to have a complete excision of a mole that was biopsied the previous week. The diagnosis: a moderately dysplastic nevus located above my left nipple. These types of cells are considered to be pre-melanoma, meaning that if left alone they have a greater chance of developing in to melanoma cells. The doctor was going in deep and I was going to need stitches.

Skin cancer doesn’t run in my family. I come from almost 100 percent Eastern European stock. My family is predominantly dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin. My maternal grandmother was a sun goddess. She spent her youth, and beyond, swimming in the ocean off of the North Carolina coast and lounging in the sun with her sister and cousins.

The beach tradition continued when I was a kid. My brother and I would be outside all day, catching sand fiddlers and riding the waves. I remember lying on Myrtle Beach, in the early 1970’s before it was built up, and coating my body with Bain de Soleil (for the St. Tropez tan). SPF 2. I loved the smell of it, the gelee texture and the orange color.

Additionally, I grew up in Miami. Born and raised there. I spent most weekends during high school at the beach on Key Biscayne. Lot 2, Pit 2. Wearing nothing but a bikini and baby oil. Getting repeatedly sunburned because everybody knew that the sunburn would eventually turn in to a tan. Boy, those were the days.

And boy, how I’m paying for them now. Even though I’ve religiously worn sunscreen on my face and on my body for almost the past twenty years. The effects of the sunburns I got back then are just starting to show up on my body. Wrinkles, freckles and dysplastic nevi.

According to the Skin Cancer Foundation, having multiple blistering sunburns as a child or teenager increases your risk of developing skin cancer as an adult. That’s me.

So, I had the excision done. I'm not usually squeamish but having the area around my nipple anesthetized and cut, plus feeling the blood run down my side during the procedure, kind of grossed me out. And now I have a line an inch and half long running across my breast. The dermatologist closed the hole with 6 internal stitches and a lopping subcutaneous suture on the top. And I should get a phone call in the next day or two telling me that the margins were all clear. I feel lucky.

I watched “The Big C” on my computer this morning. It made me uncomfortable. Laura Linney’s character, Cathy, made me uncomfortable. Maybe it was the skin cancer angle or the dying at a young age angle. Or just that she’s a woman who has unhappily lived life by stringent rules, acquiescing to her husband's no onion dietary restriction and being accused by her brother of being boring. But after the melanoma diagnosis, being given one year to live and opting to not have any treatment, Cathy starts to live her life differently. Saying what she wants to a student, teaching her disrespectful son a lesson and, as her brother says, "You're starting to get your weird back, sis."

That last part I like. I'm happiest when I have my weird back. And I want to live my life to the fullest without fretting over the smaller things like whether the kitchen is clean and the laundry is all put away. We should all do that. Just do me a favor. Wear your sunscreen while you do it. And a hat wouldn't hurt either.

My Version of 'Eat Pray Love'

2010-08-15T11:29:00.000-04:00

Okay, I love this piece that I did for The Stir so much that I’m going to post the link right here, right now.

It’s titled My Own ‘Eat Pray Love’ Journey: Very Little Eating But a Whole Lot of… (Thanks to my editor for that title! It’s great.)

The post is about the journey that I went on in the year after my divorce as compared to Elizabeth Gilbert’s journey as detailed in her book, Eat, Pray, Love, and in the movie (now showing on screens nationwide in case you didn’t already know that) of the same name starring Julia Roberts.

The alternative title for my post could be Drink Smoke F@#k but that might have offended some people (sorry Mom) and it’s perhaps a little too obvious.

Anyhow, head on over to The Stir and enjoy some reading. And then let me know who you think should play me when they make a movie out of my book!

Other People's Weddings/My Belated Announcement

2010-08-02T07:37:00.000-04:00

I admit it.

I’m 44 years old. Married, divorced, remarried and yet, every Sunday, I read the Weddings/Celebrations section in the New York Times. And have been reading it since the late 1980’s when I moved to Manhattan after graduating from college.

I left NYC over 12 years ago and get the Times delivered to my doorstep 7 days a week. (Thanks to my anonymous benefactor.) I’m slightly embarrassed about the fact that I still read the wedding announcements. Sunday Styles, the section which contains the announcements, is the section I read first, before anybody else in the house wakes up. So I don’t get caught. How could I explain my ongoing fascination with the marital circumstances of complete strangers?

When I was younger, out of college with getting married being at the very bottom of my to-do list, I read the section out of curiosity. I considered it a “good” week if I recognized the name of somebody getting married, even if I only knew them peripherally. Even if I didn’t know them at all but just recognized their name from a magazine or the gossip column. It was just fun.

A few years later, when I wanted to get married, I looked at the newlyweds with some jealousy and longing. They got married. Their lives were now secure. They had each other. And also probably had an amazing NYC apartment together. (My other fantasy.) How come all of these women had managed to find husbands? When was it going to my turn?

And then my turn came. I had always thought that I would have my wedding announced in the Times. But I didn’t. The reasons why are fuzzy to me now. Probably as simple as we didn’t have a good photograph to submit and didn’t have the money to spend to have one done. Maybe it seemed a little vain. We didn’t have anything special to say. We met in business school. Dated, broke up, dated again. Not the stuff of a whirlwind romance.

So my wedding came and went with little notoriety. But I was married. I had a husband. I had some security, someone to share my life with, a partner. Lucky woman. But I kept looking at the announcements. Even after my husband and I, along with our 1 year-old son, had moved to Florida.

When I started to become unhappy in my marriage, I looked at those happy smiling couples getting married as naïve. Suckers that didn’t know what they were getting into. Marriage wasn’t as easy as two people from good schools with good pedigrees having a beautiful ceremony at the Plaza Hotel or the Boathouse in Central Park. It didn’t matter if the way they met was romantic and sweet. Suckers, all of them. I guess I was a little bitter.

I got divorced. And kept on reading. More jealousy which at some point turned in to just plain curiosity again, a lesson in sociology. It seemed like there were a lot more people getting married, around my age, who had already been married before. You know how at the end of the announcement they write, “The bride’s first marriage ended in divorce.” I would think, well that’ll be me. One day. But I wasn’t in a hurry. My life was full with my two kids, a job, a house and an amicable relationship with my ex-husband. It was good.

But then I met someone. When I wasn’t really looking or even caring about being in a relationship, much less getting married again.

It’s been almost 4 years now since we got married. I’m happy, content and feel lucky that my husband and I found each other. And, yes, I’m still reading the wedding announcements. But I feel no jealousy, no bitterness. Sometimes I feel sentimental. I’m a sucker for a good love story. Like the one in today’s Times about the couple who met after the husband’s first wife died in a plane crash.

And I feel hopeful. Hopeful for the couples who are brave (though they probably don’t see it as bravery) enough to take this step. And hopeful that they don’t give up too easily on each other. Because marriage is hard. But marriage is also wonderful. When it’s with the right person.

I don’t regret that neither of my weddings were announced in print. It obviously has no bearing on how successful a marriage is going to be. But in much the same way that I think about what my obituary is going to say, I think about what my wedding announcement would have said. So I wrote my own. Wedding announcement, that is. Almost four years after the fact. But it still counts.

THE NEW YORK TIMES WEDDINGS/CELEBRATIONS SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 2006

Jennifer S. F. Cullen, Fred D. Bryan

Jennifer Susan Felser Cullen and Fred (not Frederick) Daniel Bryan were married Saturday evening in South Miami, FL. Florida State Representative Dan Gelber, a step-brother-in-law of the bride’s, obtained his notary commission from BudgetNotary.com and officiated in the garden at the home of the bride’s mother, Madeleine Thea Evans Felser Silverstein, and stepfather, Dr. Bernard Stanley Silverstein.

The bride, 40, is an overqualified bookkeeper for Yacht Path International, a yacht transport company based in Palm Beach Gardens, FL. She is keeping the last name from her first marriage because she doesn’t want a boy’s first name as her last name. Plus, there are the young children to think about. She graduated with a BA from Emory University and received her MBA from New York University’s Stern School of Business. And doesn’t really use either degree in earning a living. But at least her student loans are paid off.

The bride’s mother, a portrait photographer, is known professionally as Maggie Evans Silverstein. The bride’s father is Dr. Frederick Samuel Felser, a retired gastroenterologist. (Note the similarity in the names of the father and the groom.) Her stepfather is a cardiologist in private practice in South Miami, FL. The bride is also a stepdaughter of Frances Y. Felser.

The bridegroom, 42, is the operating partner of the Jupiter, FL branch of C.R. Chicks restaurant. He is known informally as the Chicken Man and alternatively as the Red Man. He graduated from the University of South Florida with a BA in Animal Husbandry. He has his Ph.D. from the School of Life. He is the son of the late Marie Rozkuszka Bryan, who lived in Lake Worth, FL.

The couple met when Ms. Cullen and her two small children went in to Mr. Bryan’s restaurant the summer of her divorce. Mr. Bryan inquired as to the children’s names, served them lunch (which was quite tasty) and told them to “Have a nice day”.

A few months later, both Ms. Cullen and Mr. Bryan were at their local watering hole. Mr. Bryan approached Ms. Cullen and her friend and inquired as to how the children were, asking about them by name. Ms. Cullen, being a little taken aback by Mr. Bryan’s memory, said they were fine but made it clear that she was not interested in continuing a conversation with a stalker.

Over the next few years, the two saw each other around their small town and became friendly. No longer afraid that Mr. Bryan was a stalker, Ms. Cullen took to freely flirting with Mr. Bryan and was rewarded by free meals at his restaurant.

Finally, one November night, a few weeks after Ms. Cullen had extricated herself from a jealous and over bearing boyfriend, Mr. Bryan offered to give the inebriated Ms. Cullen a ride home from the watering hole. She didn’t make it home until the next morning.

They’ve been together ever since. Their story inspiring those looking for love where they least expect it. And assuring others who fall in to bed too quickly with a man from the neighborhood that being slutty can indeed lead to something virtuous: Love.

Theirs is a match made, if not in heaven, then somewhere else where some Divine Being has a sick, but wonderful, sense of humor. A long-time friend of the groom's, who is also a well-respected physician, noted after meeting the bride for the first time, “There’s someone for everyone”.

The bride’s previous marriage ended in divorce, as did the bridegroom’s. Thank goodness for that.

Fashionably Prude

2010-07-28T16:24:00.000-04:00

I don't think that anyone who reads my blog, or my posts over on the Love & Sex channel at The Stir, would ever call me a prude but I’m a little old-fashioned when it comes to raising my kids. No violent video games, few PG-13 movies and no explicit music. (Except for that one song that got through on iTunes.)

And now this new one: no short shorts.

My almost 13-year-old stepdaughter, who usually wears Bermuda shorts and baggy t-shirts, brought a pair of jean shorts to my house that are short (2" inseam) and are low rise. The shorts aren't tight on her but I think that they show a lot of leg. (She is tall for her age.) When I asked her about them, she said she had even shorter ones at her mom's house but that she only wore those around the house, not out in public. (Okay, then why buy them? It's not like they're a comfortable pair of sweatpants.)

Maybe she is just testing the teenage waters. Maybe she's made some new friends up by her mom's house (two hours away) that dress more revealingly. Her mom obviously thinks it's okay. But then again, her mom thought that it was fine for her daughter to read the entire Clique series with such wonderful titles as "Dial L For Loser" and "Bratfest At Tiffany's". And read nothing else for 6 months.

Ultimately, these upbringing decisions are not mine to make for her. That's her father's responsibility. And her mother's. But he and I usually agree and present a united front. And what goes for his kid goes for both of mine. My daughter is 11 and I wouldn't let her wear shorts that short.

A few weeks ago, I asked a friend for her short shorts opinion. She has a 13 year-old daughter and I respect the way she and her husband are raising their kids. Her response to "how short is too short?" was "ankle length". But we're not Orthodox Jews so she settled on nothing shorter than a 3" inseam.

Mr. Fowler and I are right there with her and the 3” minimum. I did have to go measure a few pairs of my shorts to make sure I wouldn't be guilty of the old double standard. But I’m okay. None of my shorts have an inseam shorter than a 3”.

I don't want the kids to grow up too fast but we are entering a new teenage era with our kids. Two of them will be going into high school next year. And I know I’m going to have to be flexible with my parenting as different situations arise. I feel lucky because we have three really good kids. Not perfect but good. Not sheltered but also not wise beyond their years.

And certain things will continue to be non-negotiable. Respect, kindness, thoughtfulness and no thongs sticking out of super low rise, extra tight jeans. And when our kids don’t live under our roof anymore, they can wear whatever they want. Hopefully, we’ll have helped instill in them a high level of self-esteem and confidence.

But in the meantime, I've got my ruler out and I'm ready to measure.

Little Black Beach Dress

2010-07-22T14:57:00.002-04:00

I live a few miles from the beach in extremely sunny South Florida. I grew up here as well, back in the days when we went to the beach every weekend and slathered baby oil all over our bodies to get a deep dark tan. Or a bright pink burn.

For the last 15 or so years, I’ve been extremely diligent about wearing sunscreen. EVERY DAY. And I’m happy with how my skin looks. I wish I had started using sunscreen earlier but I also wish that I had bought Apple stock a few years back. Some things you just can’t change.

Last month, a large portion of my immediate, and not so immediate family, took up residence on a North Carolina beach for an entire week. That means 7 days on the beach for at least 6 hours a day. In the hot, strong Carolina sun. My kids and I went prepared with a variety of sunscreen, hats, sunglasses and UV protection swimshirts. (My husband, with his damaged, former lifeguard Polish skin, primarily stays inside and cooks for all of us.)

But the best skin saving item that I brought to the beach was given to me by my sister-in-law a few weeks prior when we were visiting in Colorado together. It’s a ruched swim-shirty, cover-up kind of thing that she ordered from Athleta.com. One for her and one for me. Both in black. It's long-sleeved, fitted, has a partial zip front and sides that can be cinched to adjust the length from that of a shirt to a short dress. And the material gives you 50+ UPF protection which means that it blocks 98% of the UV radiation.

Plus it looks really cute.

She and I wore them together on our first day at the beach and got many compliments. Sitting by the edge of the water, wearing wide brimmed black hats and large sunglasses, we laughed at the fact that we could pass for old Sicilian widows. And later, walking down the beach, we figured we could also wear them as short dresses, pair them with some high heels and go night clubbing. If we were ever to go clubbing.

Come to think of it, if you added a black latex hood, a pair of gloves and a whip, you could have a dominatrix outfit. If you're in to that sort of thing.

A three-in-one item : sun protection, night clubbing and bondage. Such versatility!

Seduced By A French Bench

2010-07-19T10:17:00.000-04:00

Back in January, when the temperatures in South Florida were cool, the New York Times featured the Louisiane Bench on the front page of their Home Section. It was the kind of bench that resides in Parisian parks but it was a beautiful, deep red color. And for some reason, I fell in love. I don’t know if it was the shape of the bench or its color or the fact that it was made of lacquered steel and would hold up in the humidity of my South Florida world. It just felt right.

All of the homes in my neighborhood have porches and when I first moved in, over 11 years ago, I bought furniture for my porch. A white wood bench and matching rocking chair outfitted with brightly colored pillows. But over the years the pillows got moldy and the wood rotted. A few years ago, I had to throw it all away. And I’ve lived without any porch furniture since. I really hadn’t seen anything that I liked so I wasn’t in a hurry to buy replacements. The homes in my development, though attractive, all have a sameness to them. I wanted something different for my porch. Something that was more of a representation of me. Kind of like when you buy new eyeglasses.

The Louisiane Bench was the first piece of outdoor furniture to attract my attention. Beyond attract. Demand. I would have ordered it right away but the price held me back. Still, I kept thinking about it. The color, the shape, how it would look against my light blue house. I was haunted. I had saved the picture from the newspaper and kept it next to my computer, looking at it frequently. I am rarely smitten in this way.

At the beginning of March, I succumbed. And the company I ordered it from said it would take between 12-14 weeks to get it. They didn’t keep them in stock so the bench had to come from the manufacturer in France. On a boat by way of

Madagascar

. Okay I’m exaggerating about the Madagascar part. But at least the shipping was free. Thirteen weeks later, I got an email saying that the bench would be delivered in one week. On July 6^th. Right smack dab in the middle of my beach vacation 800 miles away from my home. Of course.

I made arrangements with the freight company to have it delivered to my house without requiring a signature and with my neighbor to bring it into the house the day that it arrived. And I brought my cell phone down to the beach so I could obsessively keep track of the bench’s whereabouts. When I finally spoke to my neighbor and confirmed its arrival, she told me that the box was in very bad shape: ripped in multiple places to the point that she could see the color of the bench, which, by the way, she really liked. But still, not a good sign.

When I got home from my vacation and unpacked the bench, it was indeed scratched in half a dozen places. What a bummer. All that time waiting, all that pining over. Like when you have a crush on someone from afar for months then finally talk to them. And realize that they are not what you thought they would be. Maybe they’re boring, arrogant or damaged. What a disappointment.

I have an aversion to dealing with customer service departments on occasions like this. I always expect the worst. And usually get it. But the response from this company was professional from the beginning. It took only one phone call and one email to get a promise of a free can of special paint and a credit of 14% of the total cost of the bench to my credit card. The scratches are small and the paint will allow the bench to remain under its three-year no rust warranty.

Mr. Fowler (new moniker for my husband because I am tired of simply calling him my husband) and I put the bench together. It didn’t take too long. And the bench is everything I hoped it would be and more, even with a few scratches. Its beautiful red poppy color. Its distinct shape. Its uniqueness. The bench has a certain je ne sais quoi. And it was worth the wait. Unfortunately, it’s 90 degrees outside. The hottest time of the year when NO ONE sits on their front porches. But in a few months, I'll really be able to enjoy it, sitting outside watching the world go by from my porch.

In the meantime, I'll keep it inside. I think one night in the near future, I'll pour a couple of glasses of Sancerre, sit next to Mr. Fowler on the bench, tell him "Je t'aime" and seduce him. It'll be just like making love in the Jardin de Tuileries without paying the airfare. Because I think I've spent enough already.

I'm Going "The Stir" Crazy

2010-07-16T06:32:00.000-04:00

I haven’t been able to sleep for days. Well, at least sleep past 5:00 a.m. I’m just so excited about life. It’s summer and I’ve been traveling and even have a few more trips on my agenda. I’m married to a wonderful, fine-looking, cooking man. My kids are happy, healthy and (mostly) a pleasure to be around. I got a new red bench from France. Life is good.

And then there’s this. Starting on Monday, I’m embarking on something beyond my wildest imagination. I’m going to be blogging for CafeMom’s The Stir. Five days a week. For their Love & Sex channel. (That part’s not really a surprise.)

For those who do not know, CafeMom is a social networking site for moms. The Stir, CafeMom’s blog, is described as “if you've somehow managed to snag an hour to meet your girlfriends for a cup of coffee - and finally have a moment to chat, uninterrupted!” Doesn’t that sound like fun? The site has some really great content. Informative, humorous and wide ranging. Some of their other channels are Healthy Living, Beauty & Style and parenting at different ages (Baby, Toddler and Big Kid).

I’m still going to be writing Life’s Dewlaps. There are plenty of thoughts in my head to go around. And I’m even going to make a few changes to my blog. Adding some new content, highlighting some of my new favorite things and even going a little literary on you.

In the meantime, check out The Stir. And then start looking for me there on Monday. Don’t worry; I’ll remind you via Facebook, Twitter and email. You might be surprised by what I write. You might even learn something. At the very least, as always, you’ll be entertained.

And hopefully, in the next week or so, I’ll get some sleep.

Blue Snake Eyes

2010-07-12T23:09:00.000-04:00

Every year, on my birthday, even after I turned 40, my mom recounts for me the story of my birth. It varies slightly from year to year but the sentiment is the same. And I look forward to my mom's call being the first phone call I get that day. She's my mom. She gave birth to me. And there's nobody else like her.

Tomorrow is my daughter's 11th birthday. And every year I recount the events surrounding her birth for her just as I do for her brother. The description has changed slightly from year to year, especially after her father and I divorced, but the main facts, and feelings, stay the same.

A week before her due date, on July 12th, 1999, I had an ob appointment. The technician did an ultrasound and found that my amniotic fluid was low. My doctor quickly decided that I would be induced early the next morning. It was time for my baby to come out. We already knew that she was a girl. I had an amniocentesis early on in my pregnancy because one of my genetic markers was off. The amnio results were fine but I felt like, having been through the stress of genetic counseling and testing, I deserved to know the gender.

But I digress. Back to the birth. Leaving the doctor's office, I called my then-husband to tell him that July 13th would be the day. And I called my mom and my parents prepared for the two hour trip to my house so they could look after my 2 year-old son.

The next morning, at 5:30 am, we left for the hospital. We checked in. The pitocin started dripping and labor began. I pushed and pushed but my baby didn't want to leave me. Not necessarily because she loved the warm fluid she was swimming in but because I have cephalopelvic disproportion (CPD). My son hadn't wanted to come out either. Well, it wasn't so much that he didn't want to come out, as it was that I have a very small pelvis. I was diagnosed with CPD after being in labor with him for over 24 hours. He was ultimately born by cesarean section. (I can hear the snickering already but CPD does not benefit your sex life.)

Because I was trying to deliver my daughter via VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean), the doctor was monitoring me pretty closely. Around noon, she came in the room to check on my progression, didn't like the look of my abdomen and gave the order to take me to the OR. After she made the first c-section incision, she uttered, "Oh my God". Not what you want to hear when you are lying on the operating table with no function in the lower half of your body waiting for your baby to emerge and meet the world. She was reacting to the fact that my uterine wall was perilously thin and had she waited much longer, I would have had a uterine rupture, endangering both the baby and me. But she was an excellent doctor. She knew. And she got the baby, my baby, out in time. It was 3:22 p.m.

And my baby was (and still is) beautiful. I know all moms think that when their babies are first placed on them. But really, she was. Perfect. All 6 pounds, 12 ounces of her. All 21 1/2 long inches of her. She nursed right away and was just content to look around her new world. We left the hospital two days later and took her home.

The same home that she'll wake up in tomorrow morning to a Bundt pan of Monkey Bread and a mug of hot chocolate. Her friend will come over, we'll make cupcakes and then meet some other friends for bowling. Go for a quick swim, then out to dinner at their favorite Japanese Hibachi restaurant. Her friend will spend the night, I'll tell them 20 times to be quiet and go to bed. And like that the day will go by. Kind of how the last 11 years have.

She'll always be my blue-eyed baby. Though she is far from a baby anymore, heading off to middle school in another month. Getting longer legs every day. My straight A student. My amateur hip hop dancer, she can do the side neck isolation move like no other. One of the funniest people I know. She has a great sense of fashion and frequently helps me pick out my outfits. Smart, witty, intuitive, great company and a really sweet kid. At least the majority of the time when she is not fighting with her brother.

I hope I'm always the first one to call her on her birthday. I'm her mom. I gave birth to her. And there's nobody else like her. I really love her.

Gone To Carolina In My Rented Minivan

2010-07-02T22:14:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow morning, at the early hour of 4:00 am, my family (my husband, son, daughter, stepdaughter and me) will get up, climb into our rented mini-van and drive the 11 hours or so to get to Caswell Beach in North Carolina. Our new version of an old tradition.

Family vacation at the beach runs in my blood. I’m the third generation on my mom’s side of the family to go to the North Carolina beach during the summer. When I was a kid, my parents would take my brother and me to the beach where my grandparents had rented a house. Originally we went to Myrtle Beach but that was before it got too built up. There were a few summers in my late 20’s and early 30’s when I didn’t go at all but those were my birthing years. A few years ago, someone in the family made the push for us to start doing it again. And we did.

This is our fourth year and we’ve figured out the best way to get there from South Florida. We rent the mini-van (so the kids won’t/can’t touch each other). We load them in to the van early in the morning in their pajamas and with their pillows and blankets so they’ll go back to sleep. The first 3 hours or so are just quiet conversation between my husband and me. The kids will start stirring between 7 and 8 am, we feed them breakfast (bagels, cream cheese, oj) and don’t stop until we’re 6 hours in. It works.

My brother will be flying in from Northern California with his wife, son and 2 daughters after a pit stop in Washington D.C. My parents are coming in from Miami. This year, we’ll get a few days visit from my mom’s first cousin (closer to my brother’s age than hers) and his partner. So we’ll be 14 people in an 8 bedroom, 8 bathroom house right on the beach. Well as close to the beach as you can get with a private walkway over the dunes. My cousins rent the house next door. They’re a handful as well. Two sisters (my mom’s “little” first cousins), their husbands, kids and an assortment of others. Ten or so people also there for the week.

Our days follow the same beachy routine. We wake up and go for a long walk down the beach to where the Cape Fear River meets the ocean. Then we have a leisurely breakfast after which we all sunscreen and suit up. And we sit on the beach. Watch the five youngest kids (their ages are 13, 12, 11, 10, 9 and 4). And sit on the beach. And go in the water, boogie board, build sandcastles and talk, catch up and gossip just a little. Then we go in for lunch. Have an hour or so of quiet time. Sunscreen and suit up again. And go sit on the beach. Before you know it, it’s cocktail hour. Then my husband cooks dinner for everybody. And they, in turn, lavish praise on him without giving me credit for bringing him to the family.

One night is always reserved for the No-Talent Show. The kids are the emcees and most everybody has an entry. One year, I burped the alphabet with my son. My brother tied a knot in a cherry stem with his tongue. You get the idea. It really is the best our motley crew can do.

If the week sounds idyllic, that’s because it is. The rhythm of the day is so unique and so specific to this vacation. And I find that it doesn’t take very long to slip into it. By 4:00 tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be well on my way. In my new bathing suit, diving into the waves with my kids, my nieces, my nephew and the rest of our wonderfully beachy family.

I've been looking forward to this week for a long time. The van is packed. The kids are in bed. But the excitement is going to make it hard for me to fall asleep. The sleeping pill I just took is going to help so I'm going to head up to bed. And dream about digging my toes in to the warm surf of Caswell Beach!

The Eyes Have It

2010-06-30T09:28:00.000-04:00

I am totally screwed.

Okay, not totally but a little bit. I made an impulsive big ticket item purchase last week. After I had just returned from a trip to Colorado with my kids. That trip was preceded by a trip to North Carolina and they are both to be followed next week by a week-long Carolina beach vacation.

And I'm feeling guilty about my purchase. Who the hell do I think I am? My brother? I work part-time as a bookkeeper while trying to become an income-producing writer. To help make this financially feasible, I stopped having a housekeeper come every other week and started cleaning my own house. Something I hadn’t done since I got married the first time in 1995. (See Cleaning House.) It’s been over 3 months since the housekeeper was let go and the house still looks good, maybe even better because she wasn’t doing that great of a job. But if I do the math, I blew all the savings of the last 3 months in 20 minutes. Oops.

But it happens. Kind of like the time my husband went to Costco last fall to buy a tenderloin for a dinner party and came back with a 55” flat screen TV and Home Theater System including a Blu- Ray DVD player. And NO tenderloin. But there was a rebate. And watching The Hangover, repeatedly, in high def and surround sound has been fun.

It’s amazing what you can talk yourself in to.

I’ve been wearing glasses for almost 20 years. For distance only. And over the years I’ve been lucky because my prescription has only changed twice. Still, I’ve had a few different pairs, each being appropriate for where I was in my life at that time. I can easily tell you what each pair was and why I picked them:

First pair: Oliver Peoples with a thin tortoise shell frame and clip-on sunglasses. They were round and Harry Potter-ish, 15 years before his time. I was getting my MBA and they made me feel studious. And allowed me to see the board.

Second pair: Also Oliver Peoples. Round with a thin gold frame and more clip-on sunglasses. I got these for my first wedding thinking the gold frame made them more elegant. Looking back at my wedding pictures, boy were those frames big. My brother had the same pair. They took up half my face. Like a formal Harry Potter.

Third pair: Don’t remember the brand but I went to the other side of the spectrum. The glasses had a thick black frame and were perfect for living in Manhattan and working for a business newspaper. Stylish, urban and professional. Then I moved to South Florida and they looked a little out of place for a suburban housewife. They’re the glasses I am wearing on my current driver’s license because the State of Florida charges extra to take a new picture. Might be time to shell that money out.

Fourth pair: More Oliver Peoples. I love that man. This pair had a thin black frame on top of the lenses but were rimless on the bottom. A perfect compromise after my last heavy pair. Reminded me of a mullet: business in the front, party in the back.

Fifth (and current) pair: A thin, small, wire frame from Paul Smith. Not too big, stylish yet they don’t detract from my face. Frankly, a little boring. I’ve had these glasses for over 5 years yet these have been some of the most un-boring times of my life.

Somehow, on the plane back from Colorado last week, my glasses ended up on the floor of the cabin. Then someone, either me or my daughter, accidentally stepped on them. One of the lenses popped out and the frames got totally stretched out. I put the lens back in but the glasses wouldn’t sit properly on my head even though I have very large ears.

All of my glasses, except for one pair, have been bought at a local optical shop in South Miami, where I grew up and where my parents still live. This local shop has expanded since then and recently opened up an outpost in my local mall. I figured I would go in there and see if they could fix them for me. I explained my situation to the nice man in the store. That I had gotten the glasses in South Miami a long time ago. That my mom knew the owner. That I was loyal customer. I figured that with all of this knowledge, he would be more likely to help me. He asked no questions, took my broken glasses and said he would be back in a few minutes. In the meantime, my daughter and I started looking around the store.

That was my first mistake. All those beautiful frames were just staring at us. The man came back with my old, but now fixed, glasses and graciously told me that there was no charge. The goodwill from his “free of charge” gesture pushed me over the top. And the eyeglass door flew open. “You know, I’d like to try some frames on. As long as we’re here.” And within ten minutes, I had picked out a new pair of frames with the necessary approval of my fashion consultant (my 11 year old daughter). Then I added no glare and transition lenses to the price tag. I’ve never had transition lenses but I’ve always wanted them. I figure I’ve gone through the hassle of having to change from eyeglasses to sunglasses thousands of times. I live in South Florida. The sun is strong here and I am constantly in and out of the house, the car, Publix etc.

After I left the store, I started having some doubts about spending that much money on something I already have. But after a day or so, I couldn’t change my mind even if I wanted to. Hindsight is 20/20. The glasses will be ready for pickup later this week before we leave on our trip. I can't wait. For either!

And hey, I deserve them. Don’t I? I clean my own house for goodness sake.

I Have Baggage (But I've Lightened My Load)

2010-06-24T17:13:00.001-04:00

Three weeks in to my kids’ summer vacation and I’ve already taken two trips with them, traveling to North Carolina for my grandmother’s 94th birthday and to Colorado to see my dad, stepmother, brother and his family. These trips have just been the three of us, which is something different. Usually we travel in a pack that includes my husband and his daughter. But we’re doing things a little differently this summer and spending some time alone with our respective children. For them, it was a week-long Alaskan cruise last month. For us, it was these two trips.

I remember the first time I ever traveled alone with my kids. The three of us were flying out to California from our home in Florida to visit my brother, his wife and their two kids. (They have three now.) It was 2002, my son was 5 years old and my daughter was almost 3. I was traveling alone with them because my first husband and I were in the middle of our summer long trial separation. I had agreed to the separation even though I already knew that there would be nothing trial about it.

I was nervous about being on a long flight with the kids. Just the bulk of carry-on items that my parenting magazines told me to bring was menacing. Change of clothes, snacks, toys, books, more snacks. Back then, before I got divorced, I hadn’t spent long periods of time alone with the kids. My husband worked for himself in an office close to our house and both kids were in pre-school (sounds better than day care) a few days a week. What if one of them was inconsolable on the flight or threw up or wet their pants? How would I go to the bathroom with the two of them in tow? I didn’t feel like enough of a grown-up to be the sole parent in charge.

The night before we left, the kids were with their dad and I went out with some friends. I stayed out way too late and, as I was wont to do back then, drank too much and woke up for my early flight with a hangover. And immediately regretted it. But it was too late. My husband picked me up and drove the three of us to the airport. To my happy surprise, the flight, and the accompanying car ride to Sonoma, went fine. Sure it was a long day but nobody questioned my parenting, neither of the kids freaked out and I didn’t throw up my gimlets from the night before.

The week we spent out there was really memorable for the kids and good for my soul. The kids had fun with their cousins. They’re all close in age and the week was like a never-ending play date complete with a pool. I had some long talks about my marital situation with my brother and sister-in-law. Saying out loud the feelings and thoughts I had about my marriage was therapeutic. And being together was so much better than talking on the phone.

When the week was over, the three of us took a car service to the San Francisco airport and then a plane to New York City, where I had lived for 11 years and where my husband was waiting to take the kids for his week alone with them. Not really alone. They were going to his parents’ house in the mountains where they would be surrounded by more family. And I was happy for them. I flew home, back to Florida, and waited for the week to be over. I was getting used to being by myself. For the last few months I had been spending half the week at my in-laws’ empty house a few miles away so that the kids could stay in one place and not have their routine disturbed.

At the end of the week, the three of them returned. The summer was almost over and it was time to make the decision about my marriage official. Making the decision seemed easy compared to the actual execution of it. Looking my husband in the eye and telling him that I wanted a divorce was one of the most heart-wrenching things that I have ever had to do. A punched repeatedly in the gut kind of feeling. But the alternative, staying married, was not an option for me. Therapy, both alone and as a couple, had only reinforced this.

My heart hurt but my mind was free.

Ten months later, and 20 pounds lighter, I was divorced. And I was spending lots of time alone with my kids, which I was growing to enjoy. The stress of being in an unhappy marriage was gone. Most of my guilt was gone. I felt like a grownup. And I was a better parent. A happy parent. A more present parent. Which remains true today, eight years later and almost four years into my second marriage.

So, I’ll be home for the next week and a half, working, writing and hanging out with the kids. Then my family of five, including my husband and his daughter, will hop in to a rented mini van and drive 11 hours north on I-95 to a house on the beach in North Carolina for the fourth year of this new family tradition. My brother, his wife and their 3 kids will be there. And my mom and my stepfather. In the house next door will be first cousins, second cousins and even second cousins once removed. This trip follows an old tradition of my youth when my brother and I, along with my parents before they got divorced, would spend a week or two at the beach in North Carolina with my mom’s parents. A particularly blissful part of my childhood.

And giving my kids some undivided attention for those early summer trips was a great idea. I think I've already reaped some positive benefits from it. I feel like we’ve recharged our relationships. And there actually seems to be less fighting between them. I know that the time my stepdaughter had alone with her dad has strengthened their relationship and given them a special closeness.

The downside to all of these genetically singular trips is that my husband and I have been apart for an unprecedented amount of time. Eighteen days out of twenty seven. The upside is that Peaches and Herb have got nothing on us: “Reunited and it feels so good”.

My Gynecologist and Me

2010-06-09T09:14:00.000-04:00

I had a very important appointment last Thursday morning. It was downtown and I had to be there at 9:00 am, after dropping off the kids for their last day of school. I really wanted to look my best and feel fresh for it so I woke up extra early to take a full service shower. You know the kind: shaving your legs and underarms, exfoliating your whole body, using a pumice stone on calloused heels and shampooing and conditioning your hair.

I was a little concerned about having a rosacea episode while at my appointment so once I got out of the shower, I applied the super expensive serum to my face using the sample vial my dermatologist had given me. And for extra protection, after that dried, I put a few drops of Visine on the bulb of my nose.

My recent eyebrow and bikini wax still looked pretty fresh but I took a few minutes to pluck the eyebrow hairs that had dared to resurface. From there, I covered my face with a tinted moisturizer to cover up my slightly uneven skin tone. And very carefully applied the rest of my makeup, using a little more than I would for just a casual day around town.

My hair needed to look really good too. Thank goodness I had recently colored it (myself, of course) and gotten a haircut. All I had to do was take the time to blow it dry and apply the hair care products I usually reserve for Date Night. Actually, I was starting to feel like it was Date Night, except it was 8:00 in the morning and my usual date, my husband, was out of town. And after this morning’s date, I was going to come home and change into my ratty clothes and clean my house. I'm Cinderella.

Now, I had to get dressed. Luckily, I had started thinking about my outfit in the middle of the night when I was having a hard time sleeping. (It happens to me sometimes.) I wanted to wear an outfit that said I am fashionably casual and young, yet age-appropriate. No super short skirts or high-waisted jeans for me. My mom had just bought me some really cute new items from Anthropologie that would be perfect. First though, I put on my best thong underwear and matching bra. From my closet, I picked out a cute pair of lightweight, modern Bermuda shorts, a sleeveless almost sheer top, unbuttoned a little bit, and topped it off with an embroidered but not too matchy belt from Lucky. And instead of my usual flip flops, I put on a pair of gold sandals. I appraised myself in the mirror and thought okay not so bad for 44.

Ready or not, here I come.

I dropped the kids off at school, trying not to get teary and sentimental that it was my daughter’s last day of elementary school. Didn’t want to make my mascara run. Then I continued on downtown to the office for my appointment. I was feeling pretty good about myself and I could have sworn that the valet guys were checking me out. I took the elevator upstairs, signed in and waited for my name to be called.

An assistant came out to lead me back to the exam room. Well, she was really a nurse. And on the way in, I passed by my gynecologist, an attractive older man, who was on the phone in his office. I waved to him and he waved back. I was so happy he got to see me before I took all of my cute clothes off and put on the paper gown, open in the front.

In the room, while I waited and waited, I thought about the absurdity of my morning’s preparation. Why did I find it necessary to put on my Thursday Date Night best, full service shower included, just to take my clothes off and have my annual exam? Was it because I didn’t want to be just another vagina to him? He’s been my doctor for over 10 years. He has seen me at my most vulnerable. Just last year, he lanced my Bartholin abscess (read "Clammed Up" if you are not prone to queasiness). So, these days we’re closer than ever.

He entered the exam room, we chatted for a few minutes and then he got down to business. All went well and he asked me to get dressed and meet him in his office. I put back on my obsessively planned, yet extremely attractive, outfit, paying special attention to tucking my shirt in only part of the way. More natural like that. In his office, we chatted for a few minutes. He lectured me on taking my calcium and extra Vitamin D supplements, inquired about my summer plans, told me all looked great and I left with an extra pep in my step.

I could sit here and analyze all of this. The not-quite obsessive preparation. The desire, I mean the need, to look my best. The fulfilling feeling I had when he told me that I looked great, even though he was probably speaking medically. If I paid $150 to discuss this with a therapist, she and I would most likely come up with some theory about male authority figures, needing approval and wanting to be seen as attractive. Run of the mill kind of stuff.

But wait. If it was a male mental health professional, perhaps a psychiatrist, and I met with him once a week, imagine the outfits I’d get to come up with and the grooming I would have to do! No. Too much. That may make me crazy.