Diagnosis: Gettin' Old

by Patti

I had my first complete "wellness" check in years. Maybe in ever, even. I don't know, maybe it was the burning butt, maybe it was the heart palpitations, maybe it was the scary-looking mole on my leg. I finally took all those annoying little symptoms as a sign that death was near, and found time in my life for a physical.

I've been feeling kind of old lately. Not near-death old, just.... old. There's a new, subtle sag to my face, an ache in my hips, a longer recovery period from too much wine. But this day, the day of my physical, I walked into the waiting room and felt instantly younger. The patients were all old. I mean really old. One woman, the few hairs she had left standing at colorless attention on her head, was having a conversation with her daughter, and I'm pretty sure that the people in the state of Iowa could hear her. The thing is, I don't think she heard herself.  She was complaining about something on the television that was blaring on the wall above, and her daughter nodded along absent-mindedly. The receptionist called over the daughter to give her some take-home instructions, and the daughter motioned to her mother it was time to leave. That is when the old lady got up, the beige shoes on her feet sporting squeaky 5-inch orthopedic support wedges, and promptly began to fart her way toward the door.  I looked around the room, wondering if anybody else had heard, but apparently they were all deaf or busy holding in their own farts. Off she went, leaving a trail of farts in her wake, and then she was gone. I thought to myself, wow. Will I one day fart my way out of a room and not give a damn?

Suddenly a cell phone rang, and the cute old suspendered man a few chairs away from me pulled a shiny blue flip phone out of his pocket. "HELLO? HELLO? HELLO?" He shouted repeatedly into the phone, not giving the person on the other side a chance to respond. "OH, YES, BOB? Yes, it's me!" Ol' Bob had answered the phone with his speaker on. But Bob didn't seem to mind that his speaker was on; he simply kept the phone pressed to his ear as if it weren't on speaker, and carried on his conversation. Actually, it was Bob's wife that carried on the conversation. On she went about the cable company and the broken computer and did Bob think she should call a repairman? But before Bob could answer, she answered for him. Over and over again. And as hard as Bob tried to hang up, his wife kept going. So Bob just nodded along, the shiny blue phone pressed to his ear, his wife chirping away on the other line for all of us to hear.

I was finally called into my appointment, where I was promptly asked would I mind if a first-year resident joined us for the consultation. I gave my permission, and was then handed a paper sheet and told to disrobe from head to toe. So I did, wrapping the thin paper sheet around my now totally naked body, and sat down on the paper-covered exam table. I saw myself in the mirror, and, despite the middle-aged face staring back at me, felt a little younger than I had before the appointment thanks to Bob and Fart Lady. So smug in my youth, was I. Until, in walked the most gorgeous, dewy creature on the planet. He was a Doctor from the Movies kind of doctor, and instantly I regretted my decision to allow the resident to be present at my appointment. Suddenly, all the "old lady" problems I had planned to discuss with my similarly "older woman" doctor began to swirl before me, and I felt humiliated before I even opened my mouth. I felt myself break out into a sweat, knowing all of my secrets would soon be discovered. In I had walked, put together, lip-glossed, leopard heels showing sass. But now, stripped and vulnerable, I was simply another aging human being holding in my fears - and farts.

Fortunately, I appear to be healthy, save the burning butt that will soon see an MRI. Otherwise, I received a clean bill of health - and a reality check. Yes, I am getting older; I will probably one day fart myself out of a room or not quite know how to use the latest technology. All I'm saying? They better make those orthopedic wedge shoes in a leopard print. Because I ain't goin' down without a fight.

Size DOES Matter

by Cathy

In the words of Salt n' Pepa: 
Ladies, all the ladies, louder now, help me out, c'mon, all the ladies!
Salt n' Who? you ask?

I don't care if I've just aged myself, because ladies, the truth must be told. The lies are over.  I am here to tell you to stop frontin' and fakin' it. We all know that size really does matter and that we get no pleasure in fooling ourselves to believe otherwise.

Women come in vast shapes and sizes - big, small, narrow, wide, long, short and a trillion combinations of all of the above. So why do we settle? Yes, you know what I'm talkin' 'bout.
Clothes.

You're lying to yourself if you think otherwise, okaaayy?

Before the European Invasion of clothing stores hit the U.S., (H&M, Zara, TopShop, et al) we were perfectly content with the deceptive yet confidence-boosting sizing tactics created by savvy marketers to make us think our waistlines were shrinking, when in fact? They were NOT.  Everyone miraculously went down at least one or two sizes while remaining the same physical size. We wonderingly yet gleefully emerged from fitting rooms ready to exchange the size we thought we were for a smaller size. I'm shopping here from now on, we all thought. And we did. At this store, I'm a size 4! But we weren't.

Then? Those starkly pragmatic tell-it-like-it-is Europeans, with their highfalutin designers, ostentatious fashion shows, and a waif-like fan following (because apparently, no one in Europe eats) have decided to not be so kind. In fact, they have gone one step beyond true sizing in the opposite direction, and cut their clothing slimmer and tighter than the wardrobe of a streetwalker. 

I went shopping at Zara recently. Part of my husband's birthday gift to me was a shopping excursion to a place of my choice. Armed with his credit card, a day to myself and that world-is-my-oyster feeling, I opened the doors to Zara on Michigan Avenue and breathed in the smell of all that leather, that fashion, that "I'm gonna get me some new clothes!" energy.

Like any fashion-conscious woman, I had a punch list of some basics I needed: something with a leopard print, another pair of skinnies, and for good measure, a black leather jacket. So I began browsing through a table of neatly folded skinny jeans in an array of muted colors. "OOOOh, these are cute!" I mused aloud, feeling my pulse accelerating. (Yes, this does happen when I shop.) So I filed through the color of my choice and only saw a slew of 0s, 2s and 4s. There was one size 6 and I reluctantly grabbed it while knowing full-well I would look much less hookerish in a size 8. So I asked the petite (of course) sales associate.

"Do you have any other sizes besides what's out?"
"What size are you looking for?"
"An 8," I replied cautiously.
"Ooooh. I don't know if they go up that high," she replied matter-of-factly as she started filing through the other colors.
That high?!?! Was she kidding me?!
"Really?" I replied, feeling my blood boil. "You consider size 8s high? Hmpf. I guess you do."

How about the fact that all of the average-sized women may have already grabbed all the bigger sizes and left all the small sizes for the much less smaller demographic? Or do they purposely order more of the smaller sizes to weed out anyone over a size 6? The embarrassed sales associate now buried her nose in the skinnies stacks while shuffling around trying to find something that would accommodate me and get me on my merry way. She finally handed me a size 8 in another style. I grabbed it along with a cute peplum leopard top I noticed, turned on my heel and headed towards the fitting room, my good shopping mood now downgraded to annoyed.

The pants fit me just fine but the top? I realized, I as shimmied my way into the size medium top that there was no room allotted for women with breasts bigger than an A cup size. As I sized up the way my once full boobs looked, now plastered down and oblong-shaped in this otherwise cute top, my mood was officially killed.

I ended up buying those size 8 skinnies, went home and told my husband about the experience.
"Don't feel bad," he said. "That's why I don't even bother shopping outside the brands I already know fit me," he continued. "Those European places cut their men's clothes super slim too. There's no way a man with a chest can actually fit into any of their clothes." I realized he was right. All of those male models now look like you could snap them in half, all manorexic, deflated and wilted - just like their female counterparts.


It wasn't just me. Or just women, for that matter. Men are facing the same issues with size. Apparently, size matters to everybody. Just remember that the next time you hear about another European brand slinking its way across the Atlantic and into our psyches. And pray that you are in the mood. To shop.

Secretly relieved that you're secretly relieved....

by Patti

My friends Kristin and Traci and I decided enough was enough -- we needed to plan a night out after work. So we somehow magically found a date that worked for all of us ( - we all work+we all have kids = Never Afreakingvailable. Traci, bless her insane little heart, has THREE kids -) and wrote that date into our respective calendars.

Truthfully, the date was a stretch for me. The day we picked is the day I normally take S to ballet, and S has this "thing" about changes in her routine. But I figured M could take her and she'd just have to get over it, even if meant the earth would start spinning in reverse and then fly right off its axis and go floating off into space totally untethered.

The day finally arrived. I made sure to wear my "drinking" pants, and went into work. And then... the text. The one from M that meant my plans would have to change because "something came up". That "something" was unfortunately a little more important than my doing shots after work, but it still annoyed me unto no end. Why? BECAUSE THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS, ALWAYS. Every single time I, or any of my other friends for that matter, make a plan to do something that means no kids? The kids get sick, the husband has a meeting, the babysitter gets hit by a car...the combination of disasters is endless.

I remember once when Cathy and I had exuberant plans for a night out, and after a series of canceled plans, we had what we thought was a full-proof plan. That is, until her husband Joe's plane got DELAYED OVERNIGHT IN MIAMI. Of COURSE it did. Because we had plans!

So on this day, when M put a dent in my plans with Kristin and Traci - I got nervous. Poor Kristin and Traci, frazzled working mothers that they are. I was about to ruin their plans. I was about to be a plan buster. I shot off an email to both of them, hoping they would understand; encouraging them both to still go and "tie one on" without me. Within moments, my phone rang. It was Kristin. "Hi..." I said sheepishly, fully expecting the guilt her disappointment would make me feel.
"Ohmygod, I am so secretly relieved!" she blurted out breathlessly.
"What? You ARE?"
"Because!" she told me, "Mallorie had a total meltdown this morning when I dropped her off at my mom's. I felt AWFUL knowing I was going to go out tonight instead of seeing her after work!"
"Awwww..."
"Yeah... my mom even told me she couldn't believe I was going to still go out after the way Mallorie cried. I felt so bad. But I didn't want to cancel on you guys."
I found the silver lining. "See? It all worked out for the best!"
"Plus!" she continued. "Rob and I were totally trying to figure out the logistics of how it would work if I went out."
The more she talked, the more I realized I was saving her life. I silently thanked M for ruining my plans.

And then I realized: Traci. She comes into work later than Kristin and I, and her disappointment still awaited her. "She wasn't feeling good yesterday," Kristin offered hopefully. "Maybe she'll feel like crap today!"
How sad. To save ourselves and our friend disappointment, we wished her ill. "She's here!" Kristin whispered. And then we hung up.

Five minutes later, I got an email from Traci, "No worries, guys. I feel like total crap today anyway. I was still going to go out because I really need a drink, but...." So SHE was secretly relieved, too!

In the end, it seems the whole disintegration of plans ended up oddly working in our favor: Kristin because her baby guilted the need for fun right of her; Traci because she was feeling like crap, and besides, hey! She could use that window of "alone time" to shop for her son's birthday; me because I felt bad for being the plan buster. Plus, I had been a little worried about making the earth fly off its axis with my inconsiderate ways.
And my keeping the earth from floating off into space totally untethered? For that, I'm sure we are all secretly relieved.

We are beautiful

by Patti

S was born with a shock of thick, black curly hair.  Her father has black curly hair, and when S was swimming around in utero, I imagined her looking just like him. When S was emerging from the inside world to the outside world, casually hanging out in limbo there between my sprawled out legs, my midwife announced it, "Oh, look! Black curly hair!"  "Just like I pictured..." I thought.

That black curly hair soon transformed into a glorious head of golden curls. By the time S was 3 years old, her hair was so thick, curly and long, it appeared she was wearing a wig. It was odd to see her tiny body crowned with Charro's hair. But there she was, all attitude and curls, and it honestly was not unusual for random strangers to comment on the beauty of it.

S is eleven now, and she hates her hair. "I just wish it was STRAIGHT!" she often laments. For Christmas, she asked for a flat iron. "It's not fair - I'll never be able to have bangs!" she sighs. Her hair's curl has tamed a bit; it is now more thick waves. But the second the weather turns "sticky", or the sun hits that head, her face is instantly framed by tight little curls that have her sobbing into her hands that she looks like a poodle.

I marvel at her discontent. No doubt about it - and I don't just say this because she is my kid - she has gorgeous hair. And I just can't understand how she doesn't see that. And then it hits me: Are we simply hardwired to hate ourselves?

I mean, think about it: What feature of yours did you curse this morning in the mirror? Was it your hips? The slight curve of your nose? Was it the fact that your top lip is thinner than your bottom lip? Was it that your straight hair can't hold a curl? Was it your curly hair that you longed to see sleek and shiny?

I know I've done it. In front of my daughter, even. And what kind of message does that send to her when I am criticizing the very body that brought her into this world?

S is at the threshold of womanhood now. The songs of woe I sing about the little roll of fat around my waist, the hair that won't lay just right, the sheen on my skin that powder won't mute -- they need to be sung very carefully. In fact, I may just have to change my tune altogether. Because S is beautiful, and if I don't believe that I am beautiful, she will never believe she is, either.

Forever 21

 by Cathy

“Youth is wasted on the young.” – George Bernard Shaw 

Patti’s birthday was this past Sunday.

Although I was keenly aware of it, it quietly went uncelebrated this year – without nary a balloon to be popped, a piece of cake to be relished or a glass of bubbly to be sipped. Why, you ask? How can a friend just let another friend’s birthday slide by with just a facebook wall post and a quick ‘Happy birthday, girl!’ thrown into a hectic phone conversation?

I know, I know. 

I am her other blog half and self-proclaimed female spouse. (As the enlightened Oprah had professed on her show, women need wives.) I should have done something more. However, in my defense, I couldn’t do a hair’s-width more to celebrate my dear friend’s birthday - even if I tried.

Patti’s birthday falls on national tax day – April 15^th. But this year, the looming tax deadline wasn’t the issue (not that it was an issue on any other year, but it's a stressful, deadline-induced hell of a date). This year, her birthday fell on my Easter Sunday. And because of that, although she completely understood the hectic craziness that went along with what that entailed, I didn’t want her to assume that her birthday went unnoticed or worse yet, unrecognized.

We tried in vain to plan a Saturday night out for the celebratory birthday party, but between Easter, bachelorette parties, gigs, dinner plans, errands and everyday obligations, we were now looking at a Saturday night in June. How could it be that we are as booked as Obama? In my book, you don’t officially tack that extra year onto your age until you celebrate it with your friends. Now, it seems as if Patti would remain forever…21. 

And for those of you who know Patti, (and aside from the fact that she does frequent the namesake store on occasion), how truly fitting IS this? She is the quintessential 21-year old but with the maturity and wisdom that girls that age could only hope for. Her humor, style, personality, attitude and zest for life all resonate with the youthful characteristics of a 21-year old. She loves laughing, making people laugh, music, singing, dancing, eating, cocktails just because, and just plain being and having fun. What’s more? All of these mood-boosting traits effortlessly rub off on her friends and even onto fleeting strangers who have the good fortune to cross paths with her. For all these amazing twenty-something characteristics and so many more for me to get into in one, solitary blogpost, I love my forty-something friend.

So…regardless of when we celebrate her birthday, it won’t matter. Because even though her birthday has come and gone, celebrated or not, she will always remain forever 21.

Cheers to you, beeyotch and happy birthday!!

P.S. I love you enough to post this crappy pic of myself, but as usual, you are rockin' it. It's a damn, foolish shame that youth in fact belongs to the young, but it will always belong to the young at heart. Stay forever young, my friend. xoxoxo

We Are Not Invisible

by Patti

The other night M and I were watching TV and a commercial came on where a very distinguished yet clearly old (not even older -- OLD) man, all decked out in a suit with a cliche silk scarf wrapped around his neck and some serious salt and pepper scruff, was hawking some kind of booze. The thing that stood out to me, though, was that this old man, while hawking his booze, was flanked by some very NOT old women. In fact, calling them women is a stretch - I had to wonder if they were even old enough to drink that booze legally. And these "women", all golden-haired and lithe-limbed and could-be-his-granddaughters-ish, were all over this dude, smitten and amazed and in awe by his Royal Oldness, and there he was, all, well, OLD, looking all smug and having the time of his life. And I couldn't help it: I got annoyed. "Can you picture it the other way?" I asked Marcelo. "Imagine if, instead of an old man, there was an old woman, like,'the same age' old, and she was surrounded by all these hot, young guys? Can you even imagine that?" I repeated, trying to even imagine it myself. Instead, what I sadly knew to be true was this old man surrounded by these beautiful young GIRLS was actually plausible, while the other way around would be merely a Saturday Night Live skit starring Betty White.

And that is when I felt a tiny bubble of panic start to rise in my chest. I didn't want this to be true, but I knew it was. I looked over at M, who was aware of what I was saying, but not nearly as affected by it. He's a man - obviously - and one who, at 45 years of age, is aging. However, he, at 45, is in the prime of his life, his temples dotted with salt, his face a little softer yet more distinguished, his intense eyes somehow more manly than before. I, on the other hand? Am not far behind him, yet, there is nothing "distinguished" about what's goin' on up in here. I've written before about the whole process of "falling apart", and my God it just is not pretty.

But this lament is not to reiterate that. It is more about how sad it is in this society that, as we age, women somehow become.. invisible. Even to ourselves. After all, here I was clearly pointing out that commercial with roles reversed would not have been plausible. Why was I saying this? Because, on some level, I myself believed it. I myself relegate the possibility of an aging woman as attractive to a Saturday Night Live skit. And that's a shame. And what's more shameful is that there is a whole lot of women, complaining about the unfairness of it all, still completely buying into it as the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help them God.

You've probably heard the news about Demi Moore's latest shamefest; the one where she was apparently huffing on some teenagery type of drug and had to be rushed to the hospital as a result, and is now being treated for "exhaustion". No, what she is being treated for is buying into it. She is being treated for desperately clinging to her youth. She is being treated for believing she is invisible because her skin is not as supple as it once was. She is being treated for believing that starving herself will melt off not only the fat, but also the years. And the most disgusting part of it all is that, if you are embarrassing like me and read celebrity gossip sites and get into all of comments that other readers leave behind, other women are the worst proponents of this whole societal "truth". Comments like, "...she really needs to do something about those jowels..."; and, "....wow, she really is NOT aging well...'; and, "oh my GOD, her HANDS - they look so OLD!"

When I read things like this, and then look down at my own foreign-looking hands as I type this, I can't help but feel that tiny bubble of panic rise up in my chest. It's happening to them; it's also happening to me. As a professional singer, I see it every day, the women are simply discarded after a certain age, as if suddenly that talent vanishes with the hot youth. Yet, the men? Are still up there, balding, fat, but still there, accepted -- admired, even.

And so this is how it has to be: I have to simply accept it. It's going to happen. And all I can do is do my best to take care of myself, mind and body, and continue to develop who I am as a person, not just a face, or a body in skinny jeans. And when I look down at my hands and see the veins, the wrinkles, the worn fingers, I need to learn to be grateful for them. After all, these hands have touched so much; these hands have learned faces and skin and run themselves across what have become the memories that make up my life. And these hands? Have yet to learn so much more.

Dress to Impress

by Cathy

I knew this particular day was going to be busy: work, offsite meeting, family visit and Bella's volleyball game. I had to plan my outfit for the day accordingly as I always try to do. Something cute but easy. And definitely flats. I decided on a pair of cargo pants and a white V-neck, button-down, knit cardigan. Done.

At the volleyball game I ran into another mom from school I don't get to see very often, as tonight our two school teams were playing against each other. This particular mom is very down-to-earth, very humble and always had been since I met her.

It was warm in that gym as we stood and chatted away and I couldn't help but notice that she was wearing a Columbia fleece jacket over her shirt. As I stood there fanning myself and pushing my sleeves up, I saw the beads of sweat accumulating on her upper lip and her face was reddening. I wondered why she just didn't remove her jacket?

Well, apparently, she got to her breaking point. "I'm just gonna take this off," she said quickly. "I've got my grubby work clothes on under this, but who cares. I'm done dressing to impress the other parents. I was over that long ago." And...boom! She just said in three sentences what all the other mothers wish they could come out and say or do themselves.

You see, the moms at are our school are fashion showey. Super nice personalities, but it seems like there's always this underlying competition of outfits going on. I mean, what stay-at-home-mom comes to pick up her kids with perfectly creased gaberdine slacks, supple leather belt embellished with the Versace logo, Tory Birch flats and a perfectly tailored top with a matching cardigan?  Big designer shades, super sleeked hair in a high pony and an equally embellished Yorkie on a sparkly leash completed her picking-up-the-kids-from-school look.

Therefore, I immediately knew where this mom's exasperated confession was coming from. And yes - her hair was disheveled, her clothes were frumpy and she had not a lick of makeup on. But I found out she's a teacher. She sends her three kids off to school everyday and goes on to partake in an even more chaotic environment by teaching kindergarteners and first graders all day long.
"I'm on the floor most of the day with the kids" she offered, looking down at her clothes.
"Oh please. You don't have to explain to me," I replied. "I just give you credit for wanting to be with yet more kids other than your own on a daily basis."
She laughed.

As I looked around, I spotted a woman in skinny jeans, heels and a sheer top layered over lace (remember, we are at a kids volleyball game in a grammar school gym), and a woman in the fanciest, flounciest tennis skirt I've ever seen. We get it. You work out. Your legs are toned. You look like a Hamptons Hooker. The refs are gawking. Can you change into something more school-appropriate?

It's great to dress up, to look and feel put together and give off an impression as such. All women should strive for some version of that that works for themselves. But it's also important to be true to who you are. And if that means you are dressed like a Frumpalina on a daily basis, well, then so be it.

Cheap Chic

by Cathy

I am admitting it here. I am a designer brand fanatic. I love me some designer duds and accessories. But seeing as other priorities now grab hold of my weekly paycheck, it's quite the rare opportunity that I have to allow myself extravagant luxuries.

So naturally, when I heard about the Missoni launch at Target stores, I was all over that. Regular Janes like you and I would now have the chance to own a Missoni - designer level quality and style for 'cheap' compared to what it would sell at a shi shi store it normally sells in. However, I never expected the Missoni Madness that ensued, whereby crowds of anxious designer brand whores like me lined up hours before the stores opened and cleaned out the place within a half hour. No, that I did not expect.

As I've frequented Target stores since then, I have found that with every visit, more and more Missoni items have been slinking their way back on Target shelves. 'Buyers remorse' had set in for those that spent too much and couldn't sell the items on eBay. So there they were. The other day, I happened upon a Missoni knit vest (I had been in the market for a good vest for a while now). It was size large, but it was Missoni and I would make it work. I snagged up a pair of chocoalate lace zig zag tights and zig zagged my way home.

The next day (naturally) I wore the vest. I was at Costco (naturally) waiting in line, when I noticed the woman in front of me look over and smile as she eyed me up and down, slowly placing her humungous bag of croutons on the conveyer belt. She looked away and then back at me, this time, holding her industrial sized bag of broccoli. "Were you there? Were you part of the madness on the first day?" And immediately, like I've known her for years, I knew exactly what she was asking me.
"Can you believe," I responded without missing a beat, "I got this yesterday?"
An incredulous, low-pitched "Nooo!" was her wide-eyed response.
"And you're gonna die," I continued, almost tauntingly but with an obvious twinge of pride. She was smiling wide at this point, waiting for my next line like a child about to be handed an ice cream cone. "Seven bucks."
She threw her hand up in disbelief. "What?!? B..but..HOW?"
I touched her hand to calm her down and explain my strategy in the hopes she would be so lucky. "It had no pricetage and when I went to ask about it at the service desk, they told me it was on online purchase. So it was seven dollars."

There we were, at the Costco checkout line, exchanging stories about the Missoni Madness - because every brand-loving woman out there had one. She went on about how she was part of the 'first day' madness, a part of the chaos that will go down in shopping history, at least in her mind. She ended our exchange with, "Well, at least we'll have something to remember it all with."

As I cordially nodded goodbye, I concluded that what makes us women genuinely happy and gives us reason to strike up conversations with complete strangers about our wardrobe and spending history, is simply snagging a good bargain. And if it happens to be a designer brand?

Waaaay better.

From Classy to Klassy

by Patti


The other morning it was chilly enough to break out my boots. A great lover of fall attire, I was excited to finally do away with those toenail barin’ strappy sandals and pull on my sleek, rich brown leather boots. The boots were from last year, but still looked pretty decent, and I decided to pair them with my new poncho, which one might say resembles Indian Reservation Couture Circa 1975. As I was getting ready to head out the door to work, I realized that the heel of one of my boots was all shredded; the leather was ripped away revealing the white part underneath, and the bottom of the heel was ground down to the nail. Of course. Right as I have to leave NOW RIGHT NOW to get the kid to the bus. Because I am in desperate need of shoes, there was no suitable quick-change replacement, NOR did I have time to change my whole outfit, so I did what any fast-thinking, resourceful fashionista would do: I colored in the heel with black Sharpie.

Once I got to work, I quickly assessed myself in the full-length mirror in the bathroom to see if anybody else might actually notice that my awesome Indian Reservation Couture look was actually marred by black Sharpie. So far, so hidden. As I was leaving the bathroom, my co-worker Kristin walked in, and I admired her boots (another lover of fall!): they were these vintage-y looking motorcycle boots that she had paired with a khaki dress; kind of “Girl Scout on a Motorcyle Safari”. When I returned to my desk, I shot her an email to tell her I liked her boots, and this began a chain of confessions that can only be shared between and understood by women: Kristin told me that they had been the boots she wore during her pregnancy, and that they were now way too big (so, although they looked cute, she was sliding around in them). I, in turn, confessed to her that my boots were actually not nearly as awesome as they appeared on the surface; that they were actually Sharpie’d and wasn’t I just so Klassy, and then, in a show of camaraderie, she then told me that she had once used Sharpie to cover a stain on her shirt. Kristin also told me that in the past, she had stapled her hem, and used industrial strength mailroom tape to cover up “inappropriate office boob” (because, as she told me, what may seem plausible in the dark at 6:30 am doesn’t always transition well to florescent lighting at 8:30 am.)

This made me think: The things we women do. I mean, if I were to confess to you right now the things I have done to appear put together…. Well, okay, I will:

1) Sharpie’d my shoes
2) Scotch-taped my purse strap. I had to use almost an entire roll.
3) Duct taped my nipples
4) Filled in a bleach stain with an ink pen
5) Used an earring to hold together a buttoned shirt
6) Put mascara in my hair
7) Worn my pants unzipped with a long shirt over them
8) Used a strapless bra as emergency Spanx
9) Wrapped black electrical tape around the heel of my black pumps to conceal a broken tip

Oh, I could go on, but some things are just better kept locked away in the Vault of Shame. The point is, no matter how organized or put-together a woman is, we have all, at one point or another, had to take ourselves down a few notches from Classy to Klassy just to get through the day. And although this Classy to Klassy Sisterhood is one that I seem to participate in more often than most, it is one that I am proud to be a part of.

Old Ladyville

by Patti


I boarded a train a couple of years ago, and it is still chugging away towards a destination I don’t ever want to reach: Old Ladyville

When I was a kid, Old Ladyville was a place I only ever passed through. It was the place my mother and her friends lived; the ones with jiggly faces and arms, and frosted hair.

And now, I seem to be on the Once-Slow-but-Picking-Up-Speed-Like-a-Cracked-Out-Train train directly into Old Ladyville, and this time, I’m not just passing through; I’m getting off. And before I know it, I’ll be one of those jiggly-faced ladies I used to just pass by, so fortunate in my fresh, dewy youth.

This morning, desperately in need of a root touch-up, I hastily streaked mascara through my hair. Bonus: It was one of those fat brushes that promises to plump up your lashes to 5,000X their size!, so not only was I blackening out those grays, I was also thickening up my thinning hair. Resourceful! I’m the MacGyver of Old Ladyville!

Also: My personal journey into Old Ladyville not only includes some decorative new lines on my face, I ALSO  get to experience the miraculous  surge of perimenopausal hormones that make me break out over and over again like a 13-year girl in braces. Weeee! Wrinkles AND zits! I’m so lucky!

As I make my way to my final destination, I have started learning the tricks and trades I will need to utilize once firmly (or not- so-firmly. Because: Hello sagging.) planted in Old Ladyville; things like mascara in the hair, Preparation-H under the eyes, mint-green mud masques on my face, Vaseline on the “feather” lines around my mouth. I have upped my workout from Level 6 to Level Maniac; I wave off that second piece of bread; I buy “lite”. All of these are Tools of the Old Lady Trade, and my GOD it is depressing.

What’s more depressing is that I still shop in the Junior’s Department. I mean, really? Yes, really. I just can’t go Misses yet. I can’t say “slacks” instead of pants. I can’t say “blazer” instead of jacket. I can’t stop wearing leggings with trendy long tops thrown over them. There I am: all mascara-haired and wrinkly/zit-faced, browsing the racks of sparkly one-shouldered tops and skinny jeans. All the while, I’m shaming myself with thoughts like, “Please don’t let me be one of those desperately-clinging-to-youth cougars; you know, the ones with long, layered hair and suspiciously plump lips. I want to age gracefully, I do!”

And then I catch my reflection in the mirror, a wiry gray sprouting off the top off my head that my mascara wand missed, and I wonder how extensively Botox has been tested. Is it safe? Will my eyebrows inadvertently freeze into a twisted Jack Nicholson expression due to a bad batch? I mean: it’s BOTULISM, for crying out loud. Aren’t we supposed to FLEE from that?

I haven’t made my appointment yet. Maybe for my birthday.

Don't Pluck!

by Patti

Today I plucked a gray hair off the top of my head.

It was one of those wiry, sprouty numbers that pop up seemingly overnight.
Now before you get all “big wup, one gray hair!” I’ll have you know that the one I plucked off the top of my head is one of thousands I have plucked in the last couple of years. At a red light? I pluck. In the bathroom? I pluck. Waiting for S to get off the school bus? I pluck. I CAN’T STOP PLUCKING.

This reminds me of when I used to go this Indian salon to get my brows threaded. Between visits, I would pluck any strays that peppered my brow bone. Each time I would sit down to get it done professionally, my threader, who apparently was somehow watching me and just knew I was cheating, would slap my forehead and scold, “Don’t pluck!” Her Hindi accent made it sound even more serious, and so it became that each time I dared to pluck my own strays, I would hear her voice: “Don’t pluck!”And I would feel guilty.

So now, the plucking has moved to the grays. The many, many oh-God-help-me grays. And because I pluck them, they grow back in the form of those wiry, sprouty little numbers. And because they grow this way, I can’t just wait for them to grow all long and white, so I have to pluck them AGAIN. which of course only leads to more wiry, sprouty little numbers which of course leads to more plucking, which of course leads to…

Need I go on?

I don’t know, there are many things I am finding depressing about “getting on” in years, but this wiry hair crap is pretty damned high on the list. I feel like it’s some sort of badge for all to see.”Hey look at me! I’m an old bitch!”

But then again, I guess it’s better than the alternative, right?

RIGHT?

Home Spa Pit-Stop

This may or may not have something to do with me celebrating a birthday next week, but tonight, as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed how much LONGER my bedtime routine has become.

Seemingly overnight, I have come to realize how my face and body have jumped into high maintenance status. No longer can I just get away with brushing and flossing and cleansing my face of makeup. Nooooooo. It has become a full-blown spa pit-stop. Only instead of a crew of eight guys virtually overhauling a race car in 12.5 seconds, it's lonely old me, doing the job of virtually every health and beauty expert out there, in no less than half an hour.

Here's my routine:

1) Floss and brush teeth
2) Wash face
3) Use toner on face - to remove excess built-in dirt and pray that it lives up to claims of shrinking crater-sized pores on my face.
4) Slap some Olay Regenerist firming lotion on my jowls, and again, pray they lift.
5) While I'm at it, use some on my neck, especially the deeply engraved neck wrinkle that appeared virtually overnight, going clear across my neck, like a choker.
6) Whip out some facial serum that claims to reduce fine line and wrinkles. Make sure I douse that all over the frown lines between my brows, forehead lines and parenthesis that have formed on either side of my mouth. I make a mental note to stop sleeping on my face. Then I go over my whole face with a light moisturizer.
7) Pluck stray eyebrow hairs and for the 100th time, make a note to call and make a professional eyebrow shaping appointment.
7) Reach for the Vaseline (yeah, I know, it's petroleum jelly but I'm desperate at this point) and dab some on my crows feet. While I'm at it, I dab some on my eyebrows in an upward motion to keep their shape. By the way, EVERYTHING is applied in an upward motion.
8) Since I'm a side-sleeper, I lotion up my chest and decolletage area all the way up to my neck. Already getting those sleep lines there. Make a mental note to sleep on my back without a pillow.
9) While I'm slathering the cream, I rub some on my crackly ass elbows and moisten up my hands.
10) Speaking of crackly, I reach for the Vaseline again (from crows feet to feet feet) and cake that on my heels, which for the love of God, can't get soft even after all the pumicing and lotioning in the world. Dab some Vaseline on my dry lips as well, making sure I go OUTSIDE my lip line to prevent those ugly upper lip fan lines. Ugh.

So right when I think I'm ready for bed, I get a glimpse of my upper arms in the mirror. Damn you, summer. I grab the free weights and start my reps. Standing. Sitting. Laying on the floor. Jiggle - lift - grunt - repeat.
Now I can't neglect the rest of my body, so I throw in some crunches and squats and call it a night.

Mind you, this is all done after a day of being on the lookout for gray hairs that need coloring, taking my 20-minute jog, waxing my bikini line, shaving my armpits and legs (again, damn you summer) and ALL while making mental notes:
Sit up straight. Tighten. Don't slouch. Stretch. Do Kegels. Eat fiber. Take my multivitamin and calcium. Keep head up. Tighten. Don't frown. Smile. Do Kegels. Tighten. Use this opportunity to exercise. Schedule a manicure. Don't forget perfume. Accessorize. Do kegels. Look cute and put together. Tighten. Stay sane. Getting old sucks. Fight it every step of the way...until you can afford all this upkeep professionally.

-Cathy

Lights Out

I'm driving home the other night with my two girls in the car, on the Edens expressway no less. It was about 10pm and I was following my husband and his parents home from a family visit in Northbrook. Since I got caught at a red light before getting on the Edens, they were way ahead of me.

I continued on, windows down, enjoying the warm evening breeze, singing along to a song on the radio while the girls were playing on whatever electronic device they had in the back seat, when something briefly appeared and caught my eye on the left, front side of my car. It seemed as though something flapped up against the car and went away. 'Strange,' I thought.

So I kept driving and singing, when I looped into a wide turn in the road, and the wind caught whatever was flapping right underneath it. And there it was. Staring me right in the face: MY HEADLIGHT.


If you squint a bit, you can see it sticking out over my dashboard, like a dog ear perked up to hear what's going on.

I drove like that down the Edens for about 10 more minutes, laughing my ass off the entire time at the absolute ludicrous circumstances that freely hand over blog fodder. When I exited, I snapped this shot.








So being the ever-resourceful superwoman that women have now evolved into, I took hold of that headlight, put it into position and popped it back in with my fist. Done...until next time when that headlight finds the most inappropriate time to rear its ugly head.

-Cathy

T.M.I

My initial Hormone Highway post from a few days ago now merits its first follow-up.

I will be periodically (no pun intended) posting follow-ups as I make my way down this dark, desert highway, a cool drink in my hand, the warm smell of...wait a minute...sorry, couldn't help the reference.

What follows may be TMI for some of you, but when I speak of hormones, I get real. Just about as real as the Real Housewives of New York City's Ramona Singer did last week when she had her TMI moment on national television. As I settled into my couch to watch Part I of the RHONY Reunion, I almost dropped my wine glass at Ramona's prompt reply to the first question of the show directed at her: "So just to confirm," says Andy, the show's host, "You're not pregnant right now, right?"
"No. But I still get my period. I have it right now," says Romona bluntly, without missing a beat. "I get it every 30 days like clockwork, and that's why I look so great, so young! I don't need liquid facelifts," obviously a comment meant to hit Jill Zaran right between her injected brows.

So Ramona kept going on and on about how she's 54 years old and still gets her period every 30 days no matter what and when she was a few days late, it prompted her to think she was pregnant. The more I am listening to her and begrudgingly agree with her, I scan the television and even pause it on her face to catch the slightest hint of a facial sag, and don't see it. But the bitch was right. It IS a big part of why she still looks so great and supple. And I totally hated her. Because that's the way it was supposed to go for me. But I, dear friends, have already spotted some jowl sagging, which I have pointed out to Patti on several occasions and to which she has always replied in two octaves too high "You're crazy!" (God bless her heart), but *I* see it and *I* know it's there!!!!

The good news is that after being on the pill after just one month, I finally got mine! Of course I was packing for a trip to Mexico and was totally unprepared as I hadn't shopped for tampons or pads in almost two years (yes, two YEARS), my sister swooped in and saved the day with my supply for that month. Of course, being super prepared and organized, she gave me a cleanly zipped baggie of every size out there - super, heavy, regular, light, drip, liners, with wings, without wings - literally, one for every single phase of your period. God bless her too.

So this second month, I made the long-awaited trip to Osco to buy some for myself. It felt good to linger there in the feminine hygiene aisle...it had been a while. So I took it all in - what was new? What was different? OOOohhh...now they have the Pearl Tampax in three different sizes ALL IN ONE BOX! Yippee! I was sold.

As I was being rung up, the twentysomething girl behind the register asks me, "Are these the ones with the cardboard? I hate those."
"Nooooo!" I replied. "These are the soft, rounded plastic applicators. They're awesome," I kept going, not missing a beat.

So she asks me if I don't mind opening up one of them so she can see them. So there I was, like an old pro once again, teaching the youngins about the ladythings. We were standing there, me holding the soft pearlized blue applicator explaining to her how the contour is more conducive to its purpose, just chatting away - a real life tutorial (short of a demonstration) at the Osco cash register about tampons, oblivious as to who was passing by.

Another Osco employee, a fiftysomething, decides to join in the conversation just as the twentysomething says, "Those don't look like they hold enough. I tend to be very heavy my first few days."

(Of course you are.)

So the fiftysomething lady says in her own TMI moment, "Well that ain't gonna cut it then. You need SUPER! That's why I always just back it up with a pad..." she continued, seemingly mumbling to herself as she was walking away. The last thing I heard her say was, "You see I just can't WAIT to just get rid o' mine! I'm ready to just get rid of it!" And off she went dragging her feet and flicking her wrist down into mid air.

I have a feeling she will one day remember that moment and realize that indeed, that was Too Much Information; information she wishes she hadn't shared, or even thought.

-Cathy

Highway to Hormone Hell

Since my first pregnancy, I have always been known to say “Hormones are the worst things EVER.” If you’ve been through a pregnancy, you know the physical and emotional changes your body experiences from the minute that sperm implants itself into that unassuming little egg, to the post-birth months. Just like any other part of your body, when hormones are working properly, it’s fantastic: voluptuous boobs, silky, bountiful hair, a sexual appetite that can’t be satisfied. When they’re not, you’re pretty much screwed (and dry as a bone to boot). There’s no replacement for the real thing…for anything.

After the birth of my second child a few years ago, and as the result of some unexpected, fall-from-the-sky, ridiculous, auto-immune shift in my body, I have been told that my hormones are starting to pack up and leave en masse from the comfy home I have provided them for 40 years. Apparently, they have found somewhere more accommodating they need to be, waaaaaay before their lease was up. We had an agreement, these hormones and me. They were supposed to stick around AT LEAST until I was 50, just like they did for my mother and her mother before her. But they have cheated on me and found a new love. FAR away from me.

So let me tell you the lurch this has left me in. Aside from the research, doctor hunting, book reading, Googling, testing, blood draws, doctor visits, vitamins, supplements, supposed natural hormone replacement therapy, tooth sensitivity, bone and joint pain, psychotic mood swings, hay hair, facial skin sagging, uncontrollable fits of rage/sobbing/laughter (sometimes all in the same hour), itchiness, bitchiness, zombie sleep, memory loss, no monthly periods (never thought I would miss that) and just plain irritation, I (and my doctor) have concluded that I should go back on the birth control pill. At 40 years old. I am back on the pill. Yes I am.

Since I have been told that I am way too young to be almost depleted of hormones, after much soul searching and advice seeking, the pill is the much-needed, short-term answer for me at the moment. As I deal with all of the changes in my body and what my next, long-term step will be, I have to maintain some humor about it all; it helps me cope and make heads or tails of how my body has let me down.

As such, I’ve come up with some terms to help explain to you, the Period Pollys out there with your loyal hormones still settled comfortably in your body, what it will be like when you, yes YOU, will inevitably be in the same boat. Brace yourself. It’s not pretty.

Hormone Hair – the bone dry, crackling, bushy stiffness of a head of hair that despite how much Moroccan Oil, Argan Oil, Olive Oil, leave-in conditioner, pomades, goopy conditioners or shine serums you fruitlessly slather on, will NOT help. Your hair decides to declare independence from you, and do what it damn well pleases. NO. MATTER. WHAT.


Hormone Hysterics – the erratic mood swings that can come fast and furious, like you’re in a video game swerving desperately to avoid being hit by asteroids but never stand a chance in hell. This can range from exorcist mode to laughing fits about nothing. All within an hour. And continue like this for days and days and….


Hormone Hole – the black void that is now your brain because you can’t remember jack shit if your life depended on it. You can’t even form a sentence sometimes and just mumble and fumble your way through a conversation.


Hormone Haze – the fog you walk around in day after day because your body is electrically alive at night when it should be sleeping its way into much needed oblivion. Sometimes, you are lucky if you get four or five hours of sleep per night.


Hormone Hold-out - this is what you put your poor husband through – the one who has been given a back seat to your non-existent sex drive. You never want to have sex because you never get the URGE – or even THINK about it. It’s the absolute LAST thing on your mind. And when you force yourself because you know you should – for many reasons that you’re just too young to ignore – it’s just not the same. It doesn’t feel the same; it doesn’t have the same life. It’s just an arid desert with tumbleweed rolling by; an environment not equipped to support anything that comes its way (no pun intended).

Well, you get the idea.

So come with me on this ride down Hormone Highway as I maneuver my way.
Next exit: 7,224,856 miles.

-Cathy