Posts filed under ‘Rants’
Forty is the new thirty. Fifty is the new forty. Twenty one is the new eighteen. In fact, my hormones are skyrocketing to adolescent levels even as I type.
It’s the new math. And Lord knows, I’ve never been much good at math. Funny. I’m not much good at getting younger as I age, either.
This new math is everywhere. It also applies to clothing: What used to be called a size ten is now called a size eight. (Though at Old Navy, they call it a size six. God bless vanity sizing.) In this economy, it also applies to shopping: what used to cost $30 now is a 50%-off fifteen bucks.
Everything that can have a numerical value associated with it seems to have gone down. Except, of course, the size a woman is “supposed to be.”
Seems to me that the only value moving backwards the “optimum” size for a woman, as portrayed by TV, magazines, movies, and runway shows. Because according to them, size six is the new size twelve. In other words:if you’re wearing a size six, you’re big. Excuse me? I mean, I’m pretty pleased when I’m in my vanity size 8′s, thank you very much.
Maybe it does make sense. After all, if we’re all getting younger, shouldn’t we all be getting thinner too? Shouldn’t we all be careening towards pre-pubescent hips, flawless skin, and the ability to be out in the freezing cold without a jacket? I don’t know about you, but I’m not “youngening.” I’ve said it before and I”ll say it again: if forty really is the new thirty, somebody forgot to tell my thighs. And my knees, and my eyesight. I’m not getting thinner and tauter any more than I’m getting younger and more interested in The Jonas Brothers. My brain may say thirty, but my ovaries say “I don’t think so.” (more…)
Here’s a typical day for me:
Wake up. Check mirror. Cringe. But realize there’s no time to shower. I’ve got to get the kids to school no later than 8:25. Since this is NYC, I do not have the option to get in my car in my pajamas, drop off my kids, and drive home before anyone notices me. I have to get dressed and try to achieve some semblance of presentability before leaving the house. I also have to get my kids ready, which means endless repetitions of “get dressed, brush your teeth, put your socks on, where’s your homework, sit down while you eat, you have to go to the bathroom now?, where’s your other shoe, hit the elevator button, and do you have your Metrocard?” Once we finally achieve the impossible and leave the house on time, we have to walk the four blocks to the city bus stop, hope the bus comes, hope when it does come the dispatcher doesn’t hold it there while he yacks about the Yankees with the driver and leaves all us parents and commuters seething, ride the bus across town, walk the six blocks to school from the bus stop, climb five flights of stairs to their classrooms, and then do the whole thing in reverse. All before 9am.
Once I’m home, do the breakfast dishes, make the beds, pick up their toys, check my email, look in the refrigerator for something to eat, try to get some writing done, procrastinate by cleaning out the linen closet (really just a few shelves in my bedroom cabinet, but it makes me feel better to call it a linen closet), realize that the crack in the living room ceiling is getting ominously bigger, make mental note to do something about it…eventually, open the refrigerator again as if expecting new food to have magically appeared since the last time I opened it forty minutes ago, run some errands, go to the gym, shower (finally), prepare dinner, prepare snacks, pick up kids, serve snacks, help with homework, greet the husband, serve the dinner, clean the dishes, tuck in the kids, pay some bills, do some online shopping (my son is growing at an alarming rate), knit a few rows of the sweater I’ve been working on for three years, collapse in front of the TV, converse with husband, (monosyllables, at best), wash up, put on pajamas, get into bed, and try to get enough sleep so I can do it all again the next day.
So you know what I want for Mother’s Day? A day off. I want to wake up in a nether world where my kids don’t want anything from me other than to shower me with praise and love. I want to live in an apartment where the beds are made by invisible imps who don’t come to you with their problems, don’t put away your favorite jeans somewhere you can’t find them, and never ever ask for a raise. I want to go to the gym and not worry about how soon I have to be back, or whether or not it’s fair to my husband to have to stay home with the kids when he’s been working all week and I’ve been able to go to the gym whenever I want to (Ha!). I want to shower in the morning, and have time to blow-dry my hair. I want to make one thing for dinner and have everyone eat it. Or better yet, have someone else make it, and do the dishes afterward.
It’s not that I don’t realize that I’m lucky. My children are healthy. We are not poor, or starving, or displaced by war, or floods, or fire. I have a loving husband, a caring family, a comfortable home. I am not ill, or in peril. I get it: I’m one of the lucky ones. Which makes me feel all the worse that all I really want for Mother’s Day is a day off.
I want a Mother’s Day Off. A day off from the guilt, and the worry, and the responsibility. A day off from the whining and complaining, and instant refusal to try any new food, even if it’s just a different brand of chicken nugget. I want to have a day where no one talks back, everyone does as they’re told and my breasts miraculously return to their pre-I’ve-breast-fed-two-kids state, and pass the pencil test with ease.
I want a bouquet of freshly picked flowers, sunshine and warmth without that
humidity. I want to be like a character in an old Fred Astaire movie, burst into song, know all the words, have a full orchestra accompanying me, and dance the foxtrot like nobody’s business.
Ok, well, maybe I’m getting carried away.
How about I just knock it down to wanting to sleep in and not have to do the breakfast dishes? Oh, and if I do decide to burst into song, I don’t want anybody to laugh.
Hey, it’s Mother’s Day. Is that really so much to ask?
This week, summer prematurely came to New York and with it, came a few discoveries.
1. People on the East Side spend a lot of time on their knees, while people on the West Side spend a lot of time on their food. How else to explain the plethora of tulips, hyacinths, and daffodils sprouting from every tree-trunk garden from East 69th Street to East 91st Street, and the presence of Zabars, Citarella, H&H, Barney Greengrass and Fairway in roughly the same area on the West Side of town?
2. When your children scooter to school, it is unwise to wear your brand new bright yellow beaded Rafe flats. You will get blisters. You will bleed. The yellow will turn orange. And not in a good way.You don’t want orange shoes.
3. Whichever Ice Cream your child wants from the Ice Cream vendor whether it’s neon green shots, disgusting Sponge Bob ice with gumball eyes, or even the basic Ice Cream sandwich — said vendor will be out of it.
4. I am old.
No, this isn’t about my upcoming birthday (Sunday – feel free to leave birthday greetings right here in the comment section. No. Really. Do.) This isn’t about saggy knees, or brown spots, or elbows that look as if they’ve been crumpled up in the back of a drawer for a few decades. No, I know I am old because I am consistently horrified by what “young girls” are wearing.
Yes, it seems I have jumped right from young mom in trendy threads, to disapproving Grandma in hip-high underwear without stopping at middle-aged woman still trying to be relevant.
Is there some rule that if you are female and possessing of a bustline you must display it so prominently that one might think your are at a State Fair, vying for the blue ribbon in Breast Augmentation? (more…)
The Bachelor: how does it offend me? Let me count the ways. There’s the cliche of women cat-fighting over a man. The assumption that happiness can only come to the woman who “nabs” a mate. There’s the vacuity of the entire premise: that true love can be found on TV, in six weeks, in a fantasy land of spectacular vistas and exotic trips. Then there’s the soft-core porn quality of the immense amount of PDA: extreme close-ups of open mouthed kisses, bikini clad women straddling a man wearing nothing but a well placed towel. Not to mention the fact that said man has had these PDA moments with any number of the contestants. Which, according to the premise of the show, makes him loving, and not just a horn-dog with a free pass. (more…)
Years ago, my sister got my father a t-shirt that read: I’m not deaf, I’m just ignoring you.
I think my 8 year old son has somehow, through the miracle of genetic osmosis, absorbed that message.
Here is a typical exchange:
Me: Time to get off the computer.
He: I am getting off. (continues exactly as before)
Me: Time to get off the computer.
He: I am. Right now. (continues exactly as before)
Me: Computer. Off.
He: (continues on)
He: (continues on)
and on and on and on.
It’s kind of an audiological phenomenon. As if getting so old that I’m invisible to men under the age of 70 wasn’t bad enough, now I’m inaudible to boys under ten.
I’m going to start manufacturing a line of mom-hearing aids. Hearing aids that make kids hear their moms all the time, even over the ambient noise of computer games. I’ll call it The Momplifyer.
Now if I could just get someone to listen to my pitch….
Part of my fabulous Mexico vacation was not so fabulous: An entire glass of water spilled on my laptop, and now it is no longer.
I’ve always had Dells (so sue me, I’m cheap) and so went on line to order a new one. The Dell representative I spoke to, Jamie Norman, told me I couldn’t order the less expensive Studio version, because she couldn’t guarantee shipment by Friday. (Today) So I spent more, (about 12% more) to get the snazzy new XPS 1330 which she SWORE would be here by Friday, which is today, which it isn’t. It won’t get here until Wednesday. Which wouldn’t be SO bad, except that I told Miss Jamie that I leave for a business meeting in Silicon Valley on Monday.
Hmmmm. Business meeting in the tech capital of the world, with a new tech company/new client and NO LAPTOP.
After 45 minutes on hold and talking to pretty much every service rep in Southeast Asia, I have no help, no answer. Only a trip to Best Buy to get another computer will help me. Which I guess is better anyway, since clearly, Dell does not know the meaning of the word customer service. And who wants a computer from a company like that?
Dell: you stink.
Here’s what was happening in my professional (if unpaid) life last week: I was invited to a media preview of the hot new Wii Game, Animal Crossing: City Folk. At the party, the game was there, and in the spirit of the game, in which you create and can change your Mii to suit your mood, and live a virtual life, there were make-over artists, stylists, fortune tellers…and most importantly, martinis. (Though I’m pretty sure that Mii’s don’t drink.)
Here’s what happened in my actual life: I stayed home with a sick child.
Now, I know that kids get sick. I know that it’s just part of parenthood: the puke-filled nights, the snot-filled tissues the kids never seem to remember to throw into the trash. But did it have to happen when I was invited to a ladies night out? By a company in whose best interest it was to show all of us bloggers a fun time? (And in this blog post, it does look like it was fun.) Did it have to happen when I could have gone to a bar in the East Village and not felt like the oldest, least hip, woman in the room? (more…)
I like to refer to my lululemon pants as my “magic pants.” They make my butt look small. That, ladies and gentlemen, is magic. They make my stomach look flat. That is not just magic, it’s miraculous. Every time I wear them, someone asks me if I’ve lost weight. That is spectacular. It’s even better than vanity sizing.
Today, however, the magic died when my Patagonia jacket ruined my pants. There’s some weird rough thing on the toggles of my Patagonia jacket. Now, it looks like someone sandpapered off the front of my pants. Not only that, it draws attention to the only part of my lower half the magic doesn’t work on – my thighs. Now, instead of noticing my smaller-looking butt, or my flatter-looking stomach, people’s eyes are drawn to my still-large thighs. This is not good. This is anti-magic. This is reality. Oh the horror!
Patagonia offered to give me a new jacket (if I paid the difference) but what about the magic? I want Penn and Teller. I want Doug Hennings. I want the magic, baby. I want a new pair of lululemon pants!
But it’s true.
When I was a kid my mother made no attempt to conceal her disdain for the “holiday” she referred to as “that day when children who have everything go door to door like shnorrers, begging for food.” But I liked the holiday, I loved dressing up in my princess costume and getting to wear makeup. I couldn’t wait to get all that candy. I would hoard it for months, and then have to throw away when it started getting stale, or growing legs and walking out of my hiding place on its own. (Watch out! Attack of the killer mold!)
To my Mom’s credit, she participated in the pagan ritual of Halloween despite her feelings. She knew I liked it, and she did what she could. That included turning me into a stick of Juicy Fruit. Yep, that’s me, circa 1974.
I’m sure she hated every minute of it. But she did it to make me happy. And now, (since every day I am turning into my mother more and more), I’m “doing” Halloween, even though I hate it. (more…)