Well-heeled or healed?

A few years ago, I was in Chicago for an International Expo. It meant long days standing in an exhibit hall.

I had recently purchased a pair of black patent leather shoes by Dansko. They’re water resistant, non-slip, great for a healthy back and super comfortable.

The Chicago weather was cold and rainy, so my Danskos were the perfect thing to wear.

One of my stylish nieces lives in Chicago. When I walked into her apartment one evening, she stepped back and in the tone a daughter uses only with her mother (and Godmother) said,  “WHAT….are you WEARING?”

I realized she was looking at my shoes.

I tried to sell her on the benefits of Danskos.

She wasn’t buyin’ it.

“Those are…. AWFUL! ….just  TERRIBLE!”

Then she added, “They aren’t even….FEMININE!”

Hey, I was  already wearing black pants and a Land’s End blouse with a company logo, how much more utilitarian could a gal look?

I was comfortable. She was disgusted.

Two months later, I again traveled to the snowy Midwest for Christmas, wearing my Danskos in place of winter boots.

I was immediately scolded: “OK…NOW you’ve crossed over. You’re wearing them ALL the time, aren’t you?”

I had nothing to say for myself. It was true. I had been powerless; seduced by the comfort and practicality of my butchy shoes.

Cited by the entire family fashion police force, I was a victim of officer brutality. Shamed back into cute shoes, I vowed to wear my horrible Danskos only when required for work.

Months later, when warm weather arrived, I dug my Spring collection out of the back of the closet. I wore strappy heels every day for a couple of weeks.

Clearly, fashion sense trumped common sense.

Soon, the pain propelled me to a podiatrist.

The foot doc was passionate about healthy feet. I eyeballed her, and noticed she was sporting a pair of athletic shoes.

She quickly schooled me on the evils of flip flops, all thong-style shoes, ballet flats, and the pitfalls of so-called “comfort” shoes. I sat there mentally sorting the contents of the shoe cubbies in my closet. In my mind, all that remained was athletic shoes and those Danskos – which according to the Doc are great for healthy feet.

Panic set in. I told her about a family wedding just 4 weeks away, and wondered what shoes I would wear. She listened, and then handed me a framed photo of her family taken at a recent, and very fancy wedding.

Her dress was stunning. Her shoes were low in sensibility and high in fabulosity. This Doc possessed the style and elegance that seems to be innate to many Persian women. Perhaps she wasn’t all scrubs and running shoes.

She dispensed this girlfriend medical advice :  “You have to live! Go buy some fabulous shoes. Before you get dressed for the wedding, take 4 ibuprofen. When you arrive at the reception, have a cocktail or glass of wine. Then take 4 ibuprofen with dinner. The next day, put your athletic shoes on and let your feet recover.

I followed the doc’s treatment plan. While my foot made a complete recovery, my style prognosis is bleak.

For many women, buying shoes is an easy way to stay current. Despite figure flaws or shifting shapes, we can always count on finding something cute to fit our feet.

Then we hit middle age, and the sexy foot talk begins:  Bunions, arches, and arthritis. Neuromas and plantar fasciitis.

Suddenly, slipping into something more comfortable means putting in our custom orthotics.

Ironically, the most painful step is admitting you have a problem. Surrendering to rehab is difficult.

I know I’m not the only gal struggling to give their unhealthy addiction to cute shoes, the boot. I hear it from women frequently.

A few months ago,  The Laughing Mom grieved the loss of her life in cute shoes.

I was reminded of the conflict between the shoes we want vs. the shoes we need, when I saw the new Sarah Jessica Parker shoe collection at Nordstrom.

First of all, SJP had me at grossgrain ribbon. In a sweet homage to her mother, and the only hair accessories they could afford during SJP’s childhood, the shoes have grossgrain ribbon along the back of the heel.

The colors are fresh and the styles are elegant.

While the collection is lovely, I have an issue with it.

SJP is celebrating her 49th birthday next week, which means she is middle-aged!

Since she’s one of us, I’m applying some peer pressure: Not to change her style, but to help her sisters born in the 60’s, with ours.

We don’t need more Manolos, Jimmy Choos, or Louboutins for special occasions. The market is saturated.

We need an everyday shoe breakthrough!

Middle-aged gals want to be well-heeled daily, in gorgeous shoes that are healthy for their feet.

I’m tired of buying good-for-my-feet shoes simply because “Well, they aren’t too bad.”

Maybe SJP will step it up with her fall collection, and bring us some beautiful shoes from Italy, that are sensible enough to wear every day.

In the meantime, if you do splurge on a pair of SJP’s dangerously cute kicks for your Spring collection, they may empty your pocketbook a bit.

On the bright side, you’ll have room for that bottle of ibuprofen.*

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* This is not intended as medical advice.  While I studied for my Web, M.D. via Google, I am not a licensed physician. 

The Gift Of The Moment

Next month, I will be attending the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop.

This is very cool for me because I have always enjoyed Erma’s writing. It is often heartwarming, always pure comic genius, and timeless. Long before I could relate my personal life experiences to her writing, I thought she was hilarious.

At the age of 50, I have a greater appreciation for her insight and her use of  humor to celebrate the ups, and cope with the downs, of life. Life is short, but some days sure seem long. The ability to see the funny in everyday life is a gift.

Even Erma’s views on the subject of humor were insightful. Some of her more famous quotes about the importance of humor are:

If you can’t make it better, you can laugh at it.

He who laughs….last.

When humor goes, there goes civilization.

I have a sentimental attachment to her writing, because it reminds me of my Mom. When I was growing up, one of us would often ask the other, “Did you read Erma today?” Together, we laughed about her column, read her books and watched her segments on Good Morning America.

During the summer, we also tuned in at 9:00 a.m. to watch The Phil Donahue Show together. Oh, the education a teen could gain from The Phil Donahue Show back then. It was THE source for information, because he covered all the thought-provoking and juicy topics.

So, Phil and Erma are forever linked together in my mind. Not only because they are former neighbors who had a mutual admiration and affection for each other, but because they were involved in a sort of 1970’s Midwestern love triangle with my mom and me. Nothin’ weird here, this was a triangle of appreciation and adoration.

We enjoyed Phil, and we loved Erma. Erma and Phil loved and adored each other.

In light of this, it is especially cool for me that Phil Donahue will be the keynote speaker at the The Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop.

During a visit to my hometown over the holidays, I decided to tell my Mom that I had gotten into the workshop. The former version of my Mom would have been so tickled about this. I knew the current version of my Mom, with advanced dementia, would not fully grasp what I was saying. I also knew she would have absolutely no memory of the conversation, just a minute later.

Despite being the subject of a few blog posts, including Sweetie Pie and She’s Such A Doll; she knows nothing about my blog, and has never read a single post.

So, as silly as it may be, I still wanted to share this news with her, and just enjoy the moment. 

One afternoon I sat in her room, reading the Christmas cards she had received. Some included photos or letters. (For anyone who continues to remember nursing home residents with greeting cards, may God Bless you for this kindness.) We passed the cards, photos, and notes back and forth. She was able to fondly recall at least a small detail about each friend or family member.

She was “tracking” fairly well, so I decided to share my news with her. As we chatted, she was lying on her side, atop her bed, like a teenage girl. Her elbow bent, her head propped up in her hand.

“Mom, do you remember reading Erma Bombeck?”

“Oh GAWD, yes. She’s SO funny!”

“Well, do you remember my friend, Terri?”

“Well, of course. How is she?”

I went on to explain in very simple terms, with no details, that Terri and I would both be attending the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop in Dayton, Ohio.

I never even got to the part about Phil Donahue.

My Mom sat up, and said, “Really? You’re kidding?”

Wow! Had I really picked the perfect lucid moment?

Then she said, “We should call Grandma! She loves Erma, too!  She’ll go with us!”

Chatting with dementia, the trickster, is sort of what I imagine doing improvisational comedy is like: you never know which direction your partner will go next. You need to be on your toes, open to anything, think quickly, and just go with it.

We both smiled at the idea.

It was a lovely moment.

I went with it.

“Sure, that’s a great idea, Mom!”

As she slowly counted off on her right hand, she said “That’s 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 of us.”

Yep. Me, Terri, Mom, Grandma….and Erma gettin’ away for the weekend.

Of course, only three of us are actually alive, and only two of us are registered for the workshop.

Yet in some way, I feel like all five us will in fact be there.

.

Laughter rises out of tragedy when you need it the most, and rewards you for your courage.

– Erma Bombeck

Red Carpet Ready

Photo credit: Hollywood Reporter

As the saying goes, “It is an honor just to be nominated.”

While I’ve been crossing off the days in anticipation of the Academy Awards on 3.02.14, I have received some exciting news of my own.

I learned that I have been nominated for a Liebster Award. This nomination came courtesy of  Jenn Lost In Chaos.

My excitement quickly turned to anxiety, when I realized:  I’m not at my goal weight, and I have to be red-carpet-ready for my big moment!

Oh no, what will I wear? I guess I’m going to have to depend on shape wear to save my fanny…among other things.

Luckily, I recently heard about a new line of shape wear sold via one of those mesmerizing late night infomercials.  I had to see it for myself, so I got my Google on. I wasn’t sure what search terms to use, so I started with “Spanx for arms.”

I was surprised to find more than one manufacturer of shape wear for arms. Is this a great time to be 50 years old, or what?  No need to worry about bingo arms or bat wings in our future!

Then I looked more closely. The “Armery”  appears to create sausage arms, especially in the nude shade. That’s it. I vow to pick up my hand weights and do the necessary reps and sets to avoid walking the red carpet with giant bockwurst swinging from my shoulders.

During this last Holiday season, I was staying with the hilarious sister. One evening, while she was getting dressed for a party, she called me into her bedroom. There she stood, wearing only her black bra and panties and a cleverly designed “torsette.” By the way, believe me when I tell you…..she looked exactly like this:

She handed me the tag she had just cut off her new shaper, and said, “Read this!”

I sat down and read:

“Invisibly smoothes, shapes and slims. Wonderful Edge® no ride, no lines…Shape your waist and smooth your back….Wonderful Panel® no ride, no lines with a seamless appearance…..stretches for a better fit and more comfort”

The hilarious sister said, “Now watch this.”

She sat down, and amazingly her torsette was instantly in motion. Very s-l-o-w-l-y, the hem at her hips began to roll, and like a motorized window shade in a Las Vegas hotel room, it steadily rose until it reach her bustline. In a matter of seconds, like a high roller on the Vegas strip, I was enjoying my own priceless view.

Naturally, I made her stand up, sit down and repeat this. Several times. It was hysterically funny, and we were in tears.

As she struggled to peel off the torsette, she said, “You know, it’s a good thing people can’t see what’s going on underneath your clothes.”

Amen sister.

Needless to say, that shape wear fail and it’s tag full of empty promises was returned for a full refund.

In addition to the torsette, options in shape wear now include: tummy trimmers, thigh slimmers, butt lifters, cellulite smoothers, back fat banishers. I’m all for proper undergarments, skirts and dresses that “hang” correctly,  and smooth lines…but this is getting ridiculous.

Now we find out that shape wear can cause health problems. Surely, this is a surprise only to men people who have never worn any. While there are gents who sport Spanx For Men, personally, I haven’t heard any fellas tellin’ tales. However, most women have had a painful shape wear experience at some point.

There is the shaping-camisole-caught-in-your-curlers-conundrum; the bruising sensation as a Spanx waistband traverses the knees to hips region; the fierce struggle to squeeze into an all-in-one shaper that results in dewy make-up and messed up hair. This brings suffering for beauty and fashion to another level.

I had to help a bride elope from her oppressive shapewear halfway through her wedding reception. She could barely breathe due to a bridal belly ache. The petite bride had tiny Spanx so I was able to discreetly hide her bridal shaper in my small evening bag. No one was the wiser. If I ever had the nerve to ditch my shape wear midway through an evening, I’m certain mine would require something more the size of a satchel.

My own painful shape wear incident happened during a long afternoon and evening of funeral home visitation for my Mom’s husband, Gene. I was sure I was going to need amputation…at the waist, due to strangulation by a shorts style shaper. The situation became excruciating after a carry-in dinner of Coney Dogs from our hometown favorite, in honor of Gene. Believe me, the absurdity of eating hot dogs with chili and onions at a funeral home while wearing a shaper, is not lost on me. Frankly, I’m surprised rocket combustion didn’t launch me into orbit.

Wait…..What’s that? The Leibster Awards doesn’t involve an actual ceremony, a red carpet or a statue? I can stay on the couch for this Award Ceremony, too? 

Darn! I had a spot cleared on the bookshelf for my statue.

Silver lining: I have the perfect thing to wear. Yoga pants. Sans shape wear.

I’m golden after all!

Many Thanks to Jenn. It is an honor just to be nominated.

Now go check her out and see what she is up to over at  Jenn Lost In Chaos.

In The Bag

The future came and went

A few months ago, our city joined a growing number of California cities and counties and introduced a ban on single-use plastic shopping bags. I understand the reason for the new law. This is a beach town, and the ban is a positive step towards keeping discarded bags off our beach and out of the ocean.

Shoppers here in Surf City now have three options:

1. Bring their own reusable bags to the store
2. Purchase reusable bags which vary in price from $.99 to $5.99
3. Purchase a paper bag made from recycled paper for a .10 “pass through fee”

I’ve been in the habit of toting my reusable bags to the market for quite a few years, but the ban on plastic bags applies to ALL stores:  Groceries, Target, Home Depot, Lowes, drug stores, etc.

Overall, it has been a smooth transition, but we’ve had our rough spots. I’ve witnessed some tense confrontations between shoppers and cashiers and baggers. Unfortunately, none of cashiers or baggers are members of the city council, and therefore didn’t pass the ordinance.

I’ve heard shoppers demand to know what is being done with the revenue generated from paper bag sales. (Revenue stays with the store to cover the expense of providing the costlier paper bags.)

I live near a large retirement community. I’ve seen defiant Seniors wheel carts of loose groceries out of the store. Their purchases rattle and bounce across the pavement on the way to the car. Then they pile the loose groceries into the trunk of the car.

What happens next for these stand-your-ground-shoppers? How many trips does it take to get a trunkful of loose groceries into the house?

Seeing this, I wistfully recalled the days of the “lazy man load”:  looping the handles of at least (8) plastic bags over each outstretched arm in an effort to get all the groceries into the house in a single trip. We’ve all done it, but why? We’re not Sherpas ascending Mount Everest, we’re merely transporting the load from the car to the kitchen.

I quickly discovered that a full day of errand running requires several bags. This is where my dilemma began.

Maybe it’s just me, and my OCD…. but I feel I need to use store specific bags. I mean, is it acceptable to carry an Albertsons bag into Ralphs? I feel sorta hoity-toity carrying a Whole Foods bag into folksy ‘ole Sprouts. It seems downright gross to put my shiny new purchases from Target into a ratty Safeway bag.

This was getting complicated, so I decided to forgo the store-branded bags altogether – well, except for the freebies – I mean let’s be reasonable.

I went online. Since I hate visual clutter, I had the bright idea to buy bags to match my car. This way my cargo compartment would look mono-chromatic and orderly during a full day of errand running. Hey, you find your bliss, and I’ll find mine.

Then I began to wonder: Could the reusable bags technically be considered fashion accessories? Should they match my outfit? Maybe the should match my shoes? Unsure, I went ahead and bought a few in a bold, black and white toile print. Classic, with a twist.

Luckily, until we sort out the style guidelines, I’m confident a Trader Joe’s bag works as a solid neutral. Like nude patent leather, it goes with everything and you can carry it anywhere. It’s what my Mother would call “transitional.” It is widely accepted as the “go-to” bag. Thankfully, I own a several of these, and a few could be considered vintage gems.

Many of us germa-phobes sanitize our shopping carts with anti-bacterial wipes upon entry into the market. But concerns have been raised about the reusable bags presenting a more serious sanitation issue. Cross-contamination is inevitable. Bacteria and viruses can even be transferred from one shopper’s bag to the next shopper’s bag via the bagger.

Oh you think this sounds crazy? Did you hear about the reusable shopping bag that sickened an entire soccer team in Oregon?

Nope, no need to attend a Family Pa-flu-za or embark on the Explorer Of The Seas. Another modern convenience: you can pick up a case of Norovirus right at your local market.

Crap! I may need to just sack everything and start over, because now I need bags that are WASHABLE! 

For now, the collection of shopping bags in the back of my car continues to grow.

I’m not living in my car, but I am officially a bag lady.

Time Travelers

For the first time in 50 years, I had an argument with my Mother.

We were chatting on the phone and reminiscing, when the subject turned to my Dad being mad at me.

“You know what you should do?” She said.

 “What?” I could not imagine what she was about to say.

“You should apologize to your Dad.” she said in a matter of  fact tone.

“Apologize?  For What?”

“Just apologize. He’ll like that.”

Then, in a sing-songy voice she continued, “When he gets home, why don’t you just say:  Dad…I’m really sorry…I didn’t mean to make you so mad. Will you forgive me?”

Instantly, I flamed. I could feel my blood pressure rising.

“Mom! I have NOTHING to apologize for!”

“Just do it.”she suggested.

“I didn’t do anything WRONG, Mother!”

“Come on, just apologize!”she said oh-so-very-sweetly.

“NO! Absolutely NOT. I am NOT apologizing to him!”

I stood my ground.

This is embarrassing because my Mother has advanced dementia. And my Dad passed away in 1986.

So yes, I had an argument with my 83-year old Mother….and refused to apologize for something that happened when I was 19… to my Dad who has been dead nearly 30 years.

Ridiculous, I know, and certainly not my proudest moment.

I dialed up my friend Nancy.

She was familiar with  my loving, but head-butting relationship with my Dad, and she is actively dealing with two aging parents . It’s a full circle friendship. I knew she would understand, and most importantly, laugh with me about the absurdity.

“What is wrong with me?” I asked her, after we had finished laughing.

Nancy said, “It’s those damn letters!  You read all those letters, and now YOU’RE  back in the 80’s with Lois!”

Maybe she was onto to something.

I had recently found a box of old letters, written to me throughout both terms of the Reagan Presidency. Letters from high school friends, college friends, and several family members.

I scanned the letters from my girlfriends, and emailed copies to the authors. (More on that, later.)

I also read the letters – all except the dozens from my Mom. I bundled those up and tucked them away for another day. I’ve gotten used to the  current version of my Mother, and I don’t want to reacquaint myself  just yet, with the previous version of her that I miss so terribly.

The event my Mom and I we were reminiscing about during our phone conversation was a coming of age moment for me, in the early 80’s. My Dad was not adjusting too well to my increasing independence, and during our debate of the day, I had outfoxed him for the first time.

He was openly furious.  I was silently victorious. Mom was secretly amused.

It has been one of my Mother’s favorite stories. The former version of my Mother would re-enact the conversation with me and we would have a good giggle.

However the current version of my Mother, who’s  mind was  somewhere back in the 1980’s  during our phone conversation, viewed it differently.

As Nancy had so insightfully pointed out, just maybe those old letters had opened a portal to emotional time travel for me, too.

So during the phone call, there I was, transported back to that summer evening, only to discover my Mom had switched  sides. I had no ally. Like the  cheese in the dell, I  stood alone.

Dementia can be magical thinking. It’s also a trickster, and it certainly keeps you on your toes. As such, our phone conversation quickly turned, and suddenly we were  back to the current day.

My Mom quizzed me.

“Where are you?”

“When did you move?”

“How old am I?”

“How old is your Dad?”

“How old are you?”

I answered truthfully (except for the teensy fib about Dad still being alive.)

She was shocked: “I can’t believe  you’re 50. Well, at least you’re not older than me, yet!”

Magical thinking indeed.

We began to wrap up our phone conversation.

Dad would be home from work soon, and she needed to get home to make dinner. She told me there wasn’t much in the fridge, so she planned to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

We said our “I love you’s” and hung up.

I admit, I was still  a bit miffed.

Hmmmphh. I thought smugly.

I should apologize?  I don’t think so.

SHE is the one who should be  apologizing…for that menu.

That’ll be the first and last time Dad eats a PB & J sandwich for dinner. 

No Waiting (or privacy) In Lane 3

I actually enjoy grocery shopping. Like many shoppers, I have my favorite cashiers at the stores I frequent.We talk about local news, the weather,silly tabloid headlines, or what they did on their day off. This is all welcomed and enjoyable chit-chat. Sometimes they comment on my purchases, ask what I’ll be cooking and we discuss recipes.

However, on occasion I am taken aback by judgmental commentary on my purchases – from cashiers I am not familiar with. It stuns me. I am  always able to come up with a witty retort …..minutes later during the drive home.

Like the time  I went grocery shopping at a major chain, in preparation for houseguests. My guests included a little one. I wanted the sweet little lass to feel at home, so I was stocking up on her favorite foods. As the cashier scanned all the yummie “kiddie” food, he said, “Wow.”

“Pardon me?” I said.

“Do you know what the ingredients are in all this food?” he asked.

I explained about my company arriving the next day. He proceeded to shame me for my purchases, and told me I shouldn’t be so accommodating. He then added that he would never buy groceries from this store. He told me he shopped exclusively in organic markets and health food stores. I can only imagine his moral conflict: collecting a paycheck from a supposed poison peddler.

I should have complimented the store manager on his crusading cashier. Instead, I scurried to the parking lot and stuffed my reusable shopping bags full of shame into the car.

I’ve also dealt with the cashier who was thoroughly annoyed when I purchased a selection of  lovely Winter root vegetables  to oven roast. The vegetables were all unrecognizable to him. He had to first identify them, and then look up the code for each one. This involved a great deal of exasperated eye rolling. “Dude! You  buy  weird stuff!” he finally  huffed.

I can’t win. I’ve been equally shamed for  buying processed junk food and healthy whole food. I can’t handle the judgement. I’m thinking about going  to the market incognito.

Shhhh…Just keep your trap shut and put the goods  in the bag

For me, the most awkward commentary happens at the neighborhood drugstore.

I cringe when I discreetly pile my goods on the counter only to hear the cashier say “Uh-Oh!” or “You poor thing.” or “Somebody isn’t havin’ a good day.”

I  feel like this intentionally sympathetic commentary unintentionlly spotlights my shopping basket, or more specifically: the current conditions south of the border.

I mean, where else do your purchases indicate your current issues in such a revealing and public way?  There is privacy at the pharmacy counter, but we share freely with the group at the checkout counter, whether we want to or not.

Decades ago while traveling with my Mother and sister, one of us daughters was suffering an uncomfortable bout of the ‘ole vacation constipation. My mother, an old school R.N., suggested a Fleet’s Enema. My sister and I were horrified at the thought, but we promptly hoofed it to a very busy downtown drugstore  to purchase the prescribed relief for… one of us.

We waited uncomfortably (one of us more uncomfortable than the other) in a very long line. Finally,as  we awkwardly plopped that enema on the counter, I loudly asked my sister, “Are you SURE this is the kind Mom likes?”

Mother unknowingly took one for the team that day. Heaven forbid anyone in line know that one of us had an issue.

Really, shouldn’t there be a partition or privacy screen separating the customer who is being helped, from the rest of the gawkers in line?

A gentleman could discreetly pick up feminine products for his lady.

It would eliminate the awkwardness for all of us when purchasing unmentionables like: wart remover; hemorrhoid remedies; lice shampoo; anti-fungal anything; Kaopectate; laxatives; the triple-threat of tampons, Cheeto’s and M&M’s; or anything associated with the care or treatment of lady parts in general.

Sure, buying discreetly online is an option, except for the sense of urgency usually associated with the need for the embarrassing stuff.

Until there is a privacy screen, I guess it’s dark glasses and the drive thru lane for me the next time I need to buy a Fleet’s enema…..for Mother.

I Kan’t Take Any More!

I’ve had it with the big names in the news this week.

I’ve averted my eyes and still can’t avoid them. They seemed to be everywhere all week: on every show and website, and in every newspaper and magazine.

Not our Congressional Representatives.

I’m tired of Kanye, all the Kardashians, and I’m lumping Miley Cyrus in with them.

The folks at Today fawned over Miley for 2 days this week. How does this fit their demographic? They gushed about her “undeniable talent.”

Matt Lauer asked Miley about the sexually-charged imagery in her recent performances. Under-educated Miley equated this to actually having sex. Matt acted amused by the inane chit chat that ensued; I thought he appeared lecherous.

I wanted to scream a few days ago, when I received an iTunes email spotlighting the release of Miley’s Bangerz. Really, iTunes? The only bangers I’m interested in are the delicious ones from the Brits, piled atop a scoop of mash, thank you.

Sure, Lady GaGa, Gwen Stefani, Madonna and Pink may be provocative; but there is a definite artistic quality to their performance styles. I can appreciate them. Miley’s latest incarnation seems to take elements from all three of these artists, but the result is a poor and trashy knock-off that relies heavily on shock value.

In my opinion, her efforts to reinvent herself and move beyond child star status to full blown womanhood have back-fired. It shows just how immature she is. Shame on her entire team for resorting to sleaze and vulgarity. She could have rocked this transition a bit differently, and still had platinum seller.

What I find most offensive is her lack of willingness to  be a role model. With fame comes responsibility. Like showing tweens and teens how badass* a pair of shorts can be when it actually covers the entire fanny.

Instead she has been opting to let her cheeks hang out. Bad form, and even worse – bad fashion.

It is unfortunate that Miley didn’t look to Beyonce for inspiration. Whether Bey is covered from neck to toe in a catsuit, or at the very least has all her naughty bits covered;  she is sexy, beautiful, elegant, classy and an excellent role model. She made a flawless transition from girl group to “single lady.”

I refuse to include a photo of anyone else mentioned in the post, except for her….

News of the Kardashian family seems to have been fairly minimal since the birth of Kim and Kanye’s baby. Hasn’t this been blissful?

Until…

Kanye started a twitter feud with Kimmel.

Khloe tweeted  poetic about Lamar.

Kris and Bruce split.

Then, this week Kanye defended and explained his self-described genius on Kimmel.

It seems in his world of excess, our genius Kanye has everything  except a sense of humor. He should smarten up and get one. Life is going to be a tough road for him, unless he learns to laugh, especially at himself.

Honestly, I wish the whole lot of them would move to their own planet and take Miley and her wrecking ball with them. I think Krypton is a fitting locale.

Bonus for them:  it works for a spinoff title. Bonus for us: it’s  a different solar system.

Bad behavior. Crass language. Lack of etiquette. Bad grammar.  Annoying voices. The vocal fry. Materialism. Narcissism. Self-indulgence.

Is anyone else tired of all this?

I’m a total news junkie and do keep current on world events, and I am fully aware that there are real problems in the world. Maybe that’s why I enjoy a little fluffy celeb and entertainment news on the side.

I’m just looking forward to the day when some decorum and class returns to entertainment and entertainment news.

We need Ron Burgundy.

and him

I’m just worried his new tagline will be “Stay Klassy.”

*For the record, I despise the word “badass”as an adjective for everything…except Navy Seals.

Girls Gone 50

I snore like a freight train. Who wants to sleep with me?

Hey, I get up to pee 3 times a night.

Well, I fart, so no one will want to sleep with me.

No pretense here.

Just a few details discussed in a series of emails between 3 high school girlfriends and me as we planned a 50th birthday weekend last February.

We would spend two days in Napa and two days in San Francisco. Two of us were 50, and two of us would soon be 50.  Two prefer a well-planned, make the most of our time kind of itinerary, and two lean towards a  stumble upon serendipity travel philosophy. Two offered to be the designated driver, and two…did not.

All four of us were wearing happy faces and party shoes when we gathered at our girlfriend Jan’s San Francisco home. After our first afternoon together, her 16-year-old son Trevor said, “Mom, your friends are just so…..loud.” Girlfriends spend no time getting reacquainted. We hit the ground running. Figuratively, of course, because one bad hip and an arthritic foot prevented us from literally running.

We sorted out our sleeping arrangements based on our nighttime habits. The next morning, one of us divulged that her roommate may have sleep apnea. By the second morning she had recorded the apnea episodes on her phone. We listened to the recordings in the car and screamed with laughter. True girlfriends lovingly harass you all the way to a future night’s stay  in a sleep clinic…

A great sport to send me the photo AND let me use it.

We had fancy pants accommodations in a private cottage at a Napa resort. We enjoyed great wine &  food. We saw the sights in the city. We shopped, we gabbed and we laughed til our abs hurt.

Jen has a ridiculous talent. Mention any word or phrase during conversation and she will  break out in a song with lyrics that match whatever has just been said.  It annoys her college-aged children.  It amuses 50-year-old girlfriends.

We met four adorable 20-somethings from Boston at the first winery we visited. Three sisters and a good-natured boyfriend. They thought it was wicked cool that ladies were doing wine country to celebrate turning 50. Ladies?  We are GIRLfriends. Two nights later, we walked into an Irish bar in San Francisco to find those Bostonians kneeling on barstools, waving wildly and screaming over the crowd,  “It’s our ladies!” Again, with the Ladies? Better than old ladies, I guess.

We saw a great band and made friends with the sharp dressed frontman. 

Full disclosure:  We left right after this photo was taken because the place was “stinky” (translation: it smelled like….a bar)

Despite our differences, we had only one disagreement. After our final dinner, the ole “tip vs. don’t tip on the tax” debate erupted. Our server politely returned the check twice.  We didn’t have enough to cover the bill…before tip. Thirty years ago, math with absolute numbers could be difficult. At 50, math with Absolut vodka is nearly impossible.

It was a footloose weekend, it passed much too quickly, and we weren’t finished celebrating.

The celebration continued in August. Eleven girlfriends took time away from work, summer vacation, husbands and 34 children. We gathered at our girlfriend Jackie’s Michigan lake cottage to celebrate our 50th birthdays. We’ve been together in various combinations over the years, but it had been two decades since I had laid eyes on a few of these girls.

I forgot how much time we spent together as teenagers. The memories came back when I saw the photographic evidence of our escapades in the late 70’s and early 80’s. No wonder I enjoy these girls so much.

We once borrowed clothes. Now we borrowed readers to look at photos of those clothes, hairstyles and the fashions. As Catholic school girls,  we wore uniforms. Outside of school, we were apparently dressed by Nancy Reagan’s stylist:  All buttoned up and tied with a bow. It is hard to imagine teenage girls dressing like that today.

There was a boat ride and dancing, and dancing during the boat ride. New cocktail recipes, savory hors d’oeuvres, and a chocolate display literally so sinful, we should have said an Act of Contrition. Splits, yoga positions, a cheer routine, wedding photos, unplanned matching pajamas and goodie bags.

I broke a wine glass. Julie broke a toe. It was a gabfest until 5 a.m.

We talked about e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.  While our friendship was built on a foundation of four years of high school, we definitely weren’t reliving the past.  I can’t remember details from three decades ago anyway. Besides, these Girls Have All Gone 50.

Unlike Girls Gone Wild, Girls Gone 50 have it together. They are comfortable in their own skin. They explore new interests, do some incredible things, and become even more interesting. They are more carefree and independent. Their kids are doing really cool things. They have so much to talk about. They are wiser, and they are still a whole lotta fun.

Sure, midlife may not be all sunshine and rainbows, and might include challenges. These girls are facing those challenges with grace and humor and great faith. There is not a whiner in the bunch.

While midlife issues sometimes require putting on “big girl panties,” one of us shared that she hates the feeling of underwear. She unapologetically stated that she simply no longer bothers with it. Ever. Nothin’ scandalous here,  she’s just literally comfortable in her own skin.

The freedom of Girls Gone 50 takes all forms.

Bladder control can be an annoyance, and it may have sent a few of us running for the bathroom. It is easy to see the silver lining here:  Still finding things that are pee-your-pants-funny.

We enjoyed 3 hours of sleep,  awoke with that slumber party feeling, made coffee, cleaned the kitchen for our gracious hostess..and kept talking on that rainy day until nearly dinnertime. Even then, we weren’t really talked out. It seems girlfriends don’t tire of listening to each other, so we started planning our next get together. I can’t wait.

This was a girls only event, but there was one male to bear witness to our gathering.  A former teacher and coach, turned principal after we graduated, was present… in the form of a bobble head.

Thankfully, he isn’t talking.

Celebrating One Year Of Blogging

Photo Credit:   Thank you Katie.

My blog and I are celebrating one year of Worpress-ed bliss. It is our “paper” anniversary, even though this has been a paperless  year for the two of us.

You might say our union was arranged… by a handful of people. A few friends encouraged me to get out there and…write. (Yah, right. No way.) 

My birthday sister and good friend Terri, over at The Laughing Mom had the perfect set-up for me. We’d double date and cruise the blogosphere together.

My Mother unknowingly did the final match-making. Last summer during a trip to my hometown, I enjoyed several visits with her. For the first time, I saw beauty amid the ugliness of her dementia.

It was the inspiration for Sweetie Pie, my first post, which wrote itself in my head. I hooked up with WordPress and hit the publish button.

Terri, The Laughing Mom, is a brilliant and funny writer with a large  following. She generously wrote a beautiful and heartfelt post to introduce me to the blogging community.  I was officially out there.

I had two concerns:  My debut funnysister post wasn’t funny, and I had nothin’ else in the pipeline.

Now what?

What would be the focus or theme of my blog?

What would I write next?

Do I have to write every week?

Will anyone read what I write?

Terri wisely counseled me through the angst.  She reminded me that it was my blog, to think of it as my playground and just have fun. OK, she may have initially  said something more along the lines of:  “Who gives a sh*t?  Just write what and when you want “

She’s smart that way, so I listened to her and kept writing.

In the last 12 months, I’ve published  21 posts. Clearly,  I am not the most prolific writer. This is in sharp contrast to my verbal skills:  20 years ago, a sales trainer diagnosed me with chronic “diarrhea of the mouth.”  I believe I am now in remission, however,  I did write about diarrhea in my December 2012 post, The Tale Of The Family Pa-Flu-Za.

I’d been preparing for blogging without realizing it. Years ago, at a gathering in our home, an acquaintance rolled her eyes and said with annoyance, “Oh God, Anne, you have a story for everything!”  I’m pretty sure I know why we have never become more than acquaintances. I’m also pretty sure she is not following my blog.

I love a good story.  It always makes me smile to get a phone call from a family member or friend and hear them say,  “I have a funny story to tell you.”

So, while I am still finding my focus, and my posts have been a mixed bag of topics and tone; I realize I am more of a story teller than an editorialist.

I only wrote about the murder of Dr. Ron Gilbert  because it was so personal. The post was  full of questions, not answers or opinions. Frankly, my dearly departed Dad keeps me from writing opinion oriented posts. As he so eloquently used to say:  opinions are like a**holes – everybody has one. Crass but correct.

I wish I was as brave and creative as some of the bloggers I follow. Initially, I was too nervous to read posts from other bloggers. I was afraid their topics or words would seep into my subconscious, rattle around in there for awhile,  and then I would inadvertently use them in a future post.

Obviously, the embarrassment I suffered in Mrs. Cornell’s 11th grade “World Religions” class stuck with me.  She scrutinized my research paper on the Church of God, for possible plagiarism when the word “schism” jumped out at her. Like a mob informant, I was acquitted of all charges, but sentenced to a lifetime of looking over my shoulder.

I no longer worry about unintentionally “stealing” material.  Inspiration is never in short supply, thanks in part to my family and friends who text, email, and call with:  “I have an idea for your blog” or  “You should write a post about…..”

The writing process is mysterious. Sometimes it is effortless and words spill out through through my fingertips, bounce off the keyboard and land on my laptop screen. For me, hitting the publish button is a difficult step. Perfectionism prohibits progress.

This past year has been a learning experience.

In addition to self-discovery, I’ve learned that my fellow human beings have varied interests. I can confirm this, based on the search terms that led readers to my blog. No judgement here.  However you choose to get your Google on is fine with me. For instance:

• People are nostalgic, fascinated and possibly OBSESSED by anything to do with The Jetsons, and Pan Am stewardesses.
• Folks are really curious about Tupperware and  antique dolls
  
• While it is not polite dinner conversation, funny stories about stomach flu and diarrhea stories are apparently real crowd pleasers.
• People are really angry about CFL bulbs changing color of the paint on walls.
• Apparently Bingo Sex is a thing. Oh, I have no idea what it is….I’m just saying people search for it. Seriously. ALOT of people. Frequently. Like, daily.
• Eddie Haskell nails June Cleaver. Pervert. Shame on you.  June was a lady. June was not a cougar or a MILF. (While I’m on the subject, can we all agree to never use either of those terms again? Thank you, now I won’t have to write an entire post about how much I dislike them.)
• The smell of her girdle. Ewwwww.  I hope this guy is already in a committed relationship. I hate to think of him on the streets or lurking on dating sites. Girls, beware of a man who asks too many questions about your shape wear.
• Wait, maybe that guy does have a wife and she’s the one who searched for married couples wearing girdles or maybe the poor dear searched for forced into girdle. 
• Was it a teenager who searched for Can you kiss someone with G.I.  flu on isolation? How romantic. Or desperate. Or soon to be literally “lovesick.”

Thanks to all my readers for sticking with me this year.

I have renewed my vow to keep writing. I hope you’ll commit to keep reading.

Bingo, sex and the city Style

I recently saw a news segment about Bingo returning to popularity, and dare I say…hipness. The footage featured social clubs and lodges hosting BYOB, traditional Bingo tournaments. Hipsters were seated at long banquet tables with wine and beer bottles in the center. Bars hosting pop culture themed Bingo nights draw enthusiastic crowds ready to enjoy the old-fashioned game.

Nostalgia never goes out of style. Amid our ever changing, tech-crazed world, I think there is sort of a soothing quality to Bingo. It is rhythmic: listening for the call, scanning your card, marking the number, exhaling.

I was surprised to discover I was actually on the cutting edge of a trend, however with a bit of a twist.

Every Thursday afternoon at 2:00, Bingo is played at the health center where my Mother lives. A gentleman named Dave arrives to volunteer as the Bingo caller, and his girlfriend Rita helps players who need a little assistance. Dave and Rita are a great team, and add to the fun. The average age of the players is at least 80, and many have Alzheimer’s or some form of dementia.

Dave, Mom and Rita

On the Thursday afternoons that I am fortunate to be in my hometown, playing Bingo has become one of my favorite things to do with my Mom. It is good mental and social stimulation for her, and it is pure fun to be with this crowd.

This past December, I convinced my niece Sarah, an elementary school teacher enjoying her Christmas break, to join my sister and me for Bingo with Grandma. I’m sure she thought I was over-selling it, but she was a good sport and came along. The four of us settled in at a table, for our multi-generational girls’ day out.

Even before the first game began, we had somehow morphed into the sex and the city girls. There we sat: middle-aged Carrie and Charlotte, professional 30-something Miranda, and of course 82-year old Samantha. Each of us had 2 Bingo cards and a margarine container full of Tiddly Winks to use as markers.

The television characters Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha all lacked self-control in at least one area (men, food, drinking, clothing, purses and shoes) at some point during the series.  The Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha seated at the Bingo table lacked self-control in stifling laughter.

Dave began his witty Bingo calling, custom-tailored for his geriatric audience.

B..4…B..4…Not after…..but….B…4

Each number was repeated several times, while the players intently searched their two cards. Invariably, no matter how many times Dave repeated the call, at least one player asked, “What was it again?”

BINGO!! Charlotte handily won the Grand Prize for the 1st game. The Grand Prize box was passed to her. She carefully perused the assortment, which included lovely scented soaps, lotions and other gifty personal items. “Oooh!” she said as she dug to the bottom and proudly revealed her pick.

“Really? Seriously? A pack of Band-Aids?” Miranda said. She could hardly contain herself, laughing at Charlotte’s ridiculously nerdy pick.

I..22…I..2..2…Our ballerina’s…..Tutu….I22

BINGO!! Carrie won the 2nd prize in the first game, and thoughtfully chose a small box of Junior Mints:  a prize to share with the table. True to the lore of Junior Mints, in the process of struggling to open the tightly glued little box, a waxy chocolate disc was launched into orbit. Miranda chased it as it bounced across the room.

B…12….B…12….Everybody’s favorite vitamin….B…12

Miranda, an experienced Bingo caller for the kids at school, thought she knew all the “Bingo Lingo.”  The funny B12 call caught her off guard. Her self-control was crumbling.

Samantha was especially spunky, sparring with Dave and trading jabs, both with great amusement and affection.

Her uninhibited sense of humor was also on fire. You know Samantha, the innocent mention of a word like “balls” can result in a zinger.

The rest of the girls were stifling nervous giggles.

A player at a nearby table, impaired from an unknown ailment, spoke with a squeak that sounded remarkably like a cat saying, “Mew, mew, mew.” The unspoken fear among the girls was that Samantha would grow annoyed with the “mewing” and say so, or heaven forbid, imitate it!

O…66….O…66…Get your kicks…… on Route 66……..O…66

This call is magical, because while dementia may erase decades of memories, song lyrics are easily recalled.

Dave started off by loudly saying,  “Flagstaff, Arizona”

From the a table in the other corner of the room came, “Don’t forget Winona”

Another resident added, “Kingman, Barstow”

Finally, “San Bernardino”

Eager to join in the fun, Carrie chimed in: “Winslow, Arizona” before realizing that she had the wrong song, artist and decade.

There was no need for Carrie to be embarrassed. The beauty of this group is the acceptance of cognitive shortcomings and forgetfulness. Anything goes, and most everything goes unnoticed, including a loud, unmistakable fart.

Maturity and self-control were fading quickly.

Rule-following, competitive Charlotte regrouped and focused on her game. It paid off. She had one Bingo after another. However, Carrie FORBID her from declaring them, and stealing a win and a prize from a resident.  It was killing Charlotte. It was killing Dave, too. He repeatedly strolled by, checking Charlotte’s card saying, “If you’ve got it, just call it.”

Each of Charlotte’s undeclared Bingos made the game drag on… and…on. The Grand Finale, the “cover all” round was complete, just as Happy Hour was beginning in the adjoining sunroom.

Woohoo! The party was on the move!  Samantha led the way.

Girls’ day was stretching into girls’ night.

In addition to the selection of beer and wine offered, Mai Tais were being served.  This Happy Hour lacked cosmos and a cheese plate, but no one cared. There was lively conversation, and there were cheese curls!

The girls partied on, until 5:00…… p.m. that is, when suddenly without warning, and without saying “Goodbye” Samantha stood up, walked out of the sunroom, and sauntered down the long hallway.

Samantha had enjoyed enough time with the girls. It was time for dinner, and  BINGO!…. yes, there was a fella she was hoping to run into.