There Goes the Villa

Posted on by
Reply

Monday morning traffic isn’t so bad if you leave at the right time.  Even better if you have a reverse commute from the city to the suburbs.  I like to start the ride with some Deepak Chopra wisdom, before switching quickly to the Erasure station on Pandora. Because in pursuing your own pure joy, you trigger a chain of events that will eventually create happiness for the whole world – I think the Dalai Lama said that.  Or maybe my friend after too much wine.  Anyway, what says joy better than a reverbing synthesizer?

On that particular day I even have time to sit at the red light and pull down the mirror to check my hair.  Gee, my hair looks terrific!  And I hadn’t even noticed.  I got my hair done two days ago.  I am suddenly sick to my stomach at the realization that I have wasted a solid forty-eight hours of good hair time.  All because ninety percent of my attention has been sucked up by a kid.  That leaves ten percent for everything else, including husband, pudgy cat and the redhead basset.

Yes, I now have a kid.  But I am not going to be writing about parenting.  Or the joys of children.  Or the maternal instinct swooping in to save the day.  First and foremost, this is a blog about fretting.  I hope I’ll still have the wherewithal to do it gracefully, but one never knows how these things turn out.

There are plastic toys in my living room.  Every morning my dining table seems to have a light film of last night’s dinner on it.  I am holding slimy wet rags all day long.  Humans I have just met ask me if I love mothering.  I forget things constantly, except my grudges.

So there will clearly be plenty to challenge my anxiety in new and exciting ways.  Just ahead we have the “I don’t eat red food” years, followed by the awkward light acne years.  Then the blissful teenage years, right before the college tuition scramble where I give up my Portuguese villa fund, sort of willingly.  Nerves, get ready to enjoy this journey of self-discovery.  And try to look poised, please.

 

Of Fiefs and Serfs

Posted on by
Reply

The Middle Ages.  There was a time when those words triggered thoughts of war, religion, filth, poor hygiene…special focus on the hygiene bit.  The Middle Ages now are all about timely dental cleanings, squinting at books and pretending not to, constantly resetting online passwords, and long grey hairs that cannot in any reasonable way be considered “that random blond strand.”

I came out of the womb with an eighty-year old personality, so I didn’t despair too often about changes that might come with time.  My kindergarten days were spent hoarding moist towelettes and agonizing about using restrooms outside my home.  I can’t think of better examples of geriatric behavior.

My twenties however were noticeably fraught with angst on birthdays, with the typical first-world young person crap.  Will I ever have a job beyond quality control of photocopies?  Why did my last date want to split the bill? Am I not worth the price of a Caliente Cab Company burrito?  And of course, should I stay home Friday night with the fine pimple on my chin?

And now this middle period of history has arrived, marked by a general attitude of not giving a rat’s ass.   No, I will not join the office March Madness pool anymore.  I don’t really mind which Carolina wins what.  People: will you just let me work?

I’ll say it out loud: I don’t like sloppy yoga pants at brunch – sue me.  Or don’t.  I don’t care.

And guess what?  It turns out I really like eating cake in bed, crumb cleanup be darned.  What about the brushing of teeth, you ask?  See above on rat’s behind – that’s what regular dental cleanings are for.  The Middle Ages are indeed marked by dubious hygiene.

Tony Barrera

Posted on by
1

I’ve been thinking recently about the aura of my home. Sometimes it feels warm and cozy, and other times as if a hurricane of Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons and running shoes has ravaged it.  There are days when clutter or not, it is just very quiet. I love the stillness when the television is off, the kettle has piped down, sports radio is muted, and we are all settled in our respective spots for the afternoon. The sun streams in through the windowpanes onto the back of the sofa, its rays gently caressing pudgy cat asleep on the radiator. A few feet away, light snoring rises from the ground as the redhead basset dreams of juicy steaks and wide grassy fields.

Así me gusta a mí. That was the name of a fantastic dance song from my youth (also featured in Penélope Cruz’s breakout film “Jamón, Jamón”). And well, that is how I like it – peaceful, low murmurs, gentle gradual movements. Now when the house and its members are actively engaged in the business of living, I am easily ruffled: treadmill spinning, doors opening, hurried footsteps up and down wooden stairs, greedy lapping of water from bowls, shower jets roaring, and so much more.

But the rare occasions when the house and I can carve out our time to just be, are when I am at my best. I like to slip into a satin kimono robe to really get the ambience going. I sit in a grey armchair, taking the time to place its matching ottoman in front of me for my tired legs. A cup of warm cucumber white tea is waiting on one side of me, and a tall glass of lemony water on the other; that is how you erase the memory of the chocolate chocolate chip muffin and three coffees from the morning. I hear the floorboards creak every so often. And not much else.

Now that dance song from my youth was truthfully about drugs. And big electronic dance music parties (before they were called that) in rundown warehouses, or on neglected expanses of beaches, or in open fields at the edges of towns around the world. And all of that me gusta. Mucho. I often feel my truest self when I am surrounded by that loud bass thumping. Minus the drugs of course, heaven forbid.

And so it is the house and I agree that some afternoons are for silent rejoicing, where we remain observant, gleefully setting aside most external stimulants, and just keeping our mouths shut for a few hours.   And other afternoons, heading into early evenings, should throb with a little drum and bass, the pitter patter of animal children demanding dinner, and the clinking sounds of someone fixing a cocktail. Así me gusta a mí. Also.

New Era

Posted on by
Reply

Hi and hello. Apologies for the hiatus. Let’s pretend I planned everything perfectly to coincide with the start of a brand new shiny year.  “I needed the time off to prioritize what really mattered.” Sound good?  Or should I fess up that my body finally gave out after years of trying to keep up with my constant to-do lists?

I ended up facing a little shoulder surgery followed by a lot of down time.  And naturally, I was going to use said time to initiate various neglected projects. I would rub castor oil into my eyebrow’s bald spot twice a day without fail – and friends would surely fall over in shock at the resulting electrifying transformation. I would practice walking in my ludicrously high heels, so I could wear them somewhere other than my hallway. I would read up and try to understand our election outcome, without judgment or rancor against those who made a different choice than mine.

Post-operation and once the pain medication supply ended, my brain came to a new type of awareness.  Who knew paperback books could be so heavy? And when did pudgy cat get so, well, pudgy? And can’t we just stick our faces into bowls of food, instead of having to use our hands and utensils? Why do bras even exist, much less have to be fastened? And why won’t someone just give me more drugs?

I couldn’t find easy answers to any of these questions.  I simply trudged along every day, making very little progress, and being rather impatient.  Suffice it to say, my eyebrows never saw a drop of oil, or even a mirror during those months.  The sofa and I, on the other hand, became bosom buddies.  Sigh.  But it turned out to be a very exciting day when I was able to pull a shirt over my head, all by myself.  As well as the moment when I reached and scratched my back with a back brush.  Small humbling wins.  I hoped I would keep appreciating these basics, and also learn my limits.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get to meet and better understand anyone who held opposite political views; but I had spent a good bit of time being entitled, bitter, and eager for change.  And maybe that was sort of the same thing.

I Once Chewed My Bubble Gum-scented Eraser

Posted on by
Reply

So I’m still mulling over the complex human relationship with technology. Not a big surprise if you have been even a sporadic reader of this blog. Some topics are heavy enough to stay on my mind for several months. I’ve also had a rather busy summer, which has expanded my number of experiences and given me more to fret about than usual.

For example, I’ve had to research a fair amount of hotel rooms in the past few months. I still haven’t divorced iPhone, so I have kept trying to use its special features.  That usually goes something like this: I open my mouth, put on my best Ohio accent, hold down the home button and state confidently “Search the internet for hotels in Montreal, Canada.”

What I get back: “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find any Mine Anthrax in New York City; did you mean Men’s Summer Thongs, Best Of?”

Did Tim Cook sit through months of iPhone production all-nighters, and suddenly step out of the room for a snack when the team got to the Siri part? Not to mention that all of America can somehow understand Sofia Vergara, and yet there I am staring at a screen of muscled men’s bottoms. Grrrrrrr.

I picture my holiday spiraling down from a dirty smoky hotel room, to a food poisoning attack while still eating, only to get mugged and kicked in the very stomach that is reeling from the effects of Canadian fries gone bad.

To stem the stress that is now paralyzing my upper back, I search for the hand-held massager I once bought and rarely use.  First, I make sure to distinguish the sleek handle bit from the sleek massaging bit. Then, I twist my arm behind my head to try to reach the part of my back that is becoming hard as a rock.  I swing the massager and keep missing the spot. I attempt it with the other arm, which is even less flexible. I opt to place the massager on the ground, still running, and try to lie on it strategically and immediately roll of it and land with a thud on the hardwood floor. Of course my needs are in the upper central part of my back, the one area humans can’t actually reach with their own arms. And neither can this twenty-first century two hundred-dollar massager.

I am mad.   If I have to lose pretty leather embossed journals, bubble gum-scented pink erasers, and Post-its in the shape of pizza slices, then I want the shiny expensive alternatives to work perfectly – at all times. No excuses. And the fact that they don’t is infuriating.

However, I don’t have any choice but to try to navigate the imperfections now.   For the Travel section in my bookstore shrinks daily. And my bookstore is one of two left standing for miles. A massage, though, could be arranged the old-fashioned way: with a human. I call to schedule an appointment. The voicemail tells me to go online for bookings. And they will confirm with a text message. Grrrrr indeed.

Love to Hate You

Posted on by
1

I have always been a creature of habit.  I like things the same way, all the time.  White bread with butter and strawberry jam is the same breakfast I have loved since the age of three.   As an adult, after years of resistance, I finally caved and bought a Filofax, only to find streets full of Palm Pilots.  And I still long for the days when Manchester, England, ruled the clubbing scene.  You are probably racking your brain trying to remember when that was – and I urge you to stop, simply because it was a REALLY long time ago.

Nevertheless, when an iPhone showed up miraculously in my hand, I fell in love recklessly.  I tossed out all loyalty to the trusty Filofax, to the once ingenious MP3 player that had turned me into a runner, and to my adored Swatch which had left a permanent love line on my wrist.  The phone was an awakening of sorts that led me to consider that I might transform in other ways. Perhaps I could one day be carefree, adventurous, fond of sports, and ready for orange marmalade.  This step led to the birth of other cohorts, namely l’il MacBook and ole iPad; but iPhone and I were always inseparable.

It is now nearly a decade later, and I am mulling over my relationship with technology.  As a victim of severe clutter phobia, it is gratifying to know my life is contained in one device.  Nothing of importance is on the countertops, or tacked on the wall, or in the nether regions of my purse with last year’s gum.  However, my neurotic nature means there is always something to research, confirm, respond to, and get ahead of.  It has been far too easy to review my meeting schedule, text on the current Jen-Ben marriage status, and check on the dog’s GPS location, while he naps two feet from me – all while “relaxing” and reading the newspaper on my screen.

Years of this, and I am worn out.  There must be another way.  Something less complicated.  Something that isn’t constantly nagging me with notifications of what I have forgotten to do.  Or flashing regular reminders comparing me with other, better users who delight in using technology to its full potential.  And who said this iPhone is so perfect anyway?  It certainly doesn’t look as good as when we first met.  And the ringer never functions properly, but have I ever complained?

I’ll admit, I have started leaving it at home when I walk to buy coffee.  And it has felt good.  Sometimes I even turn it off completely. Then I feel guilty, and turn it back on when I remember how much of my life is held in it.  I don’t know exactly what I am doing.  It’s a dangerous path I am starting on, I know.  But at this age, I owe it to myself to see where it will take me.

Vacation – All I Ever Wanted

Posted on by
Reply

You know that period when vacation is impending? You know it’s looming just around the corner. But you just can’t seem to get to the corner.   Every work deadline blows up. The “forty-hour a week with a real lunch every day” job suddenly turns into the office nightmare wellness blogs love to attack:

I was at my desk at ten o’clock at night, feeling too full of cheesy fries, when I burst into tears. I decided then to put on my Lululemon pants, eat some kale and meditate my way into a new life.

Joking aside, right before vacation is when you find yourself speaking forcefully in industry acronyms from eight a.m. until eight p.m. For once when you turn away from the family dinner to “check work email,” you actually are doing that – and not scouring for a quick update on the Gwen Stefani pregnancy rumors.

You long for the previous week when you were killing time in the office pantry hearing all about your colleague’s upcoming wedding bouquet, or her dog’s latest vet visit. Why didn’t someone tighten your project deadlines then, so you could have scurried off, escaping the age-old calla lilies v. baby rose debate?

Because the time right before your vacation is when everything else also goes bust. Like your air conditioner, which worked perfectly well until two days before your departure. This means you actually have enough time to get it fixed – even thought if it had just waited until you left, you could have relegated it to an Act of God, and carried on with your daiquiri. But now you must mentally set aside a few thousand dollars of your fun vacation budget, and add a painful phone call to your to-do list, filled with technical jargon of its own – none of which you understand.

And somehow, as a packing procrastination strategy, you decided to open your mail. You find out that you have been the victim of fraud, as Anthony Loran decided to get himself a credit card from your account.  Phone call to “Heather” at a call center in the Philippines anyone?   And your credit card company gives you detailed instructions on how to insist an apathetic police department register your violation as an official crime.  Surely, it’ll be up there with murders. That vacation budget is getting even smaller as you realize you’ll be credit card-less effective immediately.

By the time you get to the airport in the early hours of the morning, you are just grateful to be there. You smile at the TSA staff, and try to crack jokes with the coffee stall barista. How wonderful you didn’t murder your spouse when you disagreed at one in the morning on the luggage to be brought. You think maybe you have finally mastered gratitude and mindfulness. But really, it’s just your two hours of sleep showing.  And that is when you know you’ve turned the corner.  Happy vacay.

 

Mill-xers

Posted on by
Reply

I was still reeling from my discovery that fresh-faced young boys and girls were indebted to Allergan Pharmaceutical Co. (i.e. Botox makers).  Well, writhing and frothing at the mouth is a truer description of my sentiments.  Were twentysomethings really taking hours off from work to create these facades?  Didn’t they have low-man-of-the-totem-pole jobs to prove themselves at?  Happy hour free chips and salsa to overindulge in?  Cleaning duties to haggle with roommates about?

I wiped off my foamy mouth, and soothed myself with a jar of premium cocktail nuts, honoring the many years I couldn’t afford them.

And there was my beef.  My twenties are filled with memories of things I couldn’t do, or had to do in an awkward, sweaty, tear-stained way.  Like moving to Manhattan, and rotating through friends’ cramped apartments while searching for my own place.  My best friend and I shared a towel for fear of putting our hosts out.   Angry real estate agents bore down on us daily, and we resorted to taking antacids.  We bought two bagels each morning, one of them with cream cheese; we then took the cream cheese overflow and spread it on the other bagel, saving ourselves a total of thirty cents.

And when we broke our hosts’ futon, we were prepared to give up the bagels themselves to cover the repair.  We cried silently into germy pay phones, assuring our parents that all was well and their stern warnings about moving to New York were for naught.  Martyrdom and Generation X go well together.

I bit forcefully into a macadamia.  I was never like today’s kids.  My lunchtime in those days was usually four p.m., when the meeting leftovers would roll out of my office conference room.  I took the bus to IKEA, not mom’s minivan to CB2.  I would have gladly traded in my scratchy Chinatown market t-shirt for a $99 cashmere cotton blend with a “Tofu is cool” message.

I used to walk to Bloomingdale’s to save money.  Drats.  Busted.  At Bloomingdale’s. Often.  Beauty department.  Saks too.  Clinique lipstick section.  Some Clarins spa visits.  Appearance mattered, in order to get chosen from the line by the bouncer for entry into Friday night’s club of choice.  So I could then hand over my weekly food budget as a cover charge.  And buy a five-dollar bottle of water.  And then take a taxi home, crosstown AND uptown.  To do it all again the next night.

No, I was never like these kids.  Except when I was.

Fountainhead of Youth

Posted on by
1

The other day, I was sitting at a bar and chatting with a friend, when the subject turned to cosmetic procedures. I realized I had had a similar conversation with another friend a few weeks before. And another with a third friend a couple of months before that. The common theme in the discussions? Cosmetic enhancements: everyone does them. And despite this repetitive conclusion, I sat shell-shocked on my bar stool.

I’m not entirely sure why, since my current YouTube obsession is an anti-cellulite massage video (please reference the “Step by Step” post). My Friday night guilty pleasure consists of smearing Vaseline all over my face (right after using it on the wood furniture). I also just fulfilled a dream of shopping for snail essence masks at the Seoul airport. I get our obsession with physical appearance.

Yet, I was dumbstruck by the fact that regular people, walking my streets, drinking Trader Joe’s wine and buying Gap turtlenecks were elevating the beauty game to a whole new level. We’re not talking about reality stars or ex-heads of state.   We are talking about the chick with the baseball cap and fleece vest, halfway through her pint of Miller Lite, at the corner Irish dive bar.

And then there’s that: a quest for youth isn’t reserved for those over sixty, or even thirty.   It’s now actually for the youth. Ah, what bright eyes she has, you wax nostalgically over a young lass walking by. Go ahead and sing your praises, but direct them to the professional aesthetician that skillfully glues custom-sized fake lashes onto tiny human eyelashes. Repeat monthly.

Debating Botox and wondering about that whole “losing your expressiveness” chatter? Don’t – for all your friends, strangers, and children’s babysitters have already injected themselves. No one else is cogitating about it, and yes, you can still tell when they are mad at you.

Since my adolescence, I have occasionally felt guilty about my frivolous interest in clear skin, and shiny hair that smelled like roses. But now I suddenly feel like an out-of-date Victorian forced into modern times. I can often relate to the Victorians, but that’s an entirely different subject.

Should I have pumped collagen into my jaw line at nineteen, instead of buying one ugly pair of Doc Martens after another? Why oh why did I ever frown at the blackboard during the mystery that was Microeconomics? I should have feigned comprehension, and then immediately asked a pre-med student to transplant ankle fat onto my forehead. And peptides – why am I still not sure what they are, when all the ten year-olds on my block are massaging them into their necks?

I know rationally it’s not a race to keep up; but if it were, the reality is that I am barely at the starting point. I will never meet the requirements for ultimate cosmetic maintenance. It might be because my recent conversation with a Buddhist monk excited me as much as finding French brands at the Walgreens’ beauty counter. It could also be because I believe dog slobber is a highly effective antioxidant.  Clinical results to come.

Step by step

Posted on by
2

Me: “Do you want to pick up the takeout now, or shall we do it in an hour?”

My mother: “Why do you have zits on your face?”

And that, my friends, is how you silence an adult.

I was as mortified as any fourteen year-old.  I could have delivered a million excuses: changing seasons; PMS or early menopause; E. coli-infested chocolate; the dog licked my face.  But silence seemed a more dignified response.

I suspected I would rush home after dinner and desperately pound the keyboard Googling “good skin gone bad.”  But in my newfound quest to embrace acceptance and its colleagues (non-judgment, self-love, positive thoughts, et al.), I let it go.  Instead of focusing on selfish, superficial worries that would hopefully vanish in a few weeks, I would concentrate on solving bigger problems – afflictions that had plagued generations of women and many men, at a global level without discrimination. Afflictions like cellulite.

I did my research, and a few days later, a French company’s brainchild arrived at my door.  When in doubt, always go French.  There is zero probability they will prescribe heavy exercise or fat-free living.  I unraveled the instructions with excitement.  One may think there isn’t much to learn about applying creams.  But which finger should you use?  Is it a circular motion, or more oval?  Tapping or light massage?  Clock-wise?  I don’t like to chance it.

The instructions came in six language versions, two of them Asian ones.  This was an excellent sign.  If the ladies of Tokyo and Beijing were buying this up, it had to deliver.

There were eight illustrations of a lovely naked woman with her hair in a perfect ballerina bun.  First, sit on the floor, back straight up against a wall, with legs outstretched – easily done.  And then I stopped understanding. For in the next picture, the young woman appeared to be going into labor, as she sat with knees bent, pushing apart her thighs with her hands.  And there were arrows shooting up the sides of her legs.  And, wait, was she now lying on the floor shoving her pelvis up into the air?  Rosemary’s cellulite baby.

The written portion offered little help, with its multi-step approach (phase 2, part 1, zone 3), and incremental stretches for those “accustomed to exercise.”  I tried to muddle through the other language versions, but all were as clear as mud. I felt dejected as I set the instructions down.  I would never complete the “natural draining process,” or have “refined buttocks.”

Alone and scared, I tried to find some glimmer of hope.  I sat on the bed and opened up a blank page on my laptop; I typed the number 1.  I find lists to be very comforting.  And slowly the letters flowed from my fingers onto the screen: 1. Fine greasy hair 2. Callouses and/or corns 3. Ashy knees.

There were many more global maladies out there for me to solve.