Walshed Out?


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This summer, something happened.

I turned into the mom from 90210. Yes, I became, without trying or wanting to, Cindy Eff-ing Walsh.

Old school 90210, guys. You know the mom who sported a total mom-hair-do, never had a life because she was too busy swooping into random scenes, dropping off cookies or driving Brenda and Brandon to the Peach Pit? Hosting after-school parties and encouraging her kids and their friends to make good choices that circle back to an unrealistic but addicting TV plot?

That’s me.


OK, this is not really me, but I’ve been acting a lot like her this summer. Image from https://90sflashback.files.wordpress.com






OK, I get it. We may not live in Beverly Hills. We may not have slow-but-sad-90’s-electric-guitar-melodies playing in the background. And God help me, I’m grateful I’m not raising Shannen Daugherty in mom jeans. (Brandon, now he’s a sweetheart, Brenda, she was a handful.) Anyhoo. My point, if I may try to land this ever-loving plane, is that I’ve become the new Mrs. Walsh. Replete with an iPhone, semi-updated but very end-of-summer-dead-endy-hair-do, two active but TV-ready Golden Retrievers and two great kids who at times may not think they need me and their dad anymore, but definitely had a fun summer because we provided free transportation, food and fun just about every day. (I’m not an Uber driver, but there were times I felt like one.)

Basically, this summer, I turned into something I often make fun of in spite of myself. I became a mommy martyr. I did everything for everybody else and put myself second, third, and sometimes, last. As a result, I stopped writing and put a “pin” in a lot of professional and personal projects. I let my ass go (grow). And I got a little cranky from time to time.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being a mom. But I have to say, I also like it when I’m not over-mommying.

And I definitely over-mommed and Mrs. Walshed my way through the break.

Oh, I did some stuff without my kids. Like going grocery shopping (and scrubbing grout). OK, I jogged (occasionally). And even went out with dear friends a couple times. But aside from those rare moments, I’m secretly thankful the summer break is over. I will miss the sunshine, swimming and s’mores fo-sho, but not the times I Mrs. Walshed my way through it.

I often wonder if my mom had this same problem. But then I realize back then, moms didn’t even know where we were half the time. We would wave goodbye after shoving down two bowls of Cheerios (with five spoonfuls of sugar) and not come home until the street lights came on. We could have joined a gang (at the mall) or tried to dye our hair (like Cyndi Lauper or Cindy Crawford), but we rode home safely on our Ten Speeds, just in time for The Muppets and Manwich Night.

I tried to capture a back to school photo (at 7 a.m.) today, and my kids didn’t really care. (Sniff, sniff.) Instead, my son, who is a sophomore in high school and my daughter (7th grader, like whatevs) decided to be silly by not smiling when I snapped the photo. My daughter playfully turned her back to the camera and my son made a faux-sad face.

Why would I expect anything different? They asked me to please not take a picture. “It’s too early, mom.” “We’re getting too old for this, mom.” But I did it anyway. Why? Because I’m Mrs. Eff-ing Walsh.

My kids are funny. They’re great kids. And I love them dearly. I’m grateful to be their mom. But….I’M ALSO VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY EXCITED THAT THEY ARE GOING BACK TO SCHOOL, BACK TO A ROUTINE, SO I CAN TOO! And so I can stop Walshing around and go back to being Jackie again. 😉



Ode to Unwanted Facial Hair


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Dealing with unwanted facial hair makes you wonder if Lucy was onto something! – Image from I Love Lucy, the original TV series.


As the sun flashed through the windshield, it lit up every hair on my son’s 15-year-old face.

His chin. Even the fuzzy blond ones above his top lip.

I smiled, drove on, and didn’t really think about it.

Until we came to a stop light, and I caught another glance…

And realized what was staring back at me was something so familiar, my denial didn’t stand a chance.

I had no choice but to do the unthinkable, and turn the rear-view mirror ever so slightly toward me.




It can’t be.

Is that a teenage boy’s facial hair staring back at me?

As the sun exposed every one of my unwanted facial hairs.

From the invisible ones above my lip to the stubborn, long ones that shoot from the middle of my brows.

For every hair he had not shaved, I had one just like it times three,

Praying to be plucked and set free.

“Dang,” I thought, driving that day.

Wondering why the sun has to highlight every unwanted hair as plain as day.

Since turning 45, regardless of how much I thread, tweeze or pluck,

The hairs on my face seem to grow as quick as f**.

Forget about fancy waxes, tools or creams, it’s too late now.

My facial hair isn’t just “hair” anymore.

It’s stiffer, stronger and has a mind of its own.

Just when I think it’s taken care of, another five more grow.

It takes a professional village to keep these hairs at bay.

And just when I think I’m in the clear, a long, salt-n-peppa one comes my way.

Forget about the hairs on my chin, for it grows weekly,

Sometimes daily,

And has the ability to sprout overnight.

Showing up, unannounced, in the blinding sunlight.

Just in time for a big event.

And often accompanied by a painful (and bumpy) adult zit.

Something I had professionally threaded last week, seems to reappear after only a matter of days.

The one I can’t seem to figure out is the single, grey-ish, course one that randomly buds on the side of my face.

Oh unwanted facial hair, unwanted facial hair, what is it with thee?

I have you threaded, tweezed even plucked off, but you come back with a vengeance and it hasn’t even been a week.

Oh effing unwanted facial hair,

Nagging, effing unwanted facial hair.

You can suck the age spot forming on my left cheek.

Spanx and concealer


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sephora-concealer-penAllow me to let you in on a little secret, my friend: It’s not 40 you need to worry about.

No, at 40 you’re still feeling and looking like you’re an oh-so-Blake-lively 35.

Your stomach even bounces back after binging on white wine and a pint of Ben and Jerrys.

But somewhere between 43 and 45, let’s just say something wicked this way comes. And it’s not a Kard-dash-a-b-dong-a-dong that you need to worry about. That’s something you earn, girlfriend.

You know those nights when you’re psyched about your daily workouts and consistent low-carb, organic intake, so you decide to partake in a piece of cake or even a sleeve of chips? What happens to your body the next day at this age? Well, I don’t know how to break it to you.

What happens sucks donkey b@lls. Although you may have consumed equal parts water and wine and slept six to 8 hours, by 7 a.m., your stomach decides to take on a life of its own. Your stomach doesn’t know the difference between salt and vinegar chips and a gourmet chocolate torte. Regardless of the planks after your morning Zumba class or the rigorous run the day before, your stomach knows you took in something that’s not approved by Dr. Oz. So it decides to take the single devil dog you secretly devoured over the sink and transform into a dish sponge the size of a honeydew melon. Think of a squishy water balloon. Now add two more and place it on your belly. Your stomach has managed to absorb every salty, sugary, fun thing you’ve decided to treat yourself to the night before, expanding into a mound of flesh that hangs over your jeans like a plumber with a reverse crack problem.

But you slip on the Spanx and waa-laa, your pooch spreads out a little, making your bloated-ness SEEM like it has disappeared. (Only to prevent you from eating too much especially if you’ve purchased the off-brand Spanx at TJ Maxx five years ago, when you were actually a dress size smaller than you are now.)

OK, now onto my second little secret when you hit your mid-40s.


Ah, concealer.

I keep my Sephora friend in my car. In my purse. In my travel bag.

It is my special friend. Me and my concealer, we are like peas and carrots.

OK, to the friends of mine who don’t wear make-up, this doesn’t apply to you. I love you dearly, but I don’t get it. Wear something to the rest of us feel better, please. Tinted moisturizer even. Just once. Not everyone could possibly be this naturally beautiful without some kind of coverage. Or eyeliner. I grew up in Texas, where every girl’s mother had a make-up kit as big as a Barbie house and enough levels of Merle Norman, color-me-beautiful eyeshadow options that would make even Tammy Baker salivate.

Unlike the days when I would experiment with my mom’s makeup drawer before catching the school bus, showing up in homeroom with an orange foundation jawline fighting my Snow White neck, nowadays I don’t wear concealer because I want to. I do it so I don’t scare away small children. Mine included.

Now I don’t wear a lot of makeup, if you compare me to Mrs. Roper. But even the smallest amount helps cover up the bags under my eyes, the dark spots I’ve gained from sunning myself with Crisco in my hot-as-a-hotdog-in-hell Texas teen years. I wear sunscreen now even in the winter thanks to my grandmother scaring the Ba-Jeebus out of me about skin cancer on my oh-so-fair skin. Even when I wear sunless tanning lotion on my legs, all you can see are the streaks. (If you care to hear more about this dilemma, please revert back to my Pale Mom Legs column.)

So all I’m saying is when you turn 43, 44 and 45, don’t be shocked if you need these two things. And don’t be surprised at how much better you feel because you remembered them before leaving the house.

Spanx and concealer.

A 45-year-old girl’s new best friends.

And the Worst Mother of the Year Award Goes to….


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There are many reasons I could be a candidate for Worst Mother of the Year. Or at least Worst Mother of the Month (especially if it’s THAT time of the month.)

There’s the emergency room Triaminic episode when my son was 3 (Triaminic does NOT contain fever-reducing medicine in case you’re wondering) , the dried blueberry barf episode when my daughter was 2, the portable-potty-training fail in the Regal Reptiles parking lot, the tantrum in the Barrington Middle School soccer field when my daughter just started running walking. And my very own whisper-yelling incidents while shopping with my kids. Pick any trip to the store, from any store, from 2001 to 2006, and I’d take home the Showcase Showdown.

I do try. But I think as a mom, when I try too hard to do the right thing, I end up looking like…a &hitty mom.

As my kids age, I keep thinking I’m in the clear. (My kids are 11 and 14, and will be turning 12 and 15 in a matter of weeks.) But a recent family movie night demonstrates that I’m sadly mistaken.

And that I’m still in the running to becoming America’s Next Top Worst Mom. americas_next_top_mom

I blame my mommy brain – I seem to recall the good stuff and block out the bad.

Allow me to back up a minute.

My daughter recently begged us to watch Forrest Gump for our family movie night. I think she saw the preview somewhere because we’re not sure where it came from. Given the fact that my husband and I often quote “Run, Forrest, Run” and “You can’t sit he-ah” and other lines from this 1994 Academy-award-winning movie without even realizing it, we thought it was a good idea. So after dinner and homework, we snuggled on the sofas with the dogs and started watching the story about the endearing fictitious character played by Tom Hanks. We laughed and congratulated ourselves as parents.

Until the part where you can hear Ms. Gump having sex. (So Forrest can attend public schools, mind you). And we forgot to hit fast-forward.

Or the scene where Forrest is in college and realizes he really, really likes Jenny and I practically twist my ankle reaching for the remote. And another swear word.

And then, oops, another scene, thank God I hit pause on Lieutenant Dan.

Thank God my kids can distinguish right from wrong. Bad words from appropriate words. And that some incidents go over the head of an almost 12-year-old.

I honestly forgot how inappropriate some movies are for kids. Even though I was practically a kid when I watched a lot of inappropriate movies. Hey – they were rated G and PG!

My dad took me and my best friend to see Stripes for crying out loud.

We saw Grease and my friends and I had a blast singing and acting out scenes from GREASE. I was 8 1/2 years old! (I had no idea what half of the underlying references were!) I was in the 6th grade when I saw Mommie Dearest, and to this day, I still quote lines from this cult classic.

My husband said he saw Jaws in the movie theater with his family the summer it was first released. He’s still scared to go in the pool.

Wow. How times have changed.

I guess you could say my kids built character from that movie night. And they joke that now they know even MORE words they SHOULDN’T say. (As if life doesn’t open them up to enough.) Thankfully, we giggled about the parental-guided deleted scenes. The bad words. And the reaching-for-the-g-d-remote incidents. There was still a universal message in Forrest Gump that warmed our hearts, regardless of the other stuff.

I guess next time, we’ll play Monopoly or Life or watch something from this century.

In the meantime, I will keep my head held high and grab hold of my imaginary award with pride, and thank God we’re not raising Kardashians.



Cold Snap


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My kids are off from school today. It’s a professional day in Barrington. Not to celebrate Leap Day. (It’s just a coincidence.) Did I mention they were also off for mid-winter break?

We had nine days at home.


In the winter.

Did I also mention it was in the middle of February?

And I work from home?

In Rhode Island?

During one of the coldest weeks in New England history.

Some towns had President’s Day off. We had nine consecutive days off.

In the middle of the winter.

Oh and we didn’t actually go away.

They just call it February vacation to make you feel better. mid-winter-break

In my mind, I envisioned my kids running on the beach in 85-degree weather. (While my husband and I indulged in treats with tiny umbrellas.)

But then we found out our kids had sports commitments that couldn’t be missed. And practices all week long.

“It’s all good, we’ll have a staycation,” I said out loud in a June Cleaver casserole-eating-grin as I lowered my head… and my expectations. And then proceeded to down a handful of chocolate chips.

I had to gulp back dreams of February vacation days gone by when the kids were little and sports commitments didn’t conflict with school breaks. So I pulled out the sleds, set up Sorry and begrudgingly clicked “LIKE” on Facebook posts from friends vacationing in Cancun (and God knows where else).

We had nine days ahead of us with practice schedules and “hang out” plans with friends.

Don’t get me wrong. It was relaxing. For the first couple of days.

Then, snap.81dd715ac569

I didn’t actually snap. I mean cold snap.

Not just any ordinary winter storm. But one of those holy schnikies-below-freezing-New-England-winter-storms-where-your-nose-(and left nipple)-nearly-falls-off-when-you-open-the-door”.

Our plans to host sledding parties were replaced with frozen pipes and plumbing issues. At one point, the temperature fell to 45 degrees. In our family room. Eventually, the heat came back on. The pipes thawed out. And life went back to normal. I brought a car load of teenagers to the ice skating rink, the mall, and Dave and Busters. We went out to eat, baked cookies, hosted some friends and family and my husband and I even managed to fit in a date night in Boston.

In retrospect, it wasn’t that bad. No, we didn’t go to Disney World or Paradise Island. We didn’t come back with sun or ski tans.

But we did get to spend some quality family time together. From the Game of Life to the Walking Dead and a lot of giggles in between, we had a great time.

Even in the middle of the winter.

For nine days.


But for the love of everything scholastic, I pray that the kids don’t have any holidays, snow days, professional days or any unexpected days off for a few weeks so I can get back to a routine.

I think we’re in the clear.

Shut the front door.

I forgot about Spring Break!






Deal or no deal

You know when Facebook asks what you’re up to, and you just can’t respond? Because you don’t want to say what’s really on your mind? Since December, I have been wanting to share with you, (and the the rest of the world) how I REALLY FEEL.

When I close my eyes, this is the way it plays out in my head:

Facebook: “How do you feel?”

Me: “You want to know how I REALLY FEEL?”

Facebook: “That’s what I asked, so yes.”

Me: “Meh. I feel MEH! And quite frankly, I’m a little pissed off!”

Facebook: “Why? What happened?”

Me: “I feel like I’ve been cheated on by the shyest boy at the 8th grade dance.”

Let me see if I can sum it up this way: This time last year, I had a book deal. A two-book gift book deal, in fact.

The funny thing is I wasn’t even looking for the book deal when a small publishing house I’ll call Rudy Lynn Publishing approached me. I had written a 5,000-word essay for one of their collections and that’s when everything started happening.

I was actually looking for an agent. One I had a crush on. I had a sticker book filled with his name, I mean agents,  in cursive, that I wanted to approach. I had just finished a 40-page book proposal for my second gift book when I received an email from “Lynn,” who I had met in person at a book fest and adored instantly.

If you were to ask me how I felt the day I received the email from Rudy Lynn Publishing, I felt like I had been at an 8th grade dance and I realized the boy I had a crush on didn’t know I existed. Then out of the blue, a shy, awkward boy with braces and no rhythm came up to me at the punch bowl and asked me to dance. I was so nervous, I swallowed my gum, and said, “Yes.”

No thought process. Just “Yes.”

And I totally forgot about the boy I had a crush on. (Or the fact that I originally set out looking for an agent.)

Because – hello, there was someone that liked my writing! I was ecstatic that someone (of the opposite sex) even knew I existed. In a world of St. Elmo’s Fire Demi Moores, I was a bony, paler version of Molly Ringwald without the pretty in pink vibe.

But I still had potential! pretty-in-pink-molly-ringwald-35509955-168-168

So I started going out with the short boy, the small publisher.

We had a fun time. We talked on the phone a lot. We exchanged notes.

We giggled.

Passed notes in study hall.

We got serious, (after my attorney reviewed everything and I signed a two-book agreement). They were going to re-publish my first book as well as my second.

We kept writing.

And calling.

Then, several months after turning in my second manuscript, which I had to revamp with new material based on what they wanted for my gift-book duo, it started to get a little colder outside. I sensed some distance in the relationship.

That’s when I received news. The boy was changing schools. Rudy of Rudy Lynn Books was leaving the firm. Lynn said she still wanted to stay in business under the same name, and keep me and a handful of other authors, but you know how hard long distance relationships can be.

By December, after months of writing and no one writing back, I received a folded up note delivered by a friend of a friend. After almost a year of staying committed, Lynn informed me that Rudy Lynn Books was closing its doors and as a result, she had to release my agreement. And agreements with all the other authors too!

This meant that everyone who I told about this deal – well, I’d have to tell them the truth.

That there was no book deal.

The book deal was gone.

Regardless how short or shy, I no longer had a “boy” I could pass notes to in class.

And the boy I had a crush on (and never knew I existed) got his braces off and started dating Ida Author, the most popular girl in junior high.

So if you want to know how I really feel: I’m really, really disappointed.

And in a Leslie Knope way, feel like I could throw a pie at someone’s face.

I feel like I could have been searching for agents or other publishers. I feel like I could have been crank calling the one I really liked! I feel like I wasted almost a year of my life on a publisher that didn’t come through for me. Although I have respect for these talented professionals, I feel like I was cheated on.

Then again, it taught me to be more careful about finding my way in this industry.

And to stay focused on what I want from the beginning. To find a trusted partner who believes in me and could represent me and help guide me in this ever-changing world of publishing.

So now, as I dust off my non-fiction book proposal and start researching agents again – I realize it’s going to be a long road. After burying myself in a pity party of holiday truffles and People magazine issues, I’m ready for a New Year and New Me. As I attempt to pull my sports bra over my head and slap on some self-tanner, the pace of the treadmill may be slow, but like they say, it’s a marathon, not a sprint.

Maybe the offer I received was too good to be true. It happened, but it happened really fast. I never even had a chance to taste the punch.

Maybe I should listen to what my close friends say about it all.

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“When one door closes, a window flies open.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Maybe I should listen. (Not to every Kelly Clarkson lyric.) But maybe they’re onto something.

I may feel like I wasted a year, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing. Maybe it’s worth it to start this process over again to find myself, my most authentic voice, in the midst of finding Mr. Write.

Bravo Bender

Have you ever had a dream where you’re the one Home Alone?

A few weeks ago, the kids were at sleepovers, my husband was out of town, and my plans with girlfriends got cancelled.

Holy Macaulay Culkin, this actually happened to ME. For realz. They don’t make gift certificates for these kind of fabulous mommy moments.

If you had nothing to do for a glorious evening, you’d read a good book, fold some laundry, grab a glass of wine and call it a night, right?

I thought so too.

Until I turned on Netflix.  And ended up putting the book down. And turning up the volume.

For five hours straight.

I started watching a show. Don’t ask. It’s something you’d never watch with your husband or kids.

  1. OK. So it was…..Carrie Diaries. As in Sex and City’s Carrie Bradshaw. – as a teen. d39c86584a23012d0db0692d07e6ac86

Deep down, I’m a 15 year old, still waiting for my boobs to develop (some things never change) transfixed by this show. Like an addict, I watch the next episode. And the next.

Only the “crack” was coming from the TV screen.

When this happens, you, my friend, are on a Netflix binge-watching bender.

There’s no going back.

The next thing you know, you’ve binge-watched an entire season.

I did this with my parents after my mom had surgery. We binge-watched an entire season of  Downton Abbey.

I have to say, there is less guilt when binge-watching a PBS show. It’s sort of like over-eating scones rather than Twinkies. Something about sophisticated pastries and public television makes you feel more civilized.

When you’ve had it with your kids, your husband, mommyhood. There’s something I can suggest that will keep you from yelling, “Heeeeeeeere’s Johnny” from a frosted window.

  1. Coax your kids (safely) out of the house. Somehow, some way. After all the playdates you’ve hosted, there’s bound to be a grandparent, relative or mom friend who will gladly lend some mommy sanity and host a sleep over.
  2. Plan to reciprocate next weekend. It pays off in the long run. Trust me.
  3. If you can’t find a sleep under or sleepover solution, start after recovering from a cold or flu. (Foot note: Sleep unders are what I call fabulous alternatives to sleep overs, especially when you’re the host because little guests go home before 10 p.m. and you don’t have to deal with kid-sleep-over-versions-of-hang-overs the following day.)
  4. If you’re starting to feel better, pull a Ferris Bueller so you can finish another season.
  5. Gather some snacks, wine (or Z-quil) 😉 and lots of pillows.
  6. Hit the play button, and begin your binge-watching bender.
  7. You may start to feel guilty. Don’t. Just let it happen.
  8. Leave the guilt, take the cannolis. I know, I know. Watching too much television can be bad for us. So can being stuck inside during the winter.
  9. My husband and son once binge-watched two seasons of the Walking Dead during a snowstorm. If you don’t think it’s possible, try it.
  10. If you don’t have Hulu, a DVR or Netflix, try a DVD. Or TV. Never under estimate the power of a commercial break. You can get a lot of reading, laundry or emails done. Or call and cackle out loud with a dear girlfriend. (It’s fabulous.)
  11. If you really want to embrace the moment, switch channels.
  12. Try something new. For example, I NEVER thought I would ever watch Ladies of London. 2b4fe9c500000578-3195657-image-m-160_1439415475852I saw commercials for it and thought, “This is junk. I’ll never watch it.” Then one day, my husband had the TV going in the background while on a conference call. This show was on, with all these pretty women in designer garb, donning BRITISH ACCENTS. The next thing I know? I. Could. Not. Stop. Watching. (The accents helped me feel more cultured.)
  13. Rinse your brain. Turn off the TV. Repeat the next time no one is home!

Merry everything!!


I know you’re busy, but I wanted to pop by and wish you a very Merry Christmas and fabulous holiday break! May 2016 bring you good health and lots of happy moments.

I can’t wait to catch up with you after the break!image image

Here’s some rare family photos from this past summer, featuring my Pale Mom Legs! 😳

Be good to yourself this holiday season. Be giving and forgiving.

See you soon!

💕🎀👠🌲 – Jackie





On bra size and backfat


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Oh I said it. That’s not a typo up there.

I have (yet another) mid-life confession to make. Let me just start by saying that I have kind of been hiding under a proverbial rock lately, busy with a bunch of writing projects, and decided before this blog started to grow Charlotte’s inter-web, I needed to get something off my chest.

Interestingly enough, it actually involves my chest. The fact that there’s actually something going on up there in (my chest, or chestical area) that I’ve been waiting for since I was 16. You see, I was really excited to learn that I no longer fit in certain bras. And that, for-the-love-of-Victoria’s-Secret, miraculously, I think I MAY have gone up a bra size. And I’m not pregnant. Or nursing. Nor have I gotten any kind of work done. I swear. I may watch Ladies of London and The Real Housewives of Orange County, but I have no plans to join their botox or boob-augmentation party any time soon.

You have to understand that when your boobs (excuse me, breasts, or breasteses) start to grow (especially someone like me who never really had much up top and practically prayed at the altar of padded miracle bras), it’s kind of a big deal.

Boobage. You wait your whole life to have boobage. Sorry, mom, I mean breastage. (Not a word, I realize, but I’ll use it if it means my mom won’t be disappointed in me for writing this out loud.)

I had no idea I could actually grow “up top” AFTER having kids.

Hello Dolly, I’m beyond thrilled this happened naturally.

That is, until I realized what was really happening.

After going through my closet recently, on a quest to find the perfect outfit for an upcoming family wedding. (In D.C. In the winter, mind you.) I realized my push-up bra (from 2011) no longer fits.

“Mommy’s got ta-tas,” I whisper-sang to myself, as my daughter and I played dress up in my closet, trying to find a perfect dress for the occasion.

So I tried on one of my old favorite Pretty Woman-style-minus-the-hooker-plot-polka-dotted dresses without a bra, and thought I’d be on cloud nine.

Until I realized I couldn’t zip it up.

“Could you please help me with the zipper?”

My 11-year old daughter pulled, and stopped. I thought maybe the zipper was stuck.

Well, it was, in a sense.

“Mom, I’m sorry, but it’s not budging.”

I had tried to spanx my skin together with my fingers in that particular area, but the zipper wasn’t moving.

“Mom, how old is this dress?”

There was nowhere for the skin to go but out, dammit.

“I don’t know – I bought it for a special event, along with that one.”

Pointing to yet another formal dress that I’ve worn three times. (Maybe four, if you count that event where I had to leave early.)

“But when did you get them?”

I did the math. And realized I bought them in 2007. But they still looked brand new! Why? Because they have been sitting in my closet for EIGHT YEARS. Eight years. Almost nine! That’s a long time! (A nine year old can give advice on reprogramming an iPhone! I know first-hand, believe me!)

SO I realized it wasn’t that I had grown a bra size. I realized I had OUTGROWN my bras. And my dresses. And in the midst of it all, I had grown a little bit of…BACK FAT.

You know. Back fat?

That extra skin around the chestical area.

That causes a bra size to increase. Not in the cup size. BUT THE AREA AROUND THE BACK.

I remember going shopping with my aunts and grandmother EIGHT YEARS AGO and I would exchange giggly texts with my cousins because we never understood the need for those long, drapey, Mrs. Roper-inspired ensembles. They were for when we got older.

Golden Girl age. NOT 44!

Mr. and Mrs. Roper – Come and Knock on My Door! Image brought to you by Amy Vermillion!

The horr-ah!

After TRYING to zip up those gorgeous dresses (now being donated to younger friends who still have a sense of a younger-me-metabolism) I find myself at a loss. Although I embrace my body at this age and work out five times a week, I have to face the facts. I cannot save every nice item in my closet and expect to wear it year after year – unless it truly is in my size. And has some give. Which makes me understand, after 35 years, Mrs. Roper’s obsession with long, drapy ensembles.

“Are they shirts? Or dresses?” we’d joke.

I’m starting to understand the need for Golden Girl gear.

Long, flowy blouses, sweaters and jackets that hide the places crying to be Spanxed back together.

They need to cover the spaces that don’t need to be seen.

Yes, I’m fighting the mid-life metabolic pause. But I’m also trying to eat healthy and exercise and maintain my weight.

Not try to lose me in the process.

The next time I see a long sweater or blouse at the store, I promise not to call it Blanche.

Or Betty. Or Mrs. Roper.

I will pull it over my breastage, past the back fat, and embrace that Golden piece of clothing with a smile.



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I chatted with a sweet gal recently who complained she was getting “old”.

She’s in her early 30’s.

While deep down inside I wanted to slap her, I knew it wasn’t her fault.

It’s not her fault if she doesn’t know what it’s like to be what my honest-to-goodness grandmother describes as “middle-aged” (upon seeing photos of me at 41).

It’s not her fault she doesn’t have back fat.

Or arm dangle.

Or a water-retention-pooch that looks like you’ve lodged a bag of marshmallows under spanx after skipping exercise two days in a row.

Man oh man how I wish I had the metabolism I used to have in my 20’s and 30’s. I had a strong core back then, before I even KNEW what the heck core was!

This recent encounter with a 30-something along with a few doses of over-the-counter cold medication (because I’ve been in bed with a bad head cold and haven’t worked out in two days) has forced me to realize the following mid-life-isms:

In your 20’s, you have the energy to do anything you want, but you can’t afford it.

In your 30’s, you have the energy to do just about anything, but you’re too busy working and building  up your career and starting a family to even bother.

When you turn 40, you find yourself. You have a Sally-Field-size-epiphany and realize you really like yourself. You really, really like yourself. And anyone who doesn’t can go take a hike.

After celebrating the big 4-0, you finally start philosophizing about doing some of the things you wanted to do when you were a youngin’. (Oh, I said it.)

Then somewhere between 41 and 45, the proverbial poop hits the fan.

Kids who were in diapers when Rachel and Ross kissed on Friends are constantly calling you “Ma’am”.

And it no longer bothers you.

Body parts start breaking down.

Hormones start going haywire.

Your neck strains too far after doing Downward Dog in the comfort of your own home.

You find yourself wanting the made-for-tv miracle age-defying products advertised at 2 a.m. (Because you’re up in the middle of the night anyway thanks to mid-life mommy insomnia.)

One more year of insomnia and you fear you may start looking just like Mrs. Havisham!

You do NOT want to look like Mrs. Havisham by 45 (although this was probably the least-wrinkly depiction of the Dickens’ Great Expectations character played by the always-gorgeous Anne Bancroft). Photo from ic.pics.livejournal.com

You’ve finally saved up enough money to do all the things you wished you’d done in your 30’s, but you barely have the time because you have kids. And work. And body parts that aren’t working the way they used to unless you exercise every 12 hours and consume enough raw juice to cause a variety of TMI- plumbing-related explosions.

Oh you have some good days.

But most of the time, you’re sucking in your marshmallows and trying your best not to come across as a middle-aged person who still dances like it’s 1999.

Then again, when I glance in the mirror (after letting out a “meh” because I still don’t recognize my own back side), I realize, “Maybe it’s not that bad.”

Believe it or not, I do appreciate being 44.

To think my dear friends in their 50’s and 60’s want to slap me. Because they think I’m young!

No, I do appreciate being 44.

And every little thing that comes along with it.

Every little thing.

From the lack of estrogen and eyebrow hair to the upturn in hormones and hot flashes.

I know that I often vent about the changes that come with being 44. And I may look a little older on Facebook this time next year. I can’t help it. I still feel like I’m that girl in her early 30’s on the inside.

But then again, I feel GLAD I don’t have to go back!

I guess it just goes to show that as we age, life somehow gets a little sweeter.

We grow. In many ways.

Yes, our hair may get a little whiter. Our hips may get a little wider.

But as my grandmother says, it also means we get a whole lot wiser. 😉

Just say no to white jeans after Labor Day (here’s why)


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I have a confession to make. I think I might be the only female in America that hasn’t embraced white jeans.

To me, white jeans are a girl’s anti-girdle. Just trying on a pair in a badly lit dressing room highlights every post-baby-44-year-sag-snap-and-pop from my ass to my ankles. White denim has the ability to turn the tiniest bloat into a gigantic jiggle. And what might appear to be a bitty booty into a Kim Kardashian badonkadonk contest.

Don’t get me wrong. White jeans look good on some people.

Especially eleven-year-olds and anemic runway models.

But mine DEFINETELY make my ass look big.

And white denim after Labor Day?


I Just. Can’t.

Oh I know we received notice from the fashion police in New York, LA and Paris years ago that winter white is back. But when you grow up in Texas, I’m sorry, but even if it’s 98 degrees on Labor Day, there’s an unwritten rule. (No actually I think it WAS a written rule when I was growing up) that it’s a “Don’t” to wear white pants or white shoes after Labor Day! And white denim? Fugetaboutit.

Don’t you dare think I’m a walking fashion “don’t,” because I love my Vogue and I bought a pair of faux-white denim pants a few years ago to see if I could slowly cross over to the white-threaded trend.  What in the name of Levi is faux white denim, you ask? OK, let me see if I can break this down: Brands like Krazy Larry’s make these button-less pull-on “wonder” pants that I swear erase all the bubbles. Think Golden Girls slacks minus flowing rayon with a splash of Spanx-ness. They look like jeans. But they’re not. And they’re not to be confused with Pajama Jeans!

They squeeze your “marshmallows” together to make you look fantabulous.

They’re magically delicious.

But they’re still white pants.

And I’m still me.

I think I’ve worn them five times in three years.

The last time I wore them, I ate a slice of pizza at my daughter’s school picnic and spilled about a spoonful of marinara sauce in an area you don’t want to see a spoonful of anything red.

And I digress.

Now that it’s AFTER Labor Day? Well, you can forget about seeing me wear white pants until Easter Sunday.

Unless of course, we’re talking cream-colored winter wool.

Bah. That’s material for another time.

Simple Steps to Laundry Sanity


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The sun is shining. Your kids are off on thank-you-Lord-I-promise-to-reciprocate-soon playdates.

The kitchen is clean.

The vacuuming is done.

You’ve met two deadlines in three hours flat.

You’re on a roll.

Until you come in contact with the laundry room.

Laundry. The bane of a work-from-home-mother’s existence.

There are not piles, but MOUNDS of clothes on both sides of your basement floor.

You can barely distinguish the whites from the colored clothes – and damn those striped PB Teen sheets. I’ll deal with you later. Even more unrecognizable pieces are thrown on top of your dusty dryer.

Socks so dirty they are still dripping with sweat from your son’s lacrosse practice and clinging for dear life to towels so torn, you can only use them to dry off the dogs.

Sheets are covering shorts. Grass stained girls’ jeans are practically crying for the spin cycle.

My mother, bless her heart never really taught me how to be a great laundry-doer. I mean laundry-er. Whatever. I can’t even attempt to create a word that describes doing laundry.

Now I never told you I’m all domesticated. (Lordy knows I’ll never live up to my grandmother’s standards. The woman used to iron everything, change her drapes with the seasons and sew custom sheets for relatives. For FUN!) I’m a mom and yes, I cook, clean and manage my house. But let me put it this way – aside from baking cookies – our before-kids apartment oven was used for stowing away past issues of People magazine. OK?


Laundry. Stinks.

I hate it.

There I said it.

I. Hate. Doing. Laundry.

Laundry can kiss my middle-aged…you know.

Boy that feels good to get out.

If you find me standing in the basement in front of a pile of clean, dried clothes fresh from the dryer, I will most likely be complaining. Practically going insane with disgust.

Seriously, put me in the dryer and switch on the longest cycle.

The only way I get through laundry every week?

I’m glad you asked.

Jackie’s simple steps to laundry sanity:

  1. Lug the hamper (of clean and dried clothes) upstairs. (I mean we all know the easy part is washing and drying!)
  2. Clear the dogs from your family room. Kids too if possible. (Meaning try attempting this after they go to bed!)
  3. Turn on your TV, radio, audio-book or Internet show. Something that leaves you giggling until you practically pee.
  4. I mean it. Do it. Give me three episodes of Sex and the City and I’ll take your loads of crinkled clothes and fold them until they are super straight. 30 Rock, Modern Family, The Goldbergs and The Office all give off a similar effect.
  5. Start folding. But keep watching. (I used to fold to Will and Grace in the 1990s. I’d cackle so loudly, the librarian-and-half-hoarder-neighbor below us probably thought I was throwing a rave.)
  6. Fold some more.
  7. But keep watching/listening too.
  8. Spit and shape those sweaters until they look like they belong on the shelf at the Gap.
  9. Separate everything into neat piles.
  10. Breathe in. Breathe out. Before you know it, Samantha has broken up with someone else and guess what? Your laundry is F-O-L-D-E-D.

(And, yes, you can go get yourself a glass of congratulatory wine and wait until the morning (or next Wednesday afternoon) to put everything away. ;))

New Author? Don’t Give Up, But Don’t Believe Everything You See in the Movies


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Have you ever seen a movie and wondered, “Wow, I could SO do that too”?

The characters make fulfilling dreams look so easy.

I’m a self-proclaimed movie buff, but it really bothers me when a movie (even one inspired by a true story) makes something that can take YEARS for a regular person to accomplish look like a walk in the park.

Like writing a book and landing a publishing contract.

Hello, if you’re a new author, you know what I’m talking about.

I was watching one of my favorite kid friendly movies this winter, Cheaper by the Dozen, starring Steve Martin and Bonnie Hunt, and the mom decides to randomly “send some pages” to her friend who happens to work for a big publisher. Five minutes later, she signs a dream book deal, launches a New York book tour and makes Kelly Rippa laugh in front of a live television audience. Five minutes after that, Oprah and her crew are on their way to her house. (Caricature provided by Pinterest.)

While watching the movie, my kids saw the look on my face and joked, “Wow mom, it’s that easy, isn’t it?”

I wanted to throw a tomato at the screen. But I just grinned and swallowed.

In reality, writing a book in THIS CENTURY, whether fiction or nonfiction, is not a walk in the park. Nor is getting published and getting noticed by respected print and online media, let alone celebrity talk show hosts. It’s actually more ficticious than anything I’ve seen. (Unless you’re a rock star like my blogger-turned-author friend Jill Smokler, aka Scary Mommy, but even she says she experienced some disappointments during her early book tours.) As a public relations professional and self-published author who has worked hard to promote my first self published gift book (How to Spread Sanity on a Cracker) and worked even harder to pitch and land a publishing deal for my subsequent books (coming this fall via Robyn Lane Books), I can tell you first hand that it doesn’t happen “just like that”. I think of writing, publishing and promoting a book as the equivalent of baby steps. Oh yes, What About Bob Baby Steps. (Another movie where the main character, played by Richard Dreyfuss, has a best-selling book and experiences celebrtity pr.) It’s so unfair! All I can say is writing and promoting definitely has its ups and downs, with some spit ups, hiccups and joyous jogging stroller ride-like-the-wind highs along the way.

New authors often spend years waddling around trying to promote their work, even if they’re backed by an agent or publisher.

When it comes to writing a book, there are many bumps in the road that leave even the most optimistic writer disappointed, feeling like they’re about to fall. I have found that many authors, even those represented by spectacularly supportive agents, are choosing to self publish because it gives them more freedom. I self-published my first book with CreateSpace and had a positive experience. But I am so excited to reliquish that duty to my new friends at Robyn Lane Books. 😉

I have a friend (I’ll call her Judy) who wrote a novel and was backed by a well respected agent and chose to self publish because she was tired of waiting so long for her agents to land a publishing deal. Judy was able to market her book on her own and sell it on Amazon. She is writing her second novel and her agent is shopping for a new book deal soon. I just finished Judy’s book and can tell she deserves to be interviewed by Ellen, but I haven’t seen her on the show just yet.

I have another friend (who I’ll call Ava) who was represented by two agents. It took her a long time to learn how to approach and land an agent. While her agents were busy trying to sell her first book, Ava decided to keep writing and self-publish not just one but five additional books in romance and young adult genres. She is one of the most dedicated writers and she says she has a hard time promoting herself. And she used to work in TV!

A little tidbit: As a new author, you have to walk a fine line when it comes to promoting yourself. You have to know when to just “be”. As a 44-year-old mother, I truly believe in connecting with people in an authentic way. Something that inspired me to audition for the Listen to Your Mother Show back in 2013 – and yes, I ended up becoming a cast member, and connecting with some amazing women. If it’s not authentic, what’s the point?

All I’m trying to say, (without breaking your dreams) is if you decide to write a book, go for it. But don’t think it’s going to be as easy as it appears in the movies. (Unless you’re already a celebrity.) 😉 It takes a lot of work. A lot of rejections. A lot of dedication. Discipline. Self-discovery. You’ll experience sweat, stress and cheers. Don’t quit your day job either. Even if you have 2,000-plus Twitter followers and a ton of likes on your page, it doesn’t mean Ellen is knocking on your door. Even if you’re dancing along with her in your family room.

Just keep writing. And keep believing. And one day, maybe, just maybe, Ellen might want to Tweet you!

And then they graduate

This week marks a crazy time for so many moms and dads.

Aside from the fact that we have to remember the 23 different end-of-school-year activities going on for each child.

And that it feels as if every parent in America needs to take four days off from their regularly scheduled working lives in order to fit in every event and activity (We do the best we can, right?!)…It’s kind of a bittersweet time.

A really bittersweet time for me.

Because the end of this school year means my littlest “graduates” elementary school.

And my biggest actually graduates middle school.

(As in there is an actual graduation ceremony with ironing and dress pants involved.)

Yes, that means my first born child is going to high school in the fall.

So if you run into me at Target or the grocery store, just know that although I may be smiling on the outside.

I am actually kind of a mess.

On the inside.

Think teary-eyed-mom-singing-to-Cats-in-the-Cradle-in-my-car kind of mess …on the inside.

I keep trying to hide it.

I’m a little verkempt (if this was an essay and I had a foot note section, this is where I would give credit to Saturday Night Live’s Cawfee Talk).

All week I bury myself in my to-do list. Lie to myself that I’m OK through emails. On the phone. And down a few spoonful or five of Nutella.

I’ve tried to jog it out.

Write it out.

Chat it out with mom friends.

I’m trying, in the most Talladega Nights way to “bury it deep down”. But as a mom, I can’t help but feel a temporary sense of bittersweet holy crap-ness.

That this is really happening.

This sh*t is real.

Kids really do grow up in a blink of an eye.

My husband found an old video of my son walking to the bus stop on his first day of kindergarten. That was nine years ago.

He played it for me at 6:45 a.m.  today – the day of my son’s 8th grade graduation.

This man, my loving husband, knows what he’s doing. He knew I would appreciate the video. And that it would send me into a tailspin of motherly emotion.

At a time when I’m at my most rattled and vulnerable.

A time when I’m still in complete denial.

As I watched the 20-second clip, (which I remember recording because I’m as usual behind the camera as we walked our little guy to the bus stop), I saw the version of my son I still see in my mind’s eye. He was so sweet and small, in his little kid-pre-teen voice and big-boy backpack. (I would post it, but if I did, my son would probably never speak to me again.)

My son watched the video with me this morning. And he knew I’d lose it.

But I tried to stay strong and hold it in.

Until he left for school on his bike.

Then I let the tears roll.

Yes, this week marks an important turning point.

For my kids.

For me and my husband.

And for so many parents.

Once again, and thankfully without diapers and potty training, we have NO IDEA WHAT WE ARE IN FOR as parents as we face the true teenage years.

It’s exciting.

And nerve-racking to think that our kids will put us through the same crap we put our parents through eons ago.

And yet we head into it with the highest of hopes.

Coach Taylor’s clear eyes.

And full hearts.

And a bundle of circle-of-life God-help-us-all naivety.

Remember eleven?


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As I watch my daughter reach this impressionable age,

A time when everything still seems happy-go-lucky, but your body (and life) starts to change.

It makes me reminisce….

About the time I was living in 11-year-old, carefree bliss.

When you were eleven, did you care what others thought?

Or just go about your day, all smiles, without a second thought?

Ride bikes to the candy store with your friends after softball?

Babysit, walk to school, go to the mall?

Always with your friends, always having a ball.

Climb trees, play house, host lemonade stands,

Make “totally awesome” and oh-so-innocent 11-year-old plans.

Take gymnastics,

Run to dance.

Every once in a while, you’d wonder if the boy in the parachute pants would ever give you a chance.

But boys were still kind of yucky.

And you were still a bit gawky.

And you had no idea nor did you care how others truly “saw” you.

You even had enough guts to dance that dance (by the Go-Go’s) in front of the whole school.

You smiled, giggled and lived life full out.

Your friends were the best and that’s all you cared about.

This was pre-peer pressure and low self-esteem.

You had no idea what was coming at 12, 13 or heavens-to-Betsy, FOURTEEN.

Why? Because you were eleven.

An age when life and your outlook on it was like a little piece of cotton-candy heaven. 🙂 – Jackie