Tag Archives: motherhood

Queen of distractions

28 Tuesday May 2019

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So, hi. I know it’s been a while. Did I mention that my oldest child is graduating from high school in the next couple of weeks? As a mom, it feels surreal. Wasn’t he just learning how to roll over in our first apartment? I realize he’s old enough to vote (thank God). And go to college, which he is this fall. I’m fine, really. I’m so excited for him. Proud of him. But holy schnikies.  You never realize what this feels like until you’re a mom of a teen who is about to graduate.IMG_9608

I’m so thankful for distractions. Meetings, track meets, lacrosse games, banquets, calls, girls’ nights out, lunches, Netflix parties for one. I’ve had all of the above, thank you very much. I am the queen of distractions. My friends and I joke that we are a lot like the dog in the movie Up that has a voice simulator. Even in the middle of a life or death mission, the minute he sees a squirrel, he runs to it. To avoid the inevitable.

In this scenario, which is my so called life, the inevitable is change.

Graduation is coming soon. I’m excited for my son and his friends.

But holy…“Squirrel!”

This is big.

I’m fine. I really am. I’m a mom of teens. I know how to adapt. Heck, ever since I was a teen, I’ve been the master of adapting to change. Moving from Texas to Rhode Island in the middle of high school can have that effect on you. Imagine showing up on the first day of school in cowboy boots pronouncing your Rs. In the middle of a Rhode Island suburb. That’ll make you grow up fast.

I’ve had a lot of distractions over the past few months. I ended up getting lost in everything except my saving grace. Right here. Write here. Where I usually spit things out on the page so quickly, they don’t take up as much space in my mind. The truth is, I’ve been writing professionally, but not for myself.

I’ve been distracted. Too distracted for my own good.

I think I hit my breaking point when I caught a nasty cold a few days ago. I took enough vitamins and supplements to bring a squirrel down. I tried to pretend I was Ok, and even managed to go out with my girlfriends. But by the end of the night, my voice got so hoarse, my inner Demi Moore was beginning to shine. My throat was on St. Elmo’s fire. I had no choice but to crawl into bed, exhausted both physically and emotionally. On one of the most beautiful holiday weekends of the year. I was protected from the sun, under the covers. In my room. I started sneezing and coughing at the same time. I’m calling it a snough. Not a pretty sight. I became glued to Netflix like the mom in the movie Joy starring Jennifer Lawrence (played brilliantly by actress Virginia Madsen, who never left her room).

Courtesty of Joy, 20th Century Fox

Photo from 20th Century Fox- from the movie Joy.

My TV became my best friend for two days straight. I’ve named her Fern. I binge watched enough shows that should have been spread out over the course of two months. I hid under the covers as the sun snoughed through the blinds. But no. I yanked the shades down lower. I looked out on my back porch a couple times, then slid under again. Blew my nose. And gobbled up The Imposters. Then Renee Zellweger in her new series. Distracted by her plastic surgery, or non plastic surgery but different and not-exactly-just-as-you-are-Bridget face, on one of the sunniest, clearest days of the year. I wasn’t going on a ferry. Or to a friend’s cookout. I wasn’t hanging with my friends and family. I wasn’t heading for dinner with my husband. Not with a high fever and a head cold like I had. Then I rolled out of bed today to a wake-up call. It’s a longer story, but the gist is my laptop was screaming my name. Fern needed to go bye bye.

I needed to get back here. Write here. Or else I’d end up like the mom in the movie Joy.

No one wants to be stuck in bed, lost in a land where Erica Kane’s twin lives on forever.

At least not when you have only one life to live. That’s another soap, another dish for another post. SQUIRREL!

 

Does this blog make my butt look big?

27 Monday Mar 2017

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I haven’t written about this formally. (Not that I’ve ever been mistaken for being formal.) But I had an expansion problem the better part of 2016. Meaning my ass had expanded so much, if I wore a new pair of PJ pants one-size-too-small, I stretched them out to the point of can’t-be-returned. Now I realize people in Hollywood often pay big bucks for a big bum. But no one would want this brand. One that comes with a side of back fat and doesn’t stop until it reaches the pre-thunder-thigh region.

I’d look in my closet mirror and realize my backside was effing unrecognizable. My front side too.

I was in total shock.

How did this happen?

I was always on the thinner side. As a kid, my nickname was Snack-a-lyn Jacqueline because I could eat like a lumber Jack and get away with it. Today, if I dare list “what I eat in a day,” poor gorgeous Gwyneth would Goop in her organic cotton shorts. My metabolism was so fast in my teen years, I’d consume as many calories as a weight lifter, ride my bike, swim, jog and Jazzercise it off and wake up and eat four bowls of Wheaties. And probably lose a pound in the process.

But things changed after having kids. After turning 40. And REALLY took a turn nearly a year ago. The very day I turned 45. Before I could shove down a tiny slice of Death by Chocolate birthday cake, I felt like I had grown a third butt cheek.

It wasn’t that I had increased my calorie intake.

Or stopped exercising.

It was simple: When I turned 45, my body didn’t work the same way. It remembered things. Like the cookie I ate after 8 p.m. The cheese dip I had at a party Friday night. Or the chocolate I consumed after dinner.

Now, I love everything about getting older.  The wisdom. The not giving a crap about what other people think. The laughter. The friendships. The experiences. The wisdom mixed with occasional brain pharts. My marriage. My family. But I could definitely do without the expansion problem.

Since September, I’ve started a new thought and get -thinner process that has allowed me to reduce the size of my booty (and other body parts).

If you want a bittier booty, try these 10 tips:

  1. Move your body. This advice comes straight from my dear BFF here in RI who is a Yoga gal and looks like a Barbie doll at age 51. Move it or lose it, people.
  2. Make it a point to walk or jog every day, rain or shine. If I’m not in the mood to run or walk outside, I go on the treadmill in my garage. And giggle to Chelsea Handler or Mindy Kaling. If I don’t have time for the treadmill, I jog in place while drying my hair. (You think I’m kidding, but I’m not.) If I can’t jog in place, I take the steps rather than the elevator or park my car far away from a store so I can sneak in some extra steps.
  3. Sneak in stretches and squeezes. If you can’t take a class, try stretching while you’re drying your hair!
  4. Don’t drink your calories. I used to have a soy green tea latte every morning. Little did I know that such a seemingly healthy drink would end up becoming an unhealthy addiction. A 240-calorie one at that! Now I order a jade mint green tea heaped in hot water. And I try to avoid soy milk because for some reason, it has a tendency to make my butt grow.
  5. GRAZE. I swear it’s a good thing. If I go hours without eating, I’m more likely to crave unhealthy options. But if I graze or snack often on good stuff, mixed with some chocolate and then maybe some more treats, I’m good to go.
  6. Drink water. Then more water. Then some more. Avoid sports drinks unless you’re training for a triathlon or marathon.
  7. Never skip breakfast. Whether it’s a smoothie, a handful of almonds or a piece of turkey bacon, eat something. If you skip, trust me, you’re going to feel weak and crave macaroni and cheese by 11:30 a.m.!
  8. Throw out your scale. (Or at least put it away for a while.) Weighing myself can be downright depressing. I drink a glass of water and gain two pounds. It’s about how you feel and look in clothes that makes all the difference.
  9. Make it in a mason jar. Every week, I make a week’s worth of mason jar salads filled with gorgeous greens, sweet peppers, carrots, tomatoes and banana peppers. You name it, it’s in there. Email me if you want to know my trick to making a salad stay fresh, delicious and soggy-free for a week! jackie@ventingsessions.com
  1. Be balanced. I love juicing veggies, but I’ve never gone on all-juice cleanses because I’m hypoglycemic and my blood sugar dips if I don’t consume enough protein or calories. Everyone is different. Instead, I take Juice Plus dried veggie and fruit capsules to help me stay on track. Visit my BFF’s site for more information: http://taylorwells.juiceplus.com/us/en I also eat chocolate every day. I give into cravings, but make sure I move my body the next day. It’s about creating a cycle of good habits that help me feel better and reduce the size of my booty!

Just be You, Mom

01 Tuesday Nov 2016

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regina-georgeSomething that comes easy to me as a middle-aged mom?

Aside from making my kids cringe while dancing to Madonna in the kitchen?

Being myself.

When you turn 40, 41, Lordy help me I’m 45. I don’t want to be filling this post with long division before I get to my point here.

I have found that at 45, it’s so nice to just be yourself. Being yourself rocks. You can be yourself around old friends. New friends. Acquaintances. Dear, close friends. And I’ve also found you can be yourself around a cranky 15-year-old when you’re 45 and could give two popsicles what they think. It’s quite exhilarating, actually.

It’s the equivalent of putting on a pair of PJ pants after coming home from nonstop meetings.

It’s like an internal Yoga Ommmmmmmmm.

It’s like whipped cream piled on top of hot cocoa on a freeze-your-buns kind of day.

You get the idea.

When you are yourself and can surround yourself with friends who accept you, and I’m borrowing from Bridget Jones here, just the way you are, it’s really refreshing.

I’ll never forget, growing up in Texas, I had the best friends. I was lucky. We had such fun times, listening to the Go Gos in our mini skirts and bi-level hair-dos. I could be myself around them and it was glorious.

But when I was in junior high school, things began to change. My friends were still awesome, but I started to reach that age when your body isn’t exactly fabulous and your hair isn’t exactly the most stylish. You feel awkward being you. Because you’re not sure who you are just yet.

Sometimes, you start to act like someone else. And this isn’t a good feeling. At all.

Imagine growing up outside of Houston. Live Barbie dolls are effing everywhere. Born with Marsha Brady hair and Wonder Woman legs. In my intermediate school, there were girls who would look you up and down when they talked to you. Just to see what you were wearing. Think Mean Girls, Texas-sized. OK, I’ll admit, I wasn’t much to look at. I was a wee bit awkward at 11, 12, 13. But I was always myself and used my babysitting money to go to the mall with my friends to find something cute from the Express sales rack.

I should also mention that my hair was permed. By my mom.

And I weighed 95 pounds. Soaking wet.

One day, while talking with my best friend at my locker, in a totally new Forenza outfit mind you, a girl who could have passed as Regina George looked me up and down, shot me a dirty look, turned and laughed with her friends.

I was 12. And obviously, I never forgot that look.

Or that feeling.

My daughter is 12.

She’s a totally different child than I was at 12. She tells me, as she’s making me belly laugh with her quick wit, she doesn’t care about what others think. She accepts herself just the way she is, God bless her. She a tween, so she doesn’t like it when I write about her, so I’m not going to focus on her anymore. I’m going to talk about you.

How often, as a woman, do you let others dictate how you feel about yourself?

How often, as a mom, do you care about what other moms think of you?

It has taken me dozens of years to realize what mean moms think doesn’t matter.

If you still care about your suburban version of Regina George, I beg you to stop. And look at your bad self in the mirror. And all its awesomeness. And promise me you’ll give yourself a high-five today…after dancing in the kitchen while making your kids cringe. 😉

 

Sweata Weatha

25 Tuesday Oct 2016

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Enough about yoga pants, are you as excited as I am about SWEATA WEATHA? The nights are getting chilly. So it’s time to put away your sleeveless tops and bring out your favorite sweaters. The fact that I get to bury any semblance of arm dangle in a long sleeve or hide a tired turkey neck for a few more months is like… buttah.
SWEATA WEATHA means it’s fall in New England. You know, one of the four seasons.

Growing up in Texas, you had two seasons. Summer and not summer.

Now, you could go to the mall (shopping is considered a sport in Texas) and buy an adorable sweater and wear it in October. Inside. In 65-degree air conditioning.

But the moment you walk outside in your wooly runway wear, you’re exposed to a hot flash that’s also known as the great Texas outdoors. When it’s 90 degrees in October in Houston, you can feel the sweat oozing from your forehead down to your pits as soon as you walk outside. Your neck gets moist and you feel like you’re in Gilley’s with Sissy and Bud, about to get on that mechanical bull. You realize it’s quite possible to die from being over-dressed, albeit in a cute and fluffy cardigan.

So, what I’m trying to say is it’s nice to be living in SWEATA WEATHA.

You don’t like sweata weatha? Well, whateva.

As the weather begins to change, something else happens to me. (Don’t worry, I don’t turn into a werewolf. That only happens hormonally-speaking once a month.)

I get very cold here in little Rhode Island. And I have a tendency to repeat outfits. I’ll wear them over and over. Like CNN updates, I want to make sure everyone sees it.

I do this with my sweater cardigans. I have three that I’ve worn for the past five years.

I’ll often wear one, then repeat it again in another two days.

In case you may have missed me one day, well, I’ll most likely be wearing the same sweater I wore two days ago. Now, I wash my clothes. I take a shower every day. But I also get attached to certain items.

Like jeans.

I actually feel bad for my jeans.

When they start to fall off of me, not from losing weight, but from sheer over-use, you know it’s time for them to get tossed in the washer. Sometimes, I Fabreze them and toss them in the dryer, or at least spritz the crotch area. (A fun secret that I advise you to use should you find yourself in a laundering predicament.)

Have you ever run into someone you know twice in the same week, wearing the same thing?

Happens to me all the time.

Or you rotate and “shop your closet” and wear something you haven’t worn in three years?  Then wear it to a fun outing with friends. You’re all having a selfie celebration. Your friend posts a ton of photos online. Everything is awesome.

Until the next day. While in line at the local café, a Facebook memory pops up from three years ago.

And you realize you’re wearing the exact same sweata.

 

 

 

Walking Bed-Head

17 Monday Oct 2016

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How do you feel about skipping a day?

I’m talking about washing your hair.

I’m having one of those “Walking-Dead-bed-head-lordy-please-pull-the-hair-back-because-it’s-better-for-society” kind of days. And with the popularity of dry shampoo and other pillow-hair-prevention products, I’m trying to be fashionable. So I sprayed some dry shampoo on my unwashed hair this morning. Then puffed some powder. The result?

Nothing less than frightening. I could scare away Zombies.

I’m trying to support this hair care trend. But I fear I’m a little fashionably late. Like skinny white jeans, this is a trend I’m having a touimg_2474gh time embracing. (Which is why I posed this way. I’m trying to shake off the frustration.)

Do you ever skip a day? And if so, how many days can you get away with not washing your hair? You know, before it starts to get really noticeable? And greasy?

One of my best friends can go two, three, sometimes FOUR days on dry shampoo alone. And she still looks fabulous. It’s a gift, really.

She’s a brunette.

If you are a brunette like my friend, know that you are very lucky. You may still be upset that you had to be Kate Jackson’s character when you played Charlie’s Angels as a little girl. I get it. Just be glad you didn’t have to play Charlie. (I won’t go into my Dorothy Hammel hair-do drama stories right now.) But I will admit, as a dish-water blond as my mom calls it, my hair has a tendency to look like it’s fresh off a Bridget-Jones-convertible ride if I skip washing for one day, spritzed with Pam cooking spray if I skip two and a victim of a food fight if I go for three. (A hair trauma I’ve never had to experience, which I realize makes me a very poor candidate for Survivor. Unless they give out free shampoo samples along with rice.)

I also have a beautiful blond BFF who can go days without washing her hair and still look like she’s ready for a shampoo commercial.

I know. I need to give it time. Friends tell me dry shampoo is their saving grace. Let me tell you a little something about dry shampoo on me. 

It’s all good. For about an hour. Then dry shampoo makes my hair look… crispy. Not as stiff as that scene from There’s Something About Mary. But it’s pretty close. The issue I have is that when I skip a day, I actually LOOK like Kramer from Seinfeld when he decided to stop taking showers and took baths instead. Think pillow hair. With fly-aways.

I realize it’s good for your hair to skip a day or two of washing. But this doesn’t mean it’s good for EVERYONE. image-1

 

On Chelsea Grammar

04 Tuesday Oct 2016

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One of my favorite snarky female comedians has a new late-night-styled show on Netflix that I often watch when I’m by myself. In my garage. Jogging on my treadmill. (And yes, I do realize that I said jogging. I don’t necessarily run fast like everyone else in my family. I like to jog. Or, as Ron Burgundy would pronounce it, “Yog”.)

Chelsea Handler has a new show on Netflix simply called, “Chelsea”. This show has so many inappropriate things in it, I hope my mom never reads this post. (Oh, crap. It may be too late.) What can I say, we all have our guilty pleasures. My favorite was watching Sex and the City while eating chocolate and drinking a beer after the kids go to bed. I have to admit, I still find myself glued to the re-runs while folding laundry. But I also tend to crave something fresh every now and then, especially when I’m trying to get my mind off the fact that I’m in my garage. On a treadmill. Yogging.

AP SUNDANCE CHELSEA HANDLER A FILE ENT USA UT

FILE – In this Jan. 22, 2016 file photo, Chelsea Handler poses for a portrait to promote the film, “Chelsea Does”, at the Toyota Mirai Music Lodge during the Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah. Handler reveals her personal fears and biases in her new Netflix docu-series as she explores marriage, drugs, racism and technology. (Photo by Matt Sayles/Invision/AP, File) ORG XMIT: NYET423

I’m only human.

“Chelsea” is only 30 minutes with no commercial interruptions. Hello, candid Chelsea? And no interruptions? Yes, please. (Except when my daughter will surprise me by opening the garage door and I’ll turn it to something totally PG like Cake Boss.) supposedlynot-supposably

The host may be totally irreverent. I get that the show is not for everyone. But I like it. I once saw Chelsea live and I think she’s a character and as a female comedian, she has what I like to call lady b@lls.

Think of the show as a delicious treat for me to indulge in when my kids aren’t around. From Chelsea interviewing 93-year-olds about the presidential election to her dog Chunky walking around the set waiting for her to finish, I cackle out loud during most episodes. On my treadmill. In my garage. While jogging.

One time, I was caught off guard and almost fell off the machine while she was drinking wine and giggling with actress Drew Barrymore.

One part of the show called “Chelsea Grammar”, which features an SNL-styled intro by actor Kelsey Grammer and addresses Chelsea’s grammatical pet peeves, inspired me to mention some of my own here. As a former journalist turned public relations professional, I have a tendency to become a pill when it comes to grammar.  My kids will say something that’s not grammatically correct and I often have to hold myself back from correcting them on the spot. I’ve proofread many menus in my day too. I thankfully give myself a lot of freedom in this blog because it’s part of my voice. I don’t like to be all stuffy because that’s not who I am in person. But there are some things that make me cringe. Like certain things people say out loud that don’t make any sense.

Here are some examples that make me cringe:

  • When people say supposeably when they mean supposedly or suppose. Supposeably isn’t a word!
  • When people use the word “proper” at the end of a sentence when they mean to say “properly”. Example: “Do your job properly.”
  • Chelsea mentions this one and I totally agree: When folks say “So, anyways”.
    • ANYWAYS is not a word, people.
    • Anyway is a word. And even it gets misused a lot.
  • While we are on the subject, “alot” is not a word. It’s “a lot”.
  • When people say “Irregardless”.
    • I understand we all make mistakes. But it’s regardless, not irregardless.
    • Irregardless is not a word. Please just say Regardless. Yeah! I knew you could do it! Thank you!

I’m sure there are a lot more examples to add to this list. But I already feel better sharing these out loud. If many of these examples were used in a sentence, I could say: “I suppose I still have a lot to learn from Chelsea Handler and the dictionary. Regardless, I hope this inspires a lot of people to use these sayings properly anyway.”

And scene.

 

Life can be simple, if you just let it…

29 Thursday Sep 2016

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Do you ever have days (or weeks) when nothing goes your way?

You let the dogs in, and their paws are plastered with mud. A day after you had them professionally groomed. You’re expecting friends in 15 minutes, and your house smells like teen spirit…and wet dog. You get into a groove with your workload and reflect on how refreshing it is to have the kids back at school, only to realize holy eff – tomorrow is Friday.

My husband, a very positive and supportive life partner, often reminds me, “You know babe, life can be simple”.

Uh huh.

“If you just let it.”

This is something my husband reminds me of on a regular basis. And I appreciate his positive mental attitude. But not when I’m brushing clumps of dried poop off my puppy’s back side and nursing a Hershey bar hangover.

I realize life really can be simple.

If I just let it.

But sometimes, I get in my own way.

My inner voice often makes things more complicated than they need to be. I don’t think I’m the only one who goes through this. Anyone? Bueller?

Some days, when I can pound out a press release or two, Uber-mom the kids around, fix a healthy dinner, make plans with friends and plan playdates (pardon me: scheduled time for my kids to hang out with friends with parental supervision) in a single bound, I’m on top of my game. Feeling groovy.

Life can be nice and simple.

And I’m grateful. I realize the poop can sometimes hit the fan, but for the most part, as one of my dear friends (my BFF) reminds me often, when you’re trying to do something and it feels like you’re paddling upstream, it might just be the universe telling you something. A woman paddling a kayak boat

Life doesn’t have to be so crazy. Or so hard.

It can be simple. And joyful.

If you just let it.

That’s how I started to feel about this blog. And I think it’s because I was paddling upstream in my mind. When I should have been going with the flow.

It should just be simple. As simple as not being afraid to embrace who I am on the proverbial page, arm dangle and all. I’ve thought about not blogging anymore because my kids are older and they don’t want me to write about them. But just because I’m not writing about potty training and play pens doesn’t mean I’m no longer a mom who needs to vent some stuff out.  I never call anyone out or embarrass anyone except myself, in a self-loving way. I use this blog as a venting session for myself and other women (and men) who appreciate good old-fashioned, organized word vomit. Hence the name. I’m referring to Venting Sessions. (Word vomit wasn’t moving any units, so I stuck with Venting Sessions.)

Yes, I’m a mom. And a wife. And my dogs think I gave birth to them. But I’m also a 45-year-old woman and professional consultant who wants to thrive for the next 45 years or more (and one day bring back aerobics so seniors can feel the burn). I’m a woman who needs to write or else I make life ridiculously complicated (and not very fun) for the people around me.

I still look at this blog (and hope you do too) as a place to giggle. To reflect. To release the stress of being a parent and a life partner. No matter how old you are or how many kids you have. Because (cringe ;)) my husband is right. Life can be simple. And if you just give yourself a break every once in a while and laugh at yourself, sooner or later you’ll find yourself paddling downstream. (Oh, farts, just watch out for the waterfall! 😉

 

No more living in la-la-ah-la-soap-opera land, it’s time to write again

07 Wednesday Sep 2016

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If you grew up watching soap operas on lazy hot-as-heck summer days, then you know that it is quite phourglass1ossible (in TV land) for time to stand still. Every time I walk into a nail salon for a much-needed pedicure, I am reminded of this very fact. The characters on the TV monitor hairstyles may change, but the story line stays pretty much the same. Then a musical montage and credits followed by a monotonous theme song. (For the record,  I’m still wondering what happened to Cricket and Danny Romalotti on Young and the Restless and laugh every time I watch the movie Mr. Mom when Jack realizes that Victor’s vasectomy “didn’t take”. My friend K and I think we spotted Danny’s twin as a background guitarist at a recent concert by the way!)

And I digress. I’m standing before you (in a blog sense) admitting that I have been living in la-la-ah-la-soap-opera land, waiting for THIS to happen before I can do THAT. Until recently, I haven’t exactly been living in the present. I haven’t “seen” the present as a gift so much as a kind but passing gesture. The characters (meaning me as well as my loved ones, and no we are nothing like the Abbotts. Much less stuffy and my hair is always out of place) has changed but the story line in my mind’s eye has pretty much stayed the same. I’ve been waiting for THAT to happen so I can do THIS, and then things will be back on track. Well, guess what? Life isn’t a freaking soap opera. Although it would be pretty cool to have a wardrobe consultant and professional hairstylist at my convenience, I realize I’m 45 years old and it’s time to stop waiting for stuff to happen to do what I’m meant to be doing. I wanted to wait until house renovations were over, until my parents were feeling better, until the summer was over, until the kids went back to school, until yadda yadda yadda to get back into writing. ENOUGH. I can’t take it anymore. I’m ready to stop with the excuses and realize that although writer’s block is a real thing, writing for perfection is a big effing myth. If I can just write and not be afraid to write imperfectly, then maybe, just maybe (we will find out what happened to Cricket) I will find more joy in what I’ve always loved doing. (Which is writing. Because I’m writing right now.) I once read that writing is like sitting in front of a computer screen and waiting for your head to burst. That’s what writer’s block was like for me. I suffered from it for months. Weeks I tell you. And I feel bad for my husband, my super-patient and always funny husband who has a lot of patience, especially as the spouse of a writer. He knows me and he has seen it firsthand. If I’m not writing, even if it’s just writing for the heck of it, he knows I’m feeling off. And hard to live with…and kind of a pain in the arse. And who needs that? I think I just need to ignore the noise in my head that everything needs to be just right before I can do this or that. So here I am, trying to take a stab at this blog again. Living in the bold and beautiful present. And trying to write and eat more salad. Maybe it’s all the green stuff in my diet lately, but I’m feeling a sense of clarity that battles the sands in the hourglass, so are the days of our lives. Call it a guiding light. I’m feeling like now’s the time. 😉

 

Walshed Out?

29 Monday Aug 2016

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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.

awhhoh

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

02 Thursday Jun 2016

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FAMILY-MAIN

 

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.

Holy.

Son-of-a.

OMG.

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

16 Monday May 2016

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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.

Concealer.

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….

22 Tuesday Mar 2016

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badmom4

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

29 Monday Feb 2016

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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.

Together.

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.

Together.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

On bra size and backfat

10 Tuesday Nov 2015

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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.

Mid-life-isms

30 Wednesday Sep 2015

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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. 😉