Emergency Shirt!? OMG

Our younger son is graduating this year.  We’ve been through it once already with our older son and it was a total friggin’ letdown:  His tuxedo shopping spree lasted all of 47 seconds; he stopped for a haircut on his way to his graduation ceremony; and get this: he didn’t even rent a fighter jet to swoop down and deposit him onto the roof of the school for his prom entrance!  WTF?  He missed the entire point of graduation, which requires at the very least: endless hair, make-up and plastic surgery appointments; soul-crushing parent/child shopping trips (“Everything makes me look fat!  I wish I were dead!) and a second mortgage. Duh.

I had held out hope that this time around would be better, but so far it’s not looking good. Just yesterday the boy dropped a bomb on me.  He looked up from his iPhone (ha ha! Good one!) and mumbled, “Grad pics tomorrow, Mom.”

I stiffened.  “Tomorrow??  Sweet Mother of all things holy, you’ve got to be kidding me!!  Don’t you need a haircut?? A shirt and tie? A spray tan?”

He responded with the same urgency his brother showed when I went off my meds/rocker with him: “Nah.”

“What will you wear??” My voice was in the soprano range now.

“Brett said the photographer has an emergency shirt and tie.  It’s chill. Don’t worry about it.”

Emergency shirt?! OMG.  Those two words should never appear in the same sentence when we are talking about photos that will live forever in perpetuity (AKA the yearbook), not to mention in the Christmas cards I will be sending to people who already pity me!

I tried to stay calm, “Max.   You don’t know if this so-called emergency shirt will fit you. I’m going to the mall…which closes in 16 minutes by the way.”

He soothed my fears right away, “Mom, it’s not a real shirt.  It’s a fake collar you just haul over your hoodie.”

Feeling much better that the emergency shirt is now a 25-year old, yellowed, mildewed collar, I pressed on, “But what about a tie??”

“There’s an emergency tie too.  I just told you that. Gawd.”

“But don’t you want the tie to match your grad gown?” I persisted while belting back an emergency  shooter(s).

“Doesn’t matter, Mom. Nobody cares about that stuff.”

Insert grand mal seizure.

I tried to put it into perspective for him: “What do you even think the point of graduating is for the loveofgod??  You’re making it sound like you get Photoshopped and airbrushed and the wind-blown look every day! Don’t you like the paparazzi-I mean, being photographed??  If you won’t get a hair cut, or your teeth capped, the very least you can do is wear a new effing shirt!”

I think he finally got what I was saying and I could tell by his response, “Whatever.”

Good thing he still has some color left in his face from the summer because he didn’t seem overly excited about the spray tan idea either. Screw it. I give up.

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I Rocked the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge/Wet T-Shirt Contest

I agreed to take the Ice Bucket Challenge for obvious reasons: getting noticed on Facebook closer to a cure for ALS. However, I also wanted to see if I could still rock a wet t-shirt. Not that I was in many wet t-shirt contests back in the day, but I do recall being doused with an occasional weekly bucket of water while I writhed on a pub table, screamed and pretended I hated it. Don’t judge me. It landed me my husband.

Knowing full well this was going to be documented, I had my work cut out for me: I hired a hair stylist, wardrobe person, and Ice Bucket Challenge consultant (they tell you where to stand, how to look sexy as the ice cubes cascade down your shirt, and how to edit the swear words from your video). Then, I chose a scorcher of a day so the water would refresh me. And cling to my see-through crop top. Next, I got a tummy tuck bucket and filled it with water and ice cubes. Finally, I invited a photographer from Cosmopolitan magazine, but settled on my husband when my urgent calls to the “terribly busy” magazine got forwarded to the authorities. Give it a rest.

After hours of wardrobe and pose changes, I began to chafe but thankfully it was an easy fix: I removed my underwear… while my husband filmed it. Okay you caught me! I used to be in porn flicks school plays and as a result, I am very comfortable in front of a lens. Don’t be jealous. You probably have strengths too.

For the next twenty minutes, my consultant presented various bucket-holding options. After settling on pouring the bucket down my front, the sun went behind a cloud. Grrr. So much for that steamy hot backdrop I was going for. We would just have to wait it out despite my camera crew/ husband getting huffy. It almost felt like he wasn’t in this for the right reasons. Whatevs.

Following hair touch-ups, vocal coaching, and a gin and tonic with a few nummy appies, it was show time. I looked into the camera, announced my Ice Bucket Challenge nomination, and sang a breathless rendition of ‘Happy birthday, Mr. President’. Then I drizzled a smidge of water down my arm and fake-screamed. My consultant thought I might look like a wannabe, so I had no choice but to give ‘er. I poured the bucket over my head, swore like a trucker, and instinctively took to the grass, squirming and thrashing about. Our teenagers hated that part but old habits die hard. Sue me.

I don’t know if it was me shrieking, “Oooh. Yes! Yes! Pour more ice down my shirt, you bad boy!” or what, but I looked up from my grassy pose to see the entire neighborhood staring at me. Talk about raising awareness! I towelled off, went inside to make a donation to ALS, and tried to upload the video onto Facebook. Since my boys were too busy throwing up to help me, I decided instead to download and sell the video on Amazon. Easier.

Overall, the Ice Bucket Challenge was worth it. Sure, it took an entire afternoon, alienated my husband and children from me, and totally wrecked my hair but it did prove once and for all that I can not rock a wet t-shirt. Oh, and the donations definitely go to a good cause. If you haven’t participated in the challenge, I recommend it. Be selfless, like me. I dare you.

ALS Ice Bucket Challenge Take 1 (Notice the wet forearm):                      

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ALS Ice Bucket Challenge Take 2 (Notice the wet t-shirt):

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Yoga Instructors Are People Too. Take 2 (crossed out words didn’t show up in first blog. Try this one).

I joined a yoga studio this summer because I didn’t feel inadequate enough. It worked! The last time I took a yoga class, my instructor wore baggy cotton pants, a friendship bracelet, and a bra. Today’s brand is quite different. They are toned, flexible and all of 20 years old. At first, I resented their taut, perfect bodies but the deeper I looked, I found a kinship with them. In fact, we have a lot in common:

• We both have a head.
• We both paid 2 million dollars for our stainless steel, non- toxic, organic, sustainable, lightweight, non-flammable, edible water bottle.
• We both look at ourselves in the mirror a lot. Me in horror. She in awe.
• We both have an exotic edge. For instance, she got her yoga certification in Mexico. I drink Corona. Samers.
• We are both dancers. My kind requires a pole tequila but a dancer’s a dancer right?
• We both listen to our bodies, as she frequently reminds us to do. Her body tells her to stretch more deeply. Mine tells me to go get a latte.
• We both have amazing posture. Wait. That’s not true. She doesn’t.
• We both speak English, though our vocabulary differs slightly. She uses words like ‘core’ ‘neutral spine, and ‘Namaste’. I use words like ‘Ow!’, ‘Help’, and ‘I think I’m bleeding.’

Despite our similarites, I’ll admit there are a few things she has on me:

• She can do Downward Facing Dog and talk at the same time. I just talk. Easier.
• She has a sexy tattoo that rings around her toned midriff. I have enormous, polyester Granny panties that ring around my fleshy, dimply overhang midriff.
• She wears a funky toe ring. I hope it cuts into her flesh and gets infected don’t.
• Her yoga pants are made of recycled bottles. The kind I drink water from and discard.
• She understands how to work the iPod to change up the music. My record player works just fine thank you very much.
• She can touch her knee to her buttocks while standing on her baby toe. I can touch my breasts to my knees. Without moving. Same diff.
• She knows the difference between left and right. I struggle with this at times because the stupid mirror reflects the opposite image.

So there you have it. Yoga instructors are people too. The next time you find yourself in front of a scantily clad, ridiculously toned, and highly condescending flexible yogi, simply give thanks for the body you have and say ‘Just you wait, honey’ ‘Namaste’.

Yoga Instructors Are People Too

I joined a yoga studio this summer because I didn’t feel inadequate enough. It worked! The last time I took a yoga class, my instructor wore baggy cotton pants, a friendship bracelet, and a bra. Today’s brand is quite different. They are toned, flexible and all of 20 years old. At first, I resented their taut, perfect bodies but the deeper I looked, I found a kindship with them. In fact, we have a lot in common:

• We both have a head.
• We both paid 2 million dollars for our stainless steel, non- toxic, organic, sustainable, lightweight, non-flammable, edible water bottle.
• We both look at ourselves in the mirror a lot. Me in horror. She in awe.
• We both have an exotic edge. For instance, she got her yoga certification in Mexico. I drink Corona. Samers.
• We are both dancers. My kind requires a pole tequila but a dancer’s a dancer right?
• We both listen to our bodies, as she frequently reminds us to do. Her body tells her to stretch more deeply. Mine tells me to go get a latte.
• We both have amazing posture. Wait. That’s not true. She doesn’t.
• We both speak English, though our vocabulary differs slightly. She uses words like ‘core’ ‘neutral spine, and ‘Namaste’. I use words like ‘Ow!’, ‘Help’, and ‘I think I’m bleeding.’

Despite our similarites, I’ll admit there are a few things she has on me:

• She can do Downward Facing Dog and talk at the same time. I just talk. Easier.
• She has a sexy tattoo that rings around her toned midriff. I have enormous, polyester Granny panties that ring around my fleshy, dimply overhang midriff.
• She wears a funky toe ring. I hope it cuts into her flesh and gets infected don’t.
• Her yoga pants are made of recycled bottles. The kind I drink water from and discard.
• She understands how to work the iPod to change up the music. My record player works just fine thank you very much.
• She can touch her knee to her buttocks while standing on her baby toe. I can touch my breasts to my knees. Without moving. Same diff.
• She knows the difference between left and right. I struggle with this at times because the stupid mirror reflects the opposite image.

So there you have it. Yoga instructors are people too. The next time you find yourself in front of a scantily clad, ridiculously toned, and highly condescending flexible yogi, simply give thanks for the body you have and say ‘Just you wait, honey’ ‘Namaste’.

Happy Father’s Day! Karma’s A Bitch.

When our two boys were younger, Father’s Day was right up there with Diwali Christmas! It was marked with sparkle-laced homemade cards; thoughtful presents like duct tape; and feverishly-practiced live musical performances from Usher them to Dad. We sure brought out the big guns. Now that they are 17 and 18, they show their excitement for Father’s Day with a quiet kind of reverence, which is equally as touching:

 

  • To celebrate properly, they need to be well-rested. To that end, Father’s Day begins at 3 pm sharp when they come to. They take it slow and easy and say things like, “Chill” when I ask them to hurry the hell up and eat their seventh bowl of Froot Loops so we can have a family dinner before nightfall.

     

  • Gushiness is so yesterday. To protect themselves from feeling vulnerable and emotional, they pretend like it’s not even Father’s Day. Until I send them a text saying, “Wish your father a Happy Father’s Day you idiots.

     

  • They still love the element of surprise. It’s evident on their vacant faces when my husband opens the gifts from the boys that I purchased for them. They slide me their contribution under the table and say, “Thanks, Mom. You are literally the glue that holds this family together. This means I never have to put gas in the car again right? I’m friggin’ broke.”

     

  • They lie through their $6000 perfectly aligned teeth promise their dad they will mow the lawn and wash the car when hell freezes over.

     

  • When we sit down to supper, my husband is clearly the main attraction; our sons finally show their real feelings: “Dad, you are the wind beneath my wings. Is this all the steak there is?”

     

  • Besides pouring their hearts out to their father, supper is also an opportunity to savor and reflect. We do this by watching our boys bury their heads in their plates and make loud farm animal noises while they chew. It’s pretty horrifying beautiful and awesome.

     

  • Photo-ops capture these poignant moments. Back when they were little, the boys used to hug my husband and sing, “Cheeeeese!!” when I took the Father’s Day photo. Now they cradle their iPhones and bark,” Pleeeaase do NOT put this on Facebook, Mom. That’s so lame. Gawd.”

     

  • Funny banter keeps us tight too. Wait. Never mind. That’s the family across the street.

     

  • To end the non-verbal celebration, we retire to the family room to play a game and by that I mean zone out on our personal devices, careful not to make eye contact. If Norman Rockwell were alive, he’d be all over it with his easel.

 

So yea, I guess you could say things have changed but not that much. It’s true there are no more sparkles or cards or thoughtful presents or eye contact or music or affection of any kind but it’s still really meaningful and stuff. I’d like to think when they are fathers themselves one day, the boys will look back on these celebrations and think, “What is Diwali anyway?? Karma’s a bitch.”

‘Twas the Night Before Mother’s Day

 

‘Twas the night before Mother’s Day and all through the house

Not a teenager was shopping for books, bling or blouse

Instead they were nestled and snug in their beds

While visions of SFA danced in their heads

 

Their hoodies were strewn on the floor with no care

With sneakers and book bags and crap everywhere

And I intoxicated my jammies and Pa watching COPS

I wondered aloud: WTF is the point? Is it time for more Schnapps?

 

The moon on my new fallen breasts caused alarm

OMF Good Lord!  They are droopy and so are my arms!

And look at this muffin top.  What’s with this girth?

And then I remembered: Oh right. I gave birth!

 

To those slumbering sloth teens who were once little guys

That would plan for a month for an M-Day surprise

Bye bye happy days.  Hello bed. Screw it I don’t care

Twelve hours of labour? Pfft. Didn’t even tear…much (22 stitches give or take)

 

I awoke the next day to my naked husband with a rose between his teeth and a pot of coffee for me an unpleasant clatter

And a smell that could only be burnt pancake batter

I pulled off the sheets and I threw up my Schnapps on my robe

To witness the teens as they wrecked my abode

 

Their eyes how they deadened.  Their mouths did not move

Save for the odd mumble like: Whereizthefood? (Where is the food?)

Their iPhones were beeping and clutched in their palm

And into their screens they did mutter: Heymom

 

They spoke not a word and went straight to their task

And by that I mean stood there til one of them asked

“Wherzthepan?” (Where’s the pan?) “Werrstrved” (We are starved) “Canuhlp” (Can you help?) “Whasastov?” (What’s a stove?)

I’d never been prouder. They embodied love

 

The bustle began and I just couldn’t watch

I scurried and muttered to no one: Cook much?

They chopped and they splashed and they ruined my life zen

I took off, not wanting to see how it ends

 

Pa cursed and he shouted and called to the guys:

Quit texting! Get back here! Or somebody dies!

The chaos was mounting. My stomach did churn

I heard someone yelp “Stupdstovedamnimburnd”(Stupid stove. Damn! I’m burned!)

 

I soon heard the shout from my safe place in bed:

Heymomcomneeatcomchkoutwtwedid (Hey Mom! Come and eat. Come check out what we did).

I entered the kitchen and muffled a gasp

Looks lovely, I said as I reached for my flask

 

I gobbled it down and it tasted quite good

The teens were so pleased. They said: Wemadsmfood! (We made some food!)

As the last strip of bacon was hoovered and chewed

The teens mumbled: SeeyaIgotstufftodo (See ya! I got stuff to do)

 

With that they were gone to the top of the stair

They dashed away! Dashed away! Had not a care.

But I heard them exclaim: Happemothrsdaywishes (Happy Mother’s Day wishes!)

Heymomwudumindifwelftuthsdishz? (Hey mom would you mind if we left you those dishes?)

Being Stunning Is Gruelling

I received the nicest compliment the other day: an acquaintance twelve years my junior thought we were the same age!  She’s very friendly, and so is her Seeing Eye Dog. To thank her for making me feel like living again good I bought her a car coffee, sent her a Facebook friend request, and helped her find her life’s purpose cane.  She wondered what I did to hide my age.  I responded, “Nothing really” and batted my false eyelashes. The truth is, being stunning is gruelling.  Trust me; trying to look younger requires time, effort and plastic surgery money:

 

  • Nothing says youth like a soft beardless face.  Go for waxing on a regular basis and don’t overlook nose jobs hair!
  • White teeth take years off your appearance.  Whitening strips work but in time the results fade.  For permanently white teeth, have your Merlot-stained chompers capped to resemble Jennifer Aniston’s smile (Veneer # 29, Page 15 in the Celeb Smiles catalogue found in any respectable oral surgeon’s waiting room. Just sayin’).
  • Dress like a skank woman in her forties by choosing fitted and classic pieces.  The idea is to accentuate your rack best attributes.
  • Every woman of a certain age deserves a good spanking pair of Spanx.  They squeeze everything into place, making your clothes unnecessary smooth and flawless.
  • Use an anti-ageing exfoliant.   A good exfoliant should leave your skin raw, bloody and infected refreshed and glowing.
  • Drink lots of water and vodka gimlets green tea for supple skin and good times circulation.
  • Watch your diet.  Avoid dairy, wheat and anything that tastes good contains sugar. Fill up on anti-depressants oxidants.
  • Use a rich, moisturising night cream.  It should contain Vitamin C, collagen, and caulking rose oil for youthful -looking results.
  • Go on a bender cleanse. It eliminates stress toxins and promotes denial glowing skin.
  • Cover your face grey hair with the help of a paper bag good hairdresser.

 

I like to think the face lift beauty regime is paying off.  I dunno. You be the judge:

 

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    AFTER: