Is That The Shirt You're Wearing

by Kristen Brakeman

  Yet, when I look at women who’ve had lip injections, I think they are the ones who look like freaks. Their lips don’t look fuller and poutier; they look all swollen and puffy, like they’ve had a horrible allergic reaction to peanuts or maybe attacked by a swarm of bees. Even worse, their chemical injections cause their lips to lift away from the gum line and make them look like they have giant duckbills on their faces.

  Obviously a lot of women think this duckbill look is attractive because more and more ladies are doing it. At first, it seemed the craze was limited to older women hoping to restore the fuller lips of their youth. But now I see young models, actresses and newscasters with giant duck lips. It looks even worse on them because the rest of their skin is so tight and wrinkle-free that it only highlights the abnormal puffiness of their balloon lips.

  I understand the appeal of naturally full lips. I agree that they are attractive and I admire ladies who were born with them. Good for you, full-lipped ladies!

  But why can’t we let these fuller-lipped women feel special and leave it at that? Surely we all have our own shining attributes. There’s no reason to steal their glory.

  I’m not against all cosmetic procedures either. I get that a good boob job might look fine on some people and fake hair color can sometimes (especially on me) look even prettier than one’s natural shade.

  But these lip injections have a long, long, long way to go before they start looking good or natural. Right now, they in no way compare to the real thing. So why are so many women allowing themselves to be human guinea pigs while lip-plumping scientists are clearly still perfecting their craft?

  We don’t see men trying to look younger by puffing up their lips. I haven’t heard about Johnny Depp, Laurence Fisburne or George Clooney getting lip injections. Even Rob Lowe seems perfectly content with his very thin lips. His miniscule lips haven’t hurt his career one bit. Have they?

  I majored in Anthropology in college, so I’m pretty sure I’m qualified to make a scientific analysis of this lip-plumping phenomenon. I believe this trend is akin to a cultural mass hysteria, much like the ancient Chinese foot binding that we now look back at with horror. I predict that one day our grandchildren will read about this strange trend in their history e-books and giggle with their classmates as they point to the funny pictures of today’s actresses and newscasters.

  I thank God that I will not be in those pictures.

  These lip procedures need to be stopped. I propose a national campaign, complete with public service announcements from celebrities. Someone with naturally beautiful lips, like Kerry Washington or Angelina Jolie, could plead, “Women of America, please save your money and avoid painful lip injections. Because no matter how many you get, or how much money you spend, you will never, ever, look like me.”

  In the meantime, we thin-lipped women should proudly display the thin lips that God gave us, and be happy about all the money we’ve saved on lip balms and lipsticks, having required substantially less of these products.

  There’s no shame in having thin lips, ladies. Don’t let the duck-faced women win.

  End of Week Three

  When I finally received my hearing “devices” - we don’t call them aids anymore - I made the mistake of telling my kids that it was hard to keep them positioned correctly because they moved whenever I wiggled my ears.

  “You can wiggle your ears?” they collectively asked in a horrified tone.

  “Yes. Do you mean that you can’t?”

  Until this moment I had no idea that I was part of a small minority of people who can move their ears. And since none of my kids inherited this unique talent, they now consider me on par with a circus freak.

  This is on the heels of another trait of mine they’ve recently found troubling. Back when they were in school and I had the house to myself all day, I would often look out the window and yell, “HELLO BIRDS!” to my little birds friends, of course.

  When my kids first heard me do this, they became concerned.

  What they didn’t understand is that it’s a dangerous time for my little bird friends and I’m worried about them. For the last week or two I’ve seen the little buggers standing on the outside edge of their nest, contemplating their maiden voyage. Last year, about this time, Buddy scooped one up. He didn’t eat it. He only had the little guy in his mouth for a second or two, but it was long enough to give that poor bird a heart attack. Well, I assume he had a heart attack. I did not perform an autopsy.

  Yesterday, I discovered that one of my bird friends had fallen in the pool. He was struggling to get out so I quickly rescued him with the skimmer and put him back on the ground to dry. Now I feel responsible for all the birds. I won’t let Buddy outside, and I keep checking the pool to make sure no more birds have fallen in.

  Keeping those damn birds alive has taken up the better part of my day.

  But it is nice to feel needed again.

  A Jury of My Peers

  I like to think of myself as an open-minded and generous person, eager to do the right thing. One day of jury duty made me realize that I’m horribly wrong. I’m not that person at all.

  Arriving at the sparsely decorated and crowded jury room, I was nervous yet full of enthusiasm. Like the two women seated next to me, I was happy and willing to serve. It was my first time as a juror and I was hopeful that the next few days would prove interesting. Besides, I’ve always liked watching courtroom dramas on TV so I was pretty sure I’d enjoy the real thing.

  Right away I couldn’t help but notice that a few of my fellow jurors seemed a tad too eager to serve. One older woman in particular had what a witness might describe as a crazy look in her eyes. Even more concerning was the way she leapt from her chair with glee when her name was finally called.

  Then there was the man with the broken glasses and slicked-back greasy hair tied in a sinister ponytail, wearing a suit that was three sizes too big. His eyes darted back and forth in an unsettling way each time a name was called, and when I inadvertently locked eyes with him he held the gaze for way longer than what’s comfortable.

  Slightly less concerning was the young woman with the Hermione-inspired tote bag that seemed to contain ninety percent of the contents of her living room. In addition to her newspaper, water bottle, and breakfast bar, she pulled out a small pillow, a bag of candy, and a laptop computer. I half expected her to retrieve a sofa and a lamp.

  Within minutes I joined them, along with dozens more of my “peers” as we were moved like cattle into a large courtroom. Once there, my desire to fulfill my end of the societal contract was unequivocally squashed.

  The judge, apparently hardened and bitter like people often become after years of dealing with the public, did his best to scare the crap out of us. He lectured us on the importance of serving, emphasized that it was our duty as Americans, and then proceeded to mock and minimize any potential excuses we might have foolishly considered.

  “Unless you can prove that by being here you won’t be able to pay your rent and you will be evicted and forced to live in your car on the street, I will not accept financial hardship as an excuse. Trust me, we need you more than your family or boss needs you.”

  Childcare concerns, if your kid was over five, were completely irrelevant. Apparently the court is of the opinion that kids can pretty much take care of themselves once they turn six.

  And don’t even try to pretend you don’t speak English with this guy. “You’re saying you don’t understand English? Then how did you know to speak up and say you didn’t understand? Clearly you knew what I was talking about! Didn’t you?”

  It seemed the jury pool was on trial.

  After sufficiently buttering us up, the judge dropped a bombshell – this trial was scheduled to last for six weeks, maybe more. Oh, and did I mention it was a murder trial? Great. Involving gang members. Even better.

  Only then did he concede that this was in fact a big commitment and he hoped to have some volunteers. Immediately “Crazy Eyes” sh
ot up her hand. “I’ll do it. Me and my invisible friend Doreen will be happy to serve!”

  After endless judicial business which I’m convinced the judge prolonged just to torment us, he finally took mercy on those of us who did not work for companies that paid for jury duty, and I was excused. As I passed the remaining group of victims, I mean potential jurors, I sheepishly averted my eyes. There but for the grace of God.

  After lunch our new group was sent to a smaller

  courtroom, this time for a much shorter trial. I glanced around at the jury pool. Among them was the greasy-haired dude in his dead uncle’s suit. In truth this guy could have been sent from Central Casting to play the part of a serial killer; he was much more suspicious looking than any possible defendant.

  As the attorneys accepted or dismissed the potential jurors, I prayed that if not me, then please . . . “him.” He must have given the district attorney the willies too, because he quickly gave him the boot. I was so grateful I wanted to give that D.A. a big sloppy hug, but suspected that such a display of affection might be frowned upon in the courtroom.

  Though the selection process seemed endless, the actual trial was pretty quick. A man shoplifted from a big box store, one that rhymes with “Shmalmart,” and was caught with a few hundred dollars’ worth of goods.

  He told a lengthy story that began with his car breaking down, then with the help of a friend, ended up thirty miles away at the Shmalmart where he had intended to shop for tools to fix his car, yet inadvertently “forgot” to pay for them. Naturally he had no explanation for why he didn’t stop at any one of the ten to fifteen stores closer to his broken-down car or why he was found with tools and socks stuffed in his pants.

  Back in the jury room the others felt the need to give the matter some debate. My fellow jurors quickly picked apart his pack of lies, but I knew it was a waste of time. The fact that he stole was never in doubt.

  Though I had found it embarrassingly easy to pass judgment on my peers, deciding this man’s fate was less so. Of course we had to follow the law and find him guilty, but it was obvious from his convoluted story and irrational thought process that mental illness was really to blame. I hated passing judgment on this man, who clearly was struggling through life and whose actions had made everything worse.

  Even though I got off easy by serving only one day, I felt like I lost much more. I started the day eager and happy to do my civic duty, but found myself surrounded by crazies and basically accused of being a lying, selfish, cheat by a grumpy embittered judge. Then I helped convict a man who would have been better served by getting treatment for his mental health.

  I suppose technically I did the right thing, but it didn’t feel that way.

  In retrospect, I like the TV version of courtroom drama much better.

  Week Four

  Age has done nothing to improve Buddy’s doggie ADHD. In fact, it’s gotten worse. He will only retrieve a ball one time before he stops to look for imaginary creatures in the ivy. The plus side is that perhaps his inattention will give my bird friends a better chance at survival.

  Age has however, improved my youngest daughters’ ability to speak in Buddy’s voice. Samantha probably does it the best, but Peyton has shown great improvement of late. The other day she said Buddy needed a doggie girlfriend and I said, “That’s simply not gonna happen.”

  Without missing a beat she said in Buddy’s voice, “Oh no. I guess I’ll die alone.”

  Sometimes I wonder if Buddy secretly hates us talking for him. But then I quickly push that stupid thought away because doing it brings me so much joy.

  Samantha finally started summer school today. She’s doing a self-study course because of the crutches. Like her sister a few years ago, she’s learning the history of the world in a month and then, because school starts two weeks earlier this year, she’ll have about ten days to read that damn Iliad for her Honors English class.

  I made a personal vow not to nag her like I did Chloe a few years back. Then I broke that vow after only 45 minutes.

  I don’t know why summer assignments stress me out so much. Actually, I do know. I can’t tolerate having things hanging over my head. This is exactly why I don’t own a DVR or subscribe to magazines. I used to subscribe to three magazines. Then I’d get busy and the magazines would just sit there unread on the coffee table; I felt like they were taunting me. Finally I’d force myself to thumb through them just to get that weight off my shoulders. But then, by the time I had finished reading them, more would arrive in the mail! I couldn’t take it. I mean, who can live like that?

  I was complaining about the Iliad and the excessive homework to some parents at a softball party this past weekend. One parent told me that at a neighboring elementary school there was a teacher who assigned so much homework that the parents actually formed a club and took turns doing the homework for their kids. Well that seemed crazy. At this same party I also learned that another group of parents at this same neighboring elementary school were swingers, and still another group of parents were having pot parties in their basement while their kids played upstairs.

  I left the party feeling frustrated and angry at the academic rat race that’s robbing our kids of their childhood, and angrier still at myself for letting my kids get caught up in it, because I’m too afraid they’ll be left behind if I don’t.

  But mostly I left the party disappointed that my kids didn’t attend this clearly more interesting neighboring elementary school.

  Not Another Slumber Party

  When Peyton asked if she could have a slumber party to celebrate her birthday, even I was shocked when I heard the word “yes” come out of my mouth.

  After all, six years earlier when Chloe turned 12, I made a solemn vow to never host a slumber party ever again. Never ever, ever, ever, again . . . in my life. Ever.

  Yet here I was agreeing, and I didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the constant guilt I feel towards my overlooked youngest child, or more likely that second glass of Cabernet, but something had muddled my thinking. Also, I can’t shake the feeling that my devious child was lying in wait.

  Regardless, there was no turning back. Before I could even put a cork in the bottle, that girl had the E-vites typed and sent. It only then dawned on me that this party was premature. Her older sister got to have a slumber party when she turned

  12. My youngest was only turning 10. That’s it, no more second glasses of wine for me.

  When the fateful day arrived I knew from experience that our guests would be dropped off at warp speed. It seems the slumber party house has all the appeal of an Ebola quarantine ward.

  This time fully prepared for the speed drop, I decided to have a little fun. As each mother repeated the standard joke, “You’re a brave woman,” I would reply, “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m going to pop a couple of valiums and head for bed.” I’d say it with only a hint of a smile, and they’d laugh nervously, not quite sure if I was kidding or not. But still, they left.

  Like I did for my elder daughter’s slumber party, I sent my husband away. At least one of us could get a night’s sleep, and knew I could cash in on it later. My firstborn skeedaddled to a friend’s house too. Only my 15-year-old daughter was daring enough to stay behind.

  Six years earlier I had typed up a two-page schedule for Chloe’s party that rivaled in detail a military invasion. Nothing was left to chance. I had things planned to the minute. Unfortunately, after only 45 minutes the kids had zipped through all of my games and activities and reached the bottom of page two. Defeated, I threw the schedule in the trash and retreated to a corner where I sat shaking throughout most of the night while my husband took over and improvised the party entertainment.

  This time, with the addition of six more years of parenting under my belt, I took another tack: I did nothing! While the girls swam in the pool, I sat in a chair on the patio with my feet up, and leisurely browsed through a home-decorating magazine. Ah, the benefit of wisdom and age.

  B
ut while I was taking note of clever room-freshening tips, I overheard a conspiracy in the works. “Hey, you know what’s really fun? We sneak out to the front yard and then jump out when the pizza guy comes. Then he’ll drop the pizza boxes on the ground!”

  Ha, ha. That does sound like fun. Silly kids.

  No! Wait, that’s our dinner. “Girls! Girls! No! Get back in the pool this instant! We are not jumping out at the pizza man!” Pizza tragedy averted, dinner and juice pouches consumed, the girls put on their jammies and sat down to watch a scary movie. They got ready for bed without me even asking.

  But then I noticed that it was only seven-thirty. 7:30PM. This was going to be a long night indeed.

  When the movie ended at nine, my fear that I would have to come up with some kind of entertainment was cast aside. These girls made their own fun. They played softball with balloons. They made silly videos with their smart phone apps. They even set up a dominoes train. Who knew we even had dominoes?

  It seemed that the less involved I was, the more fun they had, and frankly, the more I got to learn about the girls’ parents. “My mom always talks about being in high school and all the boys she dated.”

  “Mine too.”

  Oh really? Tell me more.

  Then, inexplicably the girls started singing Christmas Carols. “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake.”

  Which led to this startling revelation by one child, “Eww, that’s so creepy. Have you ever thought about that line before

  - He sees you when you’re sleeping? But I guess it’s cool for little kids to sing, cause they don’t know about stalking yet.”

  What? You kids are little kids! When did you become experts on stalking?