I resolve to decrease my charitable contributions. Aren’t I helping the world enough by spending money on my $4 cups of coffee and my 38 pairs of black shoes? All those unfortunate people don’t need the money like I do—Retrinol doesn’t grow on trees, you know.
I resolve to decrease my vocabulary. Some of the words floating around my brain have very little purpose in my everyday life and frankly I need to free up some capacity to stay on top of Facebook updates. Autumn for example—who needs it? Fall is shorter and more descriptive. Autumn, you’re dead to me.
I resolve to make less money. This one needs some clarification. Let’s be clear that I don’t want to have less money or spend less money, I just don’t want to be the person who earns it.
When You Want to Run Away
WHEN I WAS A KID I NEVER FANTASIZED ABOUT RUNNING AWAY TO join the circus. Now that I’m older, I get it. Although it’s not my dream to tame lions or become the bearded lady, I understand the lure of escaping to some exotic life where the tightrope you walk is literal as opposed to the figurative balancing act we do here in the world of diapers, homework, and ear infections.
My mother tells a story about her mother, who would tell her children that if they didn’t behave she would run off to Tucumcari, New Mexico and they’d never find her. To which my mother responded that they most certainly would find her—in Tucumcari, New Mexico.
Mom shouted similar warnings to my brother and I as kids. She would run away and never return. We didn’t have reason to believe her empty threats, but then again, you never knew. Moms are crazy like that. Our mothers and grandmothers didn’t mess with balance—work, life, or otherwise. They didn’t have spa days or antidepressants or Oprah. They just woke up in the morning and did what needed doing. And if they lost it once in a while, well, they were entitled.
Genetics notwithstanding, I have yet to issue such a circusrunning-off sort of threat. I find that short periods of actual escape ward off visions of long-term flight. Running off for weekend writing classes and conferences recharges my depleted mama batteries and gives me strength to face the days of infinite laundry and incessant requests for double A batteries. I schedule my respites months in advanced and write them on the calendar in pen. In Sharpie.
My retreats may not be as exciting as swallowing swords, but for me, some quality time with a spiral notebook and a half decent pen is usually enough to return myself to equilibrium. And if it’s not, I run off to yoga class, where we make like a tree and stand on one leg, or rest our thighs upon our biceps. That’s balance. These are the things that keep me from losing it.
So next time you’re tempted to run away, remember that you can juggle fire in the kitchen and rig up a tightrope in your own backyard. Just make sure you wait until after you’ve finished all that other balancing—you know, the checkbook, the food groups, and the quality time spent with each child.
And if you hear of any writers’ meetings in Tucumcari, New Mexico, don’t come looking for me.
Thank God I’m a Country Girl
THE FIRST THING I NOTICED WAS THE TRAILER ON THE FRONT lawn. The few times I’d met Sherri her mother had been with her, so I thought that must be where she lives. What a sweet woman, that Sherri, keeping Mama on the front lawn.
Next, I saw the enormous turkey, a hurkin’ free-range bird who’d spend a season feasting on apples before Thanksgiving dinner. Look at me in the country, identifying barnyard creatures! I’d come a long way since my first day in Arkansas.
“What are those?” I had asked my husband on the drive in.
“What are what?”
“Those miniature cow-looking things,” I said, pointing out the window.
“The goats?”
Thank God I’m a country girl.
Inside the house I was eager to show off my countrification. I asked Sherri’s husband, Larry, all about the turkey.
“That’s not a turkey,” he assured me. Although I was pretty confident it was indeed a turkey, I’m too smart to argue with a man who owns a framed photo of George W and keeps a gun cabinet in the living room.
“Looks like a bobcat,” said Sherri’s mother.
Larry got the binoculars. “I think that’s a skunk,” he said.
“Could be a bobcat,” Mother said.
“That’s a skunk, all right.” Larry was sure now.
“Or a bobcat,” Mother said.
By this time other guests had arrived and the turkey/bobcat/skunk had hidden behind a tree. Larry disappeared too, as men do when a room fills with estrogen. We ladies got to chatting and forgot all about the beast until a screech filled the room.
“Skunk!” Sherri’s sister-in-law shouted, having missed out on the earlier debate. My previous experience with skunks consisted of Pepe Le Pew cartoons. This animal was neither charming nor French. Apparently it wasn’t even acting like a skunk, which I learned is a nocturnal animal. (Country girl, yes?) He shouldn’t have been out before dark and he certainly had no business waddling around the way he was, like a bum high on Mad Dog. Turns out there’s nothing like a rabid skunk to liven up a party. Sherri’s sister-in-law gushed at the prospect of shooting something and promptly called the men. Larry appeared in the yard almost instantly with a rifle and a friend. Before I knew it, snap-popdead-skunk.
Kind of handy, that gun cabinet. Deeply steeped in the ways of the country, we continued our party, barely noticing the odor of deceased, diseased rodent. When things started to wrap up, Larry appeared again in the kitchen. He filled his plate with tacos and fixin’s from the Mexican hat lazy Susan, then walked out the front door.
“Where’s he going?” I asked.
“Back out to his trailer,” Sherri said.
Aha! It wasn’t a mom trailer at all. It was a Man Trailer! That explained why he had come so quickly to remedy the wild animal situation. Good for Larry. He had his own personal territory where females would not tread. And he wasn’t the only one. Other women told of tool sheds, campers, and detached garages. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
After I’d said my goodbyes, I rolled slowly down the long gravel driveway. Blue light emanated from the Man Trailer and I wondered at this curious habitat. What did it hold? Dirty magazines? Band saws? Beer? I’d never know, but I left the party feeling humbled by the country, awed by its untamed creatures, and impressed with the unexpected merits of keeping a trailer on the front lawn.
How Do You Take Your Boo?
BY NOW YOU MUST BE FAMILIAR WITH THE SUBURBAN RITUAL OF “Booing” one’s neighbor with a basket of Halloween delights. Depending on my mood—and yes, there are many—I either love or hate the Boo.
The first time it happened I welcomed the cheerful ghost at my door, eagerly read the directions, shopped for goodies, and under cover of darkness delivered a treat bucket to my favorite neighbor. Since then, the Boo has gotten complicated.
First, you can’t Boo just anyone. You have to choose someone who will keep the Boo going. (And who are we kidding here, it’s Mom’s job.) If you leave your secret treat on the door of a Boo Killer, the fun stops. And whose fault is that? Sure, she killed the Boo, but aren’t you also to blame for your careless Boo selection? Phone calls are made. Accusations fly. Meanwhile, no further Booing occurs. To avoid this nasty situation, you carefully consult the neighborhood directory prior to initiating the Boo, considering the age and interests of the children, the family’s overall propensity to be festive, and any current obligations that may hinder Boo participation.
Once you choose the right family to Boo—the one you know in your jack-o-lantern of a heart will honor the tradition—you must find items for the basket that will produce the intended result: excitement for Halloween, and by extension, the entire holiday season. Screw up the Boo and there won’t be a decent potluck until Easter. So you go to the store for a pumpkin pacifier and a bag of orange rawhides for your neighbor who has a baby and two Rottweilers. Minutes before you’re set to Boo and run, you notice they’ve already been Boo’d! Yes, you�
��ve been beaten to the Boo. Now you have to start all over with the choosing and the shopping and the sneaking around the bushes. Sometimes, you even have to Boo someone you don’t even like. It’s enough to make Christmas look easy.
Occasionally all goes as planned. You choose the correct Boo recipient and appropriate candies and novelties, but wait— are they good enough? Because of course the Boo is competitive. This is suburbia, silly. No one wants to give a “bad” Boo basket, so the goodies get increasingly more extravagant each year. (Though I’ve yet to receive a bottle of Tanqueray.) No matter how carefully you choose your lucky Boo receiver or how thoughtfully you shop, someone will always have a better Boo than you.
For the past couple of years I’ve considered quietly bowing out of the Booing altogether. I know women who place a preemptive Boo sign on the door, fraudulently indicating that they’ve already been Boo’d, already completed their end of this ghoulish social contract. Sneaky and effective; I like it. But I also love the fun and community of the Boo.
That’s why I believe the time has come for a Boo Gift Registry. We can streamline this process. Admit it, between the Halloween lights, the Hobby Lobby scarecrow, and all those classroom parties, none of us has time to navigate the subtleties of the Boo. With a simple neighborhood listing or a quick amendment to the covenants, we’ll never again risk being beaten to the Boo or accidentally Booing a Boo-Humbug. Most importantly, a registry will ensure that you get exactly what you want in your Boo basket.
Sign me up for gin—the good stuff.
Containing My Desire
EVERY GIRL REMEMBERS HER FIRST TIME. THE DAY I LOST MY Container Store virginity I walked around an outdoor shopping mall in north Dallas for forty minutes, wondering if I was really ready.
I had resisted the peer pressure for years, telling myself I didn’t need to go all the way, that it was enough to live vicariously through the other girls. Once those doors opened, there was no going back. Just inside the store I pried myself away from magnetic locker organizers designed to hold lip gloss, concealer, and other essentials for surviving high school. Despite the fact that I’m not in high school and have no locker of any kind, I actually had to tell myself—repeatedly—that I had no use for such things. This is how seductive The Container Store can be. I moved on, especially lustful in the office aisle with its designer manila folders and coordinating thumbtacks. Hurt me.
Though I have yearned for drawer dividers in Staples, ached in the closet aisle of Lowes, and gotten hot among the office supplies at Target, nothing compared to my newfound hunger for The Container Store. Walking those mesmerizing rows promising a clutter-free Utopia, it was clear: The Container Store and I had chemistry. I just knew we had potential for a significant union. However, long distance relationships can be tricky and my new lover lived five hours away.
Cue the tear-filled goodbye. We met online for weeks, each virtual rendezvous igniting the fires of my deep organizational need. You’d think that getting a taste of the real thing would have ruined me for catalogs, home décor magazines and other websites, but after getting together with The Container Store I consumed more home org porn than ever. I inhaled perfect magazine layouts where the meal on the table coordinates with the dishes and the kitchen curtains; where the wardrobe is monochromatic and matches the season.
I crave organization, the way it makes me simplify, forces me to cull all those unnecessary objects from my life—or at least contain them in space-efficient decorative bins. The process isn’t just for stuff; it works for ideas too. Just check my hard drive, my internet spaces, and the 3-ring binders that grace my Dewey Decimal worthy bookshelves.
I skipped through my days in slow motion, believing I’d found a soul mate, one who agreed that life is better when its contents are properly stowed and labeled, preferably in a clear typeface.
However, as the weeks passed and no 75% off coupons arrived in the mail, I had to admit that The Container Store wasn’t really as into me as I hoped. But I don’t regret hooking up. It had to happen, eventually. Now I’m a woman—an organized woman. I liked The Container Store, sure, but it’s not like I applied for credit with him. Truth was, my new friend opened up an entire world of order and coordination, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to commit to a single system.
I’m in the market for a new lover now. I’m totally cool with set-ups and not picky. But if you know someone, I’d fall hard for the type who knows how alphabetize a girl.
Pretending Prada
HANG AROUND KIDS A WHILE AND YOU’LL HEAR THEM PLAYING pretend.
Pretend like I was a princess
Pretend like you were a puppy.
Pretend like we were getting married. And my personal favorite: Pretend like our parents were dead. But that’s another story.
After we watched The Devil Wears Prada, my daughter pretended to be Meryl Streep. “Where’s my coffee?” she demanded, dumping gloves in my lap. I don’t blame her for choosing that part. The devil had better handbags.
Grownups play pretend too. Plastic surgeons help us pretend that our breasts are naturally full and perky, that our stomachs are flat and smooth. We pretend to like other people’s children. And quiet as it’s kept, most of us, at least once in a while, still pretend to be a Princess. Everyone knows a princess needs props.
I swooned over the invitation to a purse party. Knock-off Dior and Chloe? Cocktails and couture? Hot. Okay, not hot as in stolen, but as it turns out—just as illegal. I pretended not to know that part. My friends met me for a cocktail. Or was it two? Anyway—by the time we made it to the party, the dress-up chest was already half empty.
“Hurry up!” they said. “It’s first come, first served.” Louis Vuitton, Chanel, and Coach graced the softly lit living room. I handled a red Dolce & Gabbana, and no sooner had I set it down than someone else nabbed it.
“If you think you might want it,” a friend whispered, “you need to hold onto it!”
All around me friends and neighbors held multiple bags on their arms.
“Wine?” someone offered.
I accepted and picked up a crocodile Prada while scoping out black and white Chanels and preppy Kate Spades. I’m not even a label girl. Put me in a room by myself with all those “designer” bags and I’d leave empty handed, but surrounded by the other women, I caved. Good thing they weren’t serving Kool-Aid. By the end of the evening I was a proud Prada owner.
The next day when I sobered up and looked at my plastic bag in the cruel morning light, I felt a shopper’s hangover coming on. Crooked logo, crappy stitching, and chintzy metal rings on the handle. Worst of all, some paint was already cracked, soon to expose the telltale fraying strings on the handle. Not even twelve hours later. That’s how long a hundred dollar game of pretend lasts. Talk about a buzz kill.
I knew my Prada was destined for my daughter’s dress-up collection, but I had to enjoy it at least a little. Problem was that I felt funny carrying my faux bag. I know from a distance it is supposed to say I’m chic and successful. But what does it say up close? I’m a fool with a plastic bag and a crooked tin triangle? I’m insecure and need a fake label to feel important? I have entirely too much disposable income, but not enough to buy a real bag?
And then there’s the problem of compliments. My first impulse is not so gracious. “You like it ? Thanks. It’s fake.” This response of course defeats the purpose of playing make-believe. Perhaps I should say instead, “Of course you love it, daaahhhling. It’s Prada, daaahhh-ling.” If they persist, wanting to know where I got it, I can respond, “I bought it on the streets of New York.”
You can do that same. Never been to New York? That’s okay. Pretend like you have.
Stripper 101
I HEARD WE’LL GO HOME WITH BRUISES, BUT I KEEP THIS TO myself as we make our way between the giant fish-netted fiberglass legs straddling the entrance to the Stripper 101 class. Why? This is Vegas, Baby, not the carpool line, and the four of us upstanding women crave as much attention, novelty, and
adventure as we can get—without actually cheating on our husbands. Besides, it’ll be good exercise. This is why we have donned gym clothes and tennis shoes and carried red patent stilettos through lobbies and shopping malls to a dark corner of the Planet Hollywood hotel. The forty-dollar ticket price included a drink, which we were encouraged to order before class. However, because we are still recovering from last night’s bottle service, we delay the drinking and focus our energy on coming up with stripper names as instructed by the girl who swiped our credit cards. Text message fly as we attempt to include the men back home in our faux-debauchery. Between us we come up with Cherry Pop, Roxy Cock, Misty Storms, Stormy Rains, Candi, Brandi, Peaches, and because I am traveling with Southerners, Dixie McTits.
I settle on Stretchmark. While we wait, a girl with a camera leads groups of women to a smudged brass pole mounted on a platform in the corner. They make fish lips, lift their chests, and touch each other in front of leopard print wallpaper. When it’s our turn I end up kneeling, as I have in every group photograph since I was seven—short girl front and center, fearing panty reveal. Except now I’m grasping a stripper pole.
And no anti-bacterial wipes in sight. After the pictures we are escorted into the club, past the wall of t-shirts with cartoon women in tiny aprons dancing with mops and the slogan “Grab life by the pole.” Because clearly it is every woman’s dream to have not only sex appeal, but also a killer chicken pot pie and gleaming hardwoods. Be still, my beating Stepford heart.
We are shown into a room at the end of the hall, home to a dozen stripper poles, stacks of chairs, and on two walls, floor to ceiling mirrors. Unlike the light absorbing chalky black of the rest of the club, this room is painted in warm tones, which take the edge off my “daytime in Vegas” look—basically eye cream and a shade of lipstick intended to draw attention away from my less-than-glowing everything else.
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