Basking In My Birthday Glow

Here's a tip. Instead of celebrating your birthday just once, on the actual day, I HIGHLY recommend spreading the festivities out. Preferably, for as long as you can. Without it starting to feel obnoxious. (You know who I'm talking about.)

Example: My "pre-birthday" festivities began this past Friday night. It just so happened that my brother Reggie and his partner Farm Boy were in from Minneapolis for a conference. And since my birthday was just a few days away, the Frederick side of the family decided to make it a party.

And party, we did. My Dad and I broke out the Irish Whiskey. And we're not even Irish! PB cooked a delectable dinner that we ate around the fireplace then we feasted on the BEST chocolate cake I have ever had in my life. And, believe you me, I KNOW chocolate cake.

My mother bought this cake came from a little bakery in my hometown of Hawthorne, New Jersey, called Just Desserts. Now, Hawthorne sits in the shadow of the big city (as in New York City). It has one main street that is barely a main street with a move theater, pizzeria, stationary, liquor store and, what the hell, throw in a laundromat for good measure.

But this cake from humble Hawthorne, New Jersey? The "Chocolate Silk Cake" to be exact? Can stand up to any fancy New York City cake. In a heartbeat. The inside is moist with just the right touch of denseness. The icing is chocolaty and rich but not too sweet.

This cake is so good that I would just like to say, for the record, I will never again consume a cake that doesn't come from Just Desserts! I repeat, I will ONLY eat cakes from this bakery, god dammit!

In addition to my IV infusion of silky chocolate, Friday night included a guest appearance from my vivacious and beautiful friend Lila who always manages to be the life of the party.

Then, my sister Ginger, never to be outdone, ended the evening by demonstrating some pole-dancing moves she picked up from a bachelorette party she recently attended.

But wait. That's not all. Because today, on my actual birthday day, I woke up to find Big Man and Little Man in the kitchen cooking me up an egg- white omelet (Ah ha! That's why Big Man asked me yesterday what my favorite breakfast food was!).

And because it's my special day, I got all daring and poured my daily shot of orange juice, not into my regular juice glass, but into a stemless Riedel wine goblet. It's my party and I'll have my O.J. in a stemless Riedel wine goblet if I want to!

Aside from the morning presents and cards from the boys, today is going to be pretty low-key. PB's in California on a shoot. I might brave the frigid February air and take a walk down by the Sound. Then there will be the usual after-school flurry of homework and hockey practice.

But I'm fine with that. Because my birthday ain't over yet. I have this Friday to look forward to. I'm having lunch with my "yoga girls" --a group of us that met in yoga class and have been celebrating birthdays together since our kids were in elementary school (some of which are now in college!).

Plus, I definitely have enough leftover chocolate cake to see me through to the end of my birthday week.

My "Almost" Julia Roberts Hairy Armpits Moment

This past Saturday night I had a break from reality. Instead of collapsing on the couch with a frosty cold one after a marathon day of watching rec-league hockey, I attended a fancy-shmancy dinner-dance/benefit.

Which meant I had to transform myself from someone whose usual attire is a full-length puffer-coat and mud-encrusted UGGs to some high-heeled, makeup-wearing stranger. Not an easy feat.

So when I got into the shower to blast off a day's worth of rink residue, I figured it was high time I shaved my armpits. Especially since the dress I was planning to wear was sleeveless.

Now, I am a regular shaver. In the summer. In the winter, my attitude about body hair is what they don't know won't hurt 'em. So seeing it was winter, which meant I was out of practice, I figured it might be a good idea to do some quality control after my shaving session.

As I peered into my magnifying mirror to examine my newly-shorn pits, I was fully expecting to see maybe a missed patch of stubble or some razor rash.

When, QUELLE HORREUR!!!

Poking out the side of my underarm were straggly strands of pit hair! I swear to god, one was at least an inch long! How could I have missed that? I was headed for a Julia Roberts moment.

(Remember when she showed up at some film premier looking like she was transporting a small rodent in her arm pit? No? Well, let me refresh your memory.)

Jeez Louise. Her pit hair is so long it even has a part. But I digress. Julia didn't seem fazed by it. I guess, when you look like Julia Roberts, what's a little pit hair? Or a lot, for that matter?

I, on the other hand, wasn't going to come close to looking like Julia in my sleeveless sheath. So I got to work. With hands still trembling from the shock of what I witnessed underneath my arm, I shaved off the wiry strands.

Then, arms plastered firmly to my sides, I went off to the ball. Determined not to raise either one. No matter how many adoring fans I saw.

Mean Mother

While making pancakes this morning, the black hole I call my brain forgot whether I had added my usual secret ingredients –vanilla and cinnamon -- to the mix. So for good measure, I tossed in some more.

Here’s the conversation that ensued after I cut up said pancakes and placed them in front of Little Man.

Little Man: (noticing the pancakes were a little more “golden” than usual, probably due to the doubling of vanilla and cinnamon) “WHOLE WHEAT?!!!”

Me: “They’re not whole wheat. Do you think I would DARE serve you a flour that was good for you? NO! I only serve you white foods. That are completely devoid of their nutrients. Like the good mother you’ve trained me to be.

Little Man: “You’re mean.”

Yes, Little Man.

I'm mean.

I'm so mean that it didn't even cross my mind to dump said plate of pancakes on your head.

So mean that, after you finished breakfast, I helped you study for your big science test, then got you off to school.

Good thing I take your morning ravings with a grain of salt. That would be a whole-wheat grain of salt.

Ice Hockey, New Year Resolutions & Flossing

Oh, hello. It's been quite a long time since you heard from me, eh? Well, what can I say except, shit happens.

Shit like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Shit like a very sick dog who won't stop killing off her own red blood cells.

Shit like, when I'm not sitting in the vet's office, spending every living weekend driving Big Man and Little Man all over the tri-state area to play ice hockey.

Geographically speaking, that's New York, New Jersey and Connecticut. But then there's the interplanetary travel to Long Island.

What??? You're telling me that Long Island is part of New York?

Well, you spend three entire periods freezing your ass off at an ice hockey game in the company of chanting Long Island parents. I'm not talking about a random "Go Team!" I have witnessed these people make like a squad of cheerleaders and shout in unison stuff that actually rhymes.

Sprinkle in some horns and cow-bells and a generous helping of fights with the opposing team's parents and then tell me these people are NOT from another planet.

It's no wonder I haven't been able to blog for a while. Rec-league hockey has scarred me for life.

But enough about that. It's a new year and with it comes new beginnings. That's what New Year's resolutions are for, right?

For some reason, as 2009 drew to a close, resolutions weren't even on my radar screen. In fact, it was only until the magazine headlines at the supermarket check-out caught my eye did it register that it was the season for resolutions.

Glancing at the standard fare about busting belly flab and nicotine patches, etc., it dawned on me that, for the first time in my life, I hadn't given even one millimeter of brain space to making any resolutions.

"Why is that?" I wondered. Then, in the dingily lit interior of my suburban A&P, it hit me like a lightening bolt. My lack of resolution-making wasn't because I was forgetful. It wasn't because I was perfect. It wasn't because I was a resolution rebel. It was because I was old.

Okay. Not that old. But after forty-something years, I guess I've finally accumulated enough history, enough experience, enough knowledge about myself to realize something about New Year's resolutions. They don't work for me.

With this eureka moment came a feeling of complete and utter freedom! If accompanied by a soundtrack it would have been the Hallelujah chorus. No longer would New Year's Eve usher in a bunch of self-imposed shoulds and then, a week later, the disappointment, self-loathing and sense of failure from not living up to these expectations.

It was almost as if I could feel all these musts and have to's whooshing out of my body then vaporizing into thin air. And all that remained was me. Just me. With enough room to see that I already do plenty of stuff that's good for me.

Take flossing, for instance. I can say with all honesty that I floss every night.

But it wasn't always this way. I was a reluctant flosser. When having to choose between flossing or laying my head down on my pillow two minutes sooner, I always went with the latter.

Then, during a dentist visit, my hygienist told me that if I didn't start flossing, drastic measures would have to be taken. In the form of multiple shots of Novocain and a "deep cleaning." Which I learned was a euphemism for digging and scraping under my gum line with sharp, pointy, metal implements.

You'd think that would be enough to instantly change my ways. Actually, I did start to floss a little more regularly. Just enough to avoid any dental jack-hammering.

But it took a while to change. There were nights when I had to force myself to floss. Other times I'd skip it completely. Then I'd get on a roll and floss for a month straight. Then, for no apparent reason, I'd fall off the wagon.

And then a funny thing happened. I started NOT to like the way my mouth felt if I hadn't flossed. It got to the point where, if there was even one microscopic morsel of errant food wedged between my teeth, I wasn't able to rest until it was banished by my trustworthy Deep-Clean Glide.

Now, I'm a regular flosser. Sometimes I even floss after every meal. But my transformation from flossing slacker to flossing fanatic didn't happen overnight. There were no champagne-induced proclamations during some New Year's Eve party and then, presto chango, I was a flosser.

Okay. My sincere apologies if all this falls under the "too much information" category. Here's my point. My pre-New Year's epiphany at the A&P doesn't mean I'm anti-New Year's resolutions. On the contrary. I'm all for self-betterment. What I've learned is this. Change doesn't happen simply by the clock striking midnight. No mater how you slice it, change is freaking hard.

Finding Happiness In The Little Things

This is what my life has come to. The thing I’m most looking forward to today, is the delivery of my new washer/dryer.

Our old Kenmore dryer finally bit the dust after a long, drawn-out demise. First the interior light went kaput. Next the tumbler started to fall apart. And periodically the machine would emit a sour, burning odor and the clothes would come out smelling like a chemical plant.

Even so, PB and I were more than happy to live with our dryer’s shortcomings. The last thing we wanted to do was sink our hard-earned cash into a home appliance. We were saving for more exotic things. Like a trip to the Galapagos. Or, more likely, another rec-league hockey tournament in the bowels of Philadelphia.

By god, we were rooting for that dryer to hang on. And it did. Until a few days ago, when it dried its last load. Or should I say, partially dried its last load. I went down to the wash-room to rotate the clothes only to find that it had stopped mid-cycle. I cranked it up again. Five minutes later, silence. This time for good.

Of course, handy Jewish guy that he is, PB rolled up his sleeves to fix it. He unbolted the back and shone his flashlight into its lint-encrusted, metal workings. But he quickly realized it was probably more complicated than a broken fan belt and not worth the expense of calling in a professional.

So we took a meeting. And decided if we had to buy a new dryer, we should probably bite the bullet on a new washer. From the looks of its faux-wood control-panel and the dots of red nail polish I had painted on the basically unreadable wash-settings dial, it had seen better days.

Off we went for a romantic date to the local home appliance store. PB, armed with consumer printouts and prices, looking for the best value. Me, secretly hoping we’d walk away with a beyond sleek, front-loading washer/dryer in the latest designer shade.

Standing in front of a pair of cherry red front-loaders, my fantasy came to a grinding halt. There was no way in hell my forty-something back could withstand all that bending down to stuff in the clothes.

That reality-check made the decision much simpler. After all, we didn’t have the luxury of dawdling. By the time the new washer/dryer was delivered, our dirty laundry would be piled as high as the stainless steel refrigerators on the appliance showroom floor.

As consolation for not getting the cool front-loaders, I convinced PB that we should go for a washer that had a hand-wash cycle. According to Conrad, our very nice salesman, it’s even gentler than the delicate cycle. I know! Who knew?

Now, two days later, as I wait for the delivery of our new appliances, I’ve decided to really boost the excitement meter. I’m switching out my summer clothes for my winter ones. It was a very brisk 37 degrees this morning. My warm, soft sweaters are finally coming out of the storage bin. Soon I’ll be running them through the hand-wash cycle!

This is what life is about, right. Being grateful for the little things no matter how mundane?

That reminds me, I’m looking forward to another big thrill in our lives. Next week the driveway gets repaved. Woo hoooo!!!!!

Screaming My Head Off

Oh, puhleeze! According to The New York Times Style section, we are a generation that yells at our children. That’s right, yells. We wouldn’t even think of spanking their behinds (some of us, anyway), but we sure do yell.

So, why are we yelling our heads off, New York Times Style section? Do tell! Even though it is kind of hard to picture any of you as parents. I mean, you’re just soooooo BUSY covering all those parties and writing in-depth stories about $5,000 handbags and such. Not exactly the kind of subject matter that lends itself to being a parenting expert but, whatever.

Seems as though we resort to yelling when all those other “positive” disciplinary techniques fly out the window. You know –reminding, role playing, three chances, timeouts, etc.

In the house I grew up in, yelling was an art form. I didn’t realize that people could actually communicate in a normal tone of voice until after I left for college. Once I had children of my own, I vowed I would NEVER yell. I would speak firmly, yet kindly. I would be fair-minded. I would take the time to explain.

Fifteen years later and counting, you’ll never guess what I learned. Sometimes those strategies work and sometimes they don’t. And sometimes, yes sometimes, you just gotta yell.

Like when Big Man’s been asked three times (firmly, but nicely) to turn off the television, peel his teenage body off the couch and set the table for dinner.

Here’s what I shout: “I’ve asked you THREE times to come help!!!! I'm working hard making dinner and all you can do is stare at Sponge Bob stupid shit!!!! Now I’ve HAD it!!!! I am PISSED!!!!

Guess what Big Man does? Scurries to switch off the tube and more likely than not, yes gentle readers, offers me an apology.

Damn straight!

What is so wrong with letting my kids know, that once they cross a certain line, I get mad? That I can get mad, let them know about it, and after the emotions clear, we can come back together and probably even have a good laugh over me calling Sponge Bob a stupid shit?

When I do yell, I really try to make sure I don't blurt out something that's going to scar them for life (which can be quite a feat during a certain time of the month).

And I'm pretty sure I don’t go screaming my head off on a regular basis. In fact, Little Man tells me I’m an “occasional yeller.”

“It’s only when you want to make a point,” Little Man explains, “Like when we’re doing something really bad.”

“So, you think I’m justified when I yell?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he nods.

The way I see it, there are worse things you can do to a kid. Like have him pretend to be launched in a homemade weather balloon and set him up to lie about it on national television.

At the mall the other day PB and I were behind a mom with her five-year-old. The boy was working hard to pull down a store display and the mom was going, “Buddy??? Buddy??? Put that down…okay??? You know…you really can’t do that. Buddy??? Okay???”

PB nudged me and said, “Should we break the news that that really doesn’t work.”

No need. She’ll figure it out soon enough.

Sex In The Suburbs (And Other Secrets From My Neighborhood Hair Stylist)

Warren Beatty and Julie Christie in the film Shampoo.
Once every couple months, more or less, I spend two hours at the beauty salon. My stylist, Amoro, brushes foul-smelling chemicals onto tiny strands of my hair and then folds each bleach-coated piece into its own, individual foil pocket.

By the time he sits me under the dryer, I have about fifty squares of silver paper sticking out of my head and I look like a cross between an electrocuted, tinseled-up Christmas tree and the Tin Man’s girlfriend.

I’ve been getting my hair highlighted for so long now that I don’t even mind the time it takes or what I look like during the process. The way I see it, what better opportunity to catch up on Brad, Angie and the twins? It’s the only time, aside from the supermarket check-out line, when I get to binge on gossip rags until I make myself sick.

The seeds of this “beauty” ritual were planted way back at the beginning of my life when what little hair I was born with, was golden blond. Unfortunately, by the time I reached my early teens, it started to cross over to a darker ash that looked suspiciously like dish-water or mousy brown. Which basically means, in the hair color continuum of blond bombshells, sexy redheads, chestnut browns and sultry blacks, your hair is no color. So you might as well just go ahead and fade into the background RIGHT NOW.

Thank God it was the 70s and “Sun In” was popular at the time. A couple quick squirts and a day at the beach or “lying out” on my parents’ front lawn, yes, slathered in baby oil (it was the 70s!) was enough to restore my locks to their original brilliance and rescue me from life as a wallflower.

But the thing is, because I’ve been enhancing the color of my hair from a very young age, at this point in my life, I’m not really sure what my natural color is. Periodically I point to my roots and wail to Amoro, its black! And he’s always like, is not black. And I’m all, you’re just saying that to make me feel better.

And to prove he isn’t, he pulls out one of those big cardboard color charts with loops of synthetic hair attached, squints closely at the stiff little locks, and shows me my shade.

Okay, so it isn’t black (not that there’s anything wrong with black). But it is the darkest hue of ash blond. Which means if you go one shade over. Yes, just one. You’re in the brown category. Of the mousy variety.

A few months ago I got it into my head that perhaps my natural hair color wasn’t so horribly boring after all. Maybe, in these hard economic times, I should embrace a color that didn’t need such expensive upkeep. And after all, I was now a fully-formed adult. I was more than my hair color, right?

Amoro tried to talk me out of it but I was adamant. So against his better judgment, he pulled the big gun from his stylist’s holster. The highlighting cap. With what looked like a crochet needle, he pulled big chunks of my hair through the cap’s holes then drenched them with my darker, natural color.

When he finished I looked in the mirror. Staring back at me was a woman I barely recognized. A bad version of Sarah Jessica Parker, post Sex In The City. The hair shade she sported should have been called No Sex In the City (or, in this case, the suburbs). It was so mousy and dish-watery, she was all but invisible.

Long story short, I realized the error of my ways and about every six to eight weeks, I’m back spending a couple hours with Amoro. I’ve been with him pretty much since I moved into town ten years ago.

At the beginning, we really didn’t talk much. I have to admit, I was a little intimidated by his tough-guy persona. His shaved, shiny head, the earring, his fondness for wearing all black. He barely looked up from the soccer scores in his Italian newspaper when it was time for him to wave me over to the shampoo station.

But in the decade we’ve spent together, I’ve come to see that underneath his macho exterior, he’s really just a pussycat. We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well and, among other things, I’ve learned a lot from Amoro about hair care.

Just during my last appointment I asked him if there was really any difference between “professional” and drugstore hair care products. And he was like, what? Pantene? How good could a gallon of shampoo for $5 be? You might as well flush it down the toilet. Not only does he enlighten me, he makes me laugh while he does it.

He went on to talk about misinformed shampooing habits. He was all, people use a big GLOP (coming down hard on the "p" and shaking his cupped hand for emphasis like he was in a Ragu commercial). You only need a little bit!

Excellent, Amoro! I get it now. If I splurge on the good shampoo, I’ll eventually get my money’s worth. Because instead of a handful, I need only a little dab to get the job done.

Amoro shares other secrets with me. Ones that don’t have anything to do with hair. Like the no-strings-attached relationship he has with one of his married clients. Seems she fancies Amoro for more than his hair styling expertise. He's quite happy to oblige.

He even shares secrets that some of his clients have shared with him. NEVER naming names, of course! Like the time one of his clients had a girls' night out that ended up in a hot tub. When things got a little too intimate for her taste and hands started to roam under the bubbles, she decided to call it a night. Amoro told her if it ever happened again, to make certain she called him. He would gladly take her place.

So not only does Amoro keep me looking sexy in the suburbs, he fills me in on all the sex that's happening here too. And on top of that, there are the hair styling tips. Like this one: Rub a drop of hair conditioner into your palms (yep, straight from the bottle) then smooth your ends with it. Works like a CHARM, Amoro! No more frizz! What would I do without you?