O-Plump My Way to High-Maintenance Lips

Have you ever known someone who was so beautiful, that every time you saw her, you couldn’t help but crane your neck and take notice? I have a friend who is a few years younger than I, who has turned my head from the first day I saw her.

She claims to be “high-maintenance” and I’m not quite sure if that means she requires a lot of assistance from others to help her maintain her lifestyle or if she’s referring to the amount of time she spends maintaining her personal appearance. She once told me she gets up early everyday and hits the gym, before returning home to blowout her hair, eat a full breakfast, and get her kids off to school. Then she heads to the office and puts in a full day’s work there.

Whatever the case, you have to admire her. She takes a bite out of life, and without question, she looks good while doing it.

When we first became friends, she insisted we had similar hair and promised she could teach me how to tame it. It involved a trip to an upscale beauty supplier and the purchase of an expensive blow dryer, hairbrush, and glossing product. “You should try this mascara, too,” she said—a subtle attempt at the complete makeover. I bought it all, but admit I never quite mastered the ability to use the equipment. Nor did I adapt the desire to become a ‘high-maintenance’ woman.

Frankly, I don’t go out that much. And my kids and my husband don’t mind a makeup-free face and a curly ponytail protruding from the top of my head. (At least I don’t think they do). And if I ever feel dumpy, I either go for a run or jump on the elliptical and watch programs like Project Runway or Real Housewives recorded on my DVR. These so-called reality shows never fail to me make me feel a lot better about myself—and my life.

Meanwhile, the last couple times I got together with my beautiful friend, she pulled me aside and coated my bare lips with an intoxicating substance that has caused me an addiction.

“Try this,” she said, while producing a small silver tube with a pink cap. “You’ll totally love it. It brings out the natural color of your lips and livens ‘em up at the same time.”

I took the bait and applied the clear substance to my otherwise thin, unremarkable lips. After ten seconds, all I could say was, “WOW!” Not only did my lips transform into a lovely shade of pink, they swelled up to the point that I looked a bit like Meg Ryan after the collagen injections.

Well, not really, but the buzz in my lips got me a little high. It’s fair to say my vision was probably distorted. Plus, I wasn’t wearing my reading glasses, so I couldn’t see what I really looked like in the mirror.

This remarkable lip jazz is called O-Plump by Smashbox. And I’m totally addicted. Oddly, so are my naturally plump-lipped daughters since I couldn’t help but share the experience with them.

The labeling on the tube suggests this “intuitive silky lip enhancement” will transform your lips into a “plumped-up pout.”

Okay, whatever. It’s far better than Carmex (the substance to which I was addicted in college). I have to say, I love the O-Plump because of the color, and because my beautiful friend recommended it.

Don’t Mess With Me

I am the meanest Mommy in town. Don’t mess with me.

With this statement, I’m addressing my kids as well as anyone who deals with my kids. And by the way, this includes the kids to whom I gave birth, and the kids I love.

Trust me, I love a lot of kids in this town.

I’ve been a soccer coach—soccer MOM—a volleyball coach, a reading coach, a writing coach, a room mother, a mom helper, a carpool driver, and to many of these kids, an active mentor and a passive Facebook friend.

Know this: If you deal with my kids, I’ve got my eye on you. I’m eternally grateful to those of you—teachers, coaches, counselors, youth group directors, etc.—who have served as wonderful examples and guiders. Some of you understand that their time as children is brief and precious. I have no use for you if you have even the slightest negative influence upon them . . . unless, of course, they can learn something important/relevant about the world due to your negative impact.

And if you harm my kids or the kids I know and love, rest assured, I’ll be willing to miss a deadline or pull a muscle to expose you.

Sorry About the Blog

My email inbox often contains messages with tips about successful blogging. I wish I had time to read all of them. Those I do read, consistently note the importance of consistency in posting. Apparently, I have a failure of a blog. No matter how hard I try, I can’t be consistent.

I’m afraid I’m stretched far too thin and simply don’t have time to keep up the posting. It’s not like when I was a weekly newspaper columnist in the San Francisco Bay Area and someone actually paid me to express my feelings on any number of subjects.

I wonder, do newspaper columnists still exist or has everyone turned to blogging?

Anyway, as a sometimes blogger and an active novelist who is just beginning to see the light at the end of the manuscript, I’m living in another world while I work. If I worked in a vacuum tube the new novel would have been completed by my first self-imposed deadline; however, I work in a home. It’s an active home filled with kids, laundry, dirty dishes, a chihuahua who prefers to poop inside on chilly winter days, occasional houseguests, a calendar filled with car pools, soccer games and volleyball tournaments, and a business telephone line that won’t stop ringing. Unfortunately, most of the calls are from solicitors wanting me to buy something rather than customers who want to buy something from me.

Does ANYONE know how to get these people to stop calling? Every DO NOT CALL list or method of getting the computers to throw out my number has failed. I really don’t want to be rude when there’s an actual human on the other end of the phone who’s just trying to do his job, but damn it! I’m just trying to do my job too.

Because of distractions and time limitations, blogging has had to take a backseat to my real jobs. Blogging for me, and most likely for many writers, is like exercise or training. And I think it’s easy to neglect exercise when our lives become too hectic. (I haven’t been on the Elliptical since Monday!) Writing a novel, on the other hand, is more like running a marathon. Let me put it this way: when I run an eight-minute mile I feel really good about myself; however, if I manage to write eight pages in a day, I’m ecstatic. Some days, I settle for a single page and remind myself how difficult it can be.

Now, given I’ve already responded to 23 emails this morning, taken three calls and responded to two voicemails, AND I’ve managed to whine my way through another blog, it’s time to go back to my Irish Twins. I’m really dying to find out what the younger one is going to do next.

Twelve at Twelve on January 12

Today is January 12, 2010 and if you live in Tucson, wherever you happen to be at 12 noon, city officials are asking that you stop, look around, and collect whatever trash you see . . . for twelve minutes.

There's no sign-up involved, no report required, just an eye for litter, two hands for collection, and a trash bag.

I have my own beautification project this morning—a hair appointment—which could have me sitting in the stylist's chair at 12 noon. If so, I promise to sweep up my follicles. If I'm finished, I'll be the blonder, more perfectly coiffed woman picking up the stuff I usually run past during my morning workout.

Twelve minutes at Twelve Noon Today. Let's help keep Tucson beautiful.

Cash for Cookies

With one exception, I have a problem with turning our children into door-to-door vendors. There’s something about putting them on a par with Fuller Brush and Encyclopedia salesmen—not to mention the Jehovah Witnesses—that feels wrong.

Over the years my kids have been asked to sell everything from magazine subscriptions and wrapping paper to holiday poinsettia plants. I wouldn’t let them sell the subscriptions; however, with the poinsettias, we had a choice of donating a mandatory $200 to the soccer club instead of having them go door-to-door, so my principles took a backseat. We sent them only to trusted houses in the neighborhood and after four years in this club, built up a clientele.

The other exception I make when it comes to selling things door-to-door is for the Girl Scouts. I’ve ordered Girl Scout cookies from my front doorstep for as many years as I can remember. There’s something irresistible about not only the cookies themselves, but also about the polite little girl in uniform doing her job for her troop and her organization.

Well, now even that experience has been tainted.

Yesterday, the sweetest little girl you can imagine rang the bell. Accompanied by her daddy and her big brother, she asked us if we were interested in buying her cookies. My daughters flew to the front door to put in their bids for Lemon Chalet Cremes, Thin Mints and Tagalongs. (I could order a case of Tagalongs for this household and it would never be enough.) We soon learned that our little neighborhood Girl Scout only had one box of Tagalongs available, because as it turns out, the Girl Scouts are no longer taking orders. We could only buy the boxes she had on the wagon parked next to her. And there was more:

“We’re only accepting cash for cookies this year,” said the daddy. “It’s because last year the Girl Scouts took in over $200,000 in bad checks.”

Two-HUNDRED-thousand? That’s a horrifyingly large number. I remember reading last year that Girl Scout cookie sales were down by some 20%, and the economy was to blame. But to couple that with $200,000 in losses? I haven’t been able to verify this number, so I can’t say for certain it’s fact; however, obviously something big enough and bad enough caused the organization to drastically change its cookie sale technique.

I purchased four boxes and came up with the cash, including three dollars worth of quarters. If I could have placed an order and ultimately written a check, this little Girl Scout would have made far more money from our craving for Tagalongs.

I realize times are tough and as a business owner, I understand what it means to deal with the occasional bounced check. In fact, I’m dealing with a sizable one right now, and it’s taking far too much time and causing a lot of frustration. It galls me no end that someone has the nerve to pay for a product with fake money and then act surprised and appalled when the case gets filed first with the police and then with the district attorney. Pay attention: Writing a bad check is an illegal act.

In other words, IT’S AGAINST THE LAW YOU IDIOTS.

I wonder if the Girl Scouts are going to take additional steps to teach their scouts the hard realities of modern day business. They’ve set the bar for successful door-to-door sales. Now they need to teach the girls about dealing with the criminals who make their cookies crumble. Perhaps it won’t be too long before they add a BOUNCED check badge to their lineup.

A Lousy Textcuse for Communication

At the risk of invading my children’s privacy, I can’t let this one slide. Breaking up with someone by text—be it a best friend or a boyfriend—is bullshit. It’s weak. It’s bad form. It’s pathetic, lazy and, well stupid. And SOB if it didn’t happen to my kids not once but twice this week.

Text messaging, or texting, has its place and I have used it to communicate more than I ever thought I would. Usually, however, it’s about meeting times and places and sharing sports scores with those who couldn’t make it to the game. I’ve even learned to let punctuation slide and use shorthand on words like “2” and “ur” and “k.”

It’s especially handy for communicating phone numbers or for contacting your nephew across the country to have him supply the punch line for a joke you just couldn’t quite get right.

Texting is handier than email and certainly briefer than a conversation. It has its positive place in communication technology. But to use it to break up with someone?

That’s just bullshit.


I think we’ve all had occasion to make a phone call knowing it was more likely we’d face an answering machine rather than have a conversation; however, that’s usually for things like regrets to a basket, botox, candle, clothing, jewelry, taser or Tupperware party. Email has been another outlet and I, for one, check my email in-box far more than my voicemail. These have become not only handier but also accepted forms of communication. After all, not all of us are equal when it comes to social communication skills. And really, these days, who has the time for a conversation?

But are we really ready to completely dump the art of conversation when it comes to our personal relationships? 

Our kids sure seem to think so.

At first I thought it was funny that junior high kids who claimed to be “going out,” did so by having a strictly texting relationship. They didn’t go bowling, bike-riding or to the movies. As far as I could tell, they didn’t even talk to one another. Instead, they texted—even when they were in the same room. They “went out” by texting and they “broke up” by texting.

In high school, however, the relationship/s appeared to mature a bit. There was little texting and a lot of time spent together, albeit primarily in group settings. Come to think of it, I remember hearing a few complaints that the ultimate bad breakup boy in this story was pretty lame about responding to texts and therefore, he rarely showed up to the movies or to the parties. I started to think some time ago that he wasn’t a very good boyfriend. And he sure proved it last night when he finally figured out how to use the text messaging function on his phone.

My daughter will be fine and she rebounded very quickly. In fact, over breakfast this morning it was she who used the word “weak” to describe the text breakup. I, on the other hand, could only come up with a few annoying clichés such as “you have to kiss a few frogs before you find your prince;” and “there’s a lot of fish in the ocean . . .” And, of course, I pointed out how stupid it was for him to send the text on a Wednesday when he had to face her in school the next day. If he had any brains he’d have waited til Friday to drop the breakup bomb.

On our ride to school I reminded her that the best response—maybe even the best revenge—was to continue to be excellent. She not only can rely on herself, but also on some pretty great friends to help remind her how truly excellent she is. Hopefully, she’ll learn from the experience and soon forget about the boyfriend and his rude breakup method. After all, the poor dope didn’t know a good thing when it was in front of him having a real conversation or when it was spelled out in text messaging.

A Daughter’s Tears

We did the right thing last night by demanding the Wii turned off, rooms cleaned, and new semester notebooks and next-day’s outfits be readied by ten p.m. We did the right thing by waking them at nine yesterday and demanding they get ready and go to Sunday school. We believed it would soften the blow of the six a.m. wake-up call on Monday morning after two weeks off of regular school. Certain aspects of parenting aren’t too difficult to figure out.

And then there are other aspects.

We’d said our goodnights by ten, climbed in bed and turned on a DVD—one definitely inappropriate for kids, but one I soon learned our teenager had already seen at least four times. Twenty minutes into it, there was a soft knock on the door. We hit the pause button. Without a doubt, we knew the knock had come from our younger, more innocent daughter. What we didn’t expect, however, was to see her tears and hear her say, “I can’t sleep because I’m nervous about going to school tomorrow.”

She spent most of her break playing with her sister and then also with a good friend when she returned from an out-of-town Christmas visit with extended family. Throughout the break, our daughter was joyful and fun, seemingly without care. And then she received a bizarre and hurtful text. It was from another friend, who told her she no longer wanted to be “best friends,” and didn’t want to hang out with her at school anymore. In spite of having other friends, it broke our daughter’s heart and, truly, there was nothing we could do to fix it.

Why? Because we didn’t want to climb aboard the “Drama Triangle.”

 

The Drama Triangle, also known as “the Victim Triangle,” the “Emotional Triangle,” and even the “Blame Machine,” was introduced by Dr. Stephen Karpman in 1968. (It is also called the “Karpman Triangle.”) It’s a toxic social behavior dyanamic involving three roles: The Perpetrator; The Victim; and The Rescuer.

The key word/role in this triangle is VICTIM. The Victim is at the bottom of the triangle, and according to Karpman, is the anchor of the dynamic. The Victim fuels the energy, and in spite of where a person enters the triangle in any given situation, victimization spins the triangle, and each person involved can and will do time in the position of Victim.

Briefly, the roles are defined as follows:

The Victim places blame and looks for someone to pity her, rescue her, or take responsibility for her.

The Perpetrator attacks the Victim as a means of retaliation, believing she has a good reason behind her actions. Her attack makes her feel powerful.

The Rescuer is the self-proclaimed “good guy.” She feels better about herself for believing she’s saving the day and often takes pride in helping others while failing to take care of herself. Meanwhile, not only does she foster dependency, she often ends up feeling resentful when the Victim fails to thank her, thus becoming a victim of the Victim.

And round and round they go, spinning from point to point to point. It’s a bumpy, uncomfortable ride.

 

Last night’s tears could have easily cajoled me into the Rescuer role, a natural place for any woman, particularly a mother. I’m very familiar with that place on the triangle, not only in situations within my own family, but also with other relationships in my life. But thanks to a timely conversation with a friend at church yesterday, also a mother and a student of psychology, she pointed me in the direction that helped me to avoid the Drama Triangle. She mentioned the Karpman Triangle by name, and reminded me of the power one has to first recognize behavior patterns and then to make the right choices to avoid toxic or unproductive outcomes.

This morning I collected a pile of tissues as big as a snowman’s head from my daughter’s nightstand and tossed them in the trash. Then I drew the Triangle diagram and asked her to point out her role. Naturally, she pointed to “Victim.”  Over waffles I explained the roles as best as I could and then we talked about her learning to take responsibility and believing in the ability to take care of herself. I told my beautiful daughter that she had the POWER to escape the cycle. “Whenever we fail to take responsibility for ourselves, we end up on the triangle,” I said, quoting material I had found on the Internet after speaking with my friend. If the girls at school starting teasing her about her hair, her size or accusing her of things she didn't do, she had a choice to make in how she was going to respond. With tears? Or with strength of character.

Finally, I gave her a slip of paper and asked her to put it in her pocket. “You always have a choice,” it read. I suggested she take it out and read it anytime during the day if she started to feel like a victim of adolescent girl behavior at school.

Then I put her on the bus and prayed to the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. God, I hope I helped her.

A Penny for Your Thoughts on 2009

1. What did you think of 2009? It began on a positive note. I believed the country was headed toward change. I bought it. But here at the end of December, it doesn’t feel like much—if anything—has changed, besides the fact that like the President, my hair has gotten grayer.

2. What do you think was the news story of the year? The US Airways plane landing in the Hudson River.

3. What happened this year that you never want to hear another word about? Tiger Woods’ conga line of mistresses.

4. What was your favorite song of 2009? Can’t answer this. I listen to “my kids’ music” when I’m driving them all over town and frankly, it’s all crap. Will SOMEONE please send me some GOOD new music?

5. What did you accomplish this year? Increased business revenues in a down economy; wrote/published 100+ blogs; moved ahead on my newest manuscript; made several new friends from my daughter’s new soccer team; re-established contact with my brother—although once again, I haven’t heard from him in weeks; stayed physically fit; managed home, kids, marriage and business and feel it’s a happy home.

6. Did you learn anything new this year? Yes. Vocabulary words, of course, and a new method of telling whether or not the moon is waxing or waning. I also learned how to use a Nikon D90 camera.

7. What are you looking forward to in the new year? Using my new camera; watching my daughters play soccer and volleyball; laughing with my husband (because it’s my favorite thing to do); and finishing my manuscript.

8. What are your plans for New Year's Eve? Going to a party.

9. What's the best thing you ever did on a New Year's Eve? I learned the words to “Auld Lang Syne” from my friend Jeanine during a snowstorm. Everyone should know the words to this song—and their meaning—on New Year’s Eve.

Happy New Year everyone. Thanks for reading, and all best to all of you in 2010. Stay in touch.

Love,

Michele

A Bad Hair Blast from the 1980s

All it takes is a brief look back to determine with absolute certainty that the 1980s were filled with a lot of big, bad hair.

I heard from an old friend today, someone I’d actually given up for dead until a surprise message turned up in my “in” box. Thank goodness for the Internet and a thing called Google. This woman, who actually served as a bridesmaid at our 1989 wedding, got in touch after Googling my name. I believe the search led her to my blog, which led her to my author website, email address and, to one of my books, The Things I Wish I’d Said. Given this book was, in part, a lot about my life shortly after I was married, she remembered a lot of it. I’m not sure whether or not she remembered why we fell out of touch, but truthfully, it’s not important. I am very happy to hear from her.

My longhaired bridesmaid included good news about her life and then, hit the old photo albums and made a few scans. “Here are some of the hundreds of pics I have from the times we shared,” she wrote. I couldn’t wait to see which ones she chose.

The first was of Mike and me as Phil Donahue and Oprah Winfrey on Halloween, circa 1987. I remember we had only one ‘Mr. Microphone,’ (that yellow thing in his pocket) and fought over it all night saying things like, “Caller, you’re on the air!” I also remember doing a pretty decent pass as an African-American person. That was until an actual African-American friend showed up at the party and told me that my “blue eyes would never allow me to pass as a sistah!” There was no question, though, that Mike was the spittin’ image of Mr. Donahue.

She also included a photo (at top) of what looked like a double date, with one of the guys who stood up for Mike at our wedding. Neither Mike nor I can remember if it was a set-up, but we know nothing ever brewed between the two of them. Perhaps it was because of the cigar in her hand???

There were others, but I thoroughly enjoyed seeing the picture at left, of three girls in their late 20s at a San Francisco comedy club. I’ve known the blonde woman since elementary school and she currently lives in Tucson, not too far from us. Her son and my daughter correspond more than we do, but we get together when we can. She’s one of those people that no matter how much time elapses, we can pretty much pick up where we left off.

I’m not sure the same can be said for my bridesmaid. It’s been close to 20 years since I’ve heard from her. But for a moment today, this blast from the 1980s reminded me of a very carefree and fun time in my life. I’m grateful for the memories.

And I absolutely do NOT miss the hair. Thank you Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuusan.

Christmas When You’re 49

When you’re 49, you are Santa and everyone in the house knows it. It doesn’t bode well when your bedtime is far earlier than your kids’ and they’re still up late playing Facebook games like Farmville and going through the motions of putting out milk and cookies next to the fireplace.

Thank baby Jesus, the Mr. Claus in this Southwest pole regularly burns the midnight oil. Last night he fulfilled the stocking-stuffing and placing the surprise gifts of the season under our tree long after I was sawing wood for the night. I did manage, however, to wake up at my normal three o’clock feeding time to get his one and only surprise into his stocking. He had purchased all the rest of his own presents himself. (This is a man who knows what he wants and wastes no time fulfilling the wants.) At least I wrapped them. Good wife?

One thing that hasn’t changed on Christmas morning in all our years of being parents is that it’s the one day of the year when our kids get up before us. As a rule, they come to our room and beckon us to the Christmas tree in order for the gift opening to begin. The wake-up calls have gone from as early as six a.m. to nine a.m.; however, both our darling girls still patiently await the espresso machine churning out at least two good-sized lattes for their groggy parents, Mr. and Mrs. Claus.

On that note, today, Christmas 2009, it was a pleasant surprise when we opened their first gifts, which were his-and-her espresso mugs. They had purchased them in Las Vegas during our Thanksgiving trip. I loved the mugs, and immediately abandoned my original, having my second decaf latte in a white mug with “Las Vegas” printed all around it. Yes, that’s another thing that’s changed. Before I was in my late 40’s, my coffee had caffeine.


In the meantime, Santa managed to fulfill every item on both of their rather modest Christmas lists . . . save one item. They’d been begging for a Wii for weeks—perhaps months.

Now this is where the age of 49 comes back into play. I’m afraid I am not a child of the videogame age. On the contrary, I’ve always found video games to be a complete waste of time and energy. I believe children should instead spend time playing a real game or reading a book. I suppose it’s my personal generation gap. My parents liked Glenn Miller, I liked The Stones! Video games? I always thought they were for morons.

And yet Mr. Claus managed to convince me that the price of the Wii had become affordable, and my workout buddy, the Beave, told me she and her kids regularly broke a sweat while playing with one. Honestly, my girls wanted it so badly, that I heard the word “we,” or perhaps the adjective “wee,” or even the French word for yes, “oui,” about twenty times a day in their daily vocabularies.

So, here’s what this 49-year-old Mrs. Claus did AFTER her Mr. Claus purchased the Wii for their kids. She wrapped it and all its accessories—games, extra remotes, what-have-you—in special green paper. Then she directed Mr. Claus to NOT put them under the tree in case she fell asleep before him. (Yup!)

Then, on Christmas morning, the girls got through all their gifts and appeared grateful for their bounty.

At this point Mr. Claus left the room to get himself yet another latte. Mrs. Claus stayed put, totally happy about the new telephoto lens she received as a surprise gift. (Complete and happy surprise!) In the meantime, she couldn’t help but keep one pointed-ear tuned-in to the exchange between her little elves: One was happy, one was clearly disappointed. It was obvious that both had tried to cover up their disappointment at NOT receiving the most coveted gift, the Wii.

Sensing a breakdown, she gestured to Mr. Claus. “Go get it,” she said, in no uncertain terms.

The bottom line is that the Wii brought our youngest to tears. And the elder was equally as happy although she claimed she knew what we were up to. Meanwhile, they haven’t stopped playing with this TV-oriented interactive game all day. They even got me in on the fun and I’m happy to report winning scores in both table tennis and basketball. I need to work on my wakeboarding and baseball; however if life matches videogames, I will dominate this family. I’m sure of it.

If I know one thing at the age of 49, it’s that I RULE!

When Your Novel is Available for a Penny

We’ve all heard of “dime novels.” Now, thanks to Amazon.com, there are “penny novels” available, and one of them happens to be mine. How did I learn this?

An old friend, someone with whom I went to school, recently sent an unsolicited review of my first novel, A Line Between Friends, and I asked him to post a version of it on Amazon.com. He did. And when I went to the site to read it, I noticed there were two “new” copies of the book available from Amazon vendors for 1¢. One flippin’ cent. How can that be? Even I can’t get copies of my own books for under nine bucks!

My friend Beaver, who has a thriving Amazon business, explained that vendors make more money on some of their items from the minimum $3.99 shipping allotment Amazon provides than they do on the product itself. I get that, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. Placing the value of a story that I labored to write and edit, and on which my publisher invested printing and distribution expenses at a mere penny is, well, pretty damn degrading. It’s almost as bad as a negative review.

On a brighter note, my friend’s five-star review of A Line Between Friends was the 22nd five-star rating of the work posted on Amazon. And I know for a fact that reading it and reconnecting with his past (and with me) was worth far more than a flippin’ penny. 

In the meantime, don’t bother looking for those new copies at the bargain basement rate at the Amazon site. I snapped them up. Now you’re going to have to pay as much as four dollars (plus shipping, of course) for my award winning first novel. It’s still a good deal on what “Steve from Florida” deemed, “an awesome book that addresses the universal experiences of college life and the relationships we develop during those times, especially that special one we all experienced.”

And one last thing I'd like to convey is that from those Amazon vendors, I don't receive one red cent.

I Made $$$ Off of Tiger Woods

There, I said it. It’s true. I may be the least exotic of the “conga line” of blonde-bombshells to come forward, but I am one. Regardless, I’m quite sure Extra, The Today Show or The National Enquirer won’t come a knockin,’ even though I’m convinced that my big boobs and Tiger Woods helped to pay an entire month of tuition of my daughter’s volleyball club.

Last February during the Accenture Match Play Golf Tournament near Tucson, I signed up to be a concession worker as a fundraising opportunity for the Zona Volleyball Club. The best part of fundraising for this club is that any funds you earn go directly toward your own child’s fees rather than the club. Since my husband and I both like golf and certainly relished the opportunity to see Tiger Woods on his first tournament after an extended injury break, we thought this was a great opportunity.

Early in the week, we were stationed at a remote concession booth between holes 15 and 17. A character named “Ernie” was our concession boss, and he showed us the ropes. He put Mike in charge of making dogs and, a smart move, put me at the register. He had no idea how good at it I would be. Not only could I count quickly and make proper change, but I could also bark orders to my fellow concessioners, and put up with a large population of the progressively drunken gallery. Any time one of the big name players, Phil Mickelson, Vijay Singh, or Camilo “the Spider” Villegas, for example, headed down fairway 15, the lines grew as long as a par four fairway.

But the crowds had truly come to see Tiger. By the time he hit our end of the course, I, in my cash register mania, had stripped down to my tank top (we were required to wear our Zona Club shirts, which I used as an apron) and my tip jar, which I had to empty at least five times, tallied over 300 bucks. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to personally keep the tips—everything made by all concession workers in terms of profit and tips were split among the volunteers—but what we made was still enough to pay for an entire month’s tuition and still have some left over for next season.

And I think we owe it primarily to Tiger.

Ernie, who works concessions on the PGA tour across the country, said it was a fact that when Tiger was not on the course, profits decreased by fifty percent. (Phil Mickelson, he said, was the second biggest draw.) So, by Sunday when BOTH Tiger and Phil had been eliminated, we only had to stay in the stand for about an hour. On that day, I’m not sure my tips tallied more than three bucks. Compare three to three hundred. That’s a 99 percent drop in revenue. The good news is that we were paid per shift, regardless of how long the shift was and how hard we worked.

The Sunday volunteers got off very easy. But they, on the other hand, didn’t get the chance to see Tiger Woods. I did. And now that Accenture has become the first major sponsor to drop him as a spokesperson and he’s taking an indefinite break from golf, he may not be coming back to Tucson any time soon. So we got when the getting was good. But that’s probably over now too.

I imagine seeing him now will no longer offer the pure thrill of witnessing an amazing athlete in action. Instead it’ll be just one more cad who got too big for hit britches, and ultimately became known not for his birdies, but for his bitches.

Dumber Than a Box of Socks

Aaaaaaargh! I found another solitary sock in my daughter’s bathroom this morning. I wonder, should I grab it and try to hunt down its mate? Or should I save time and simply add it to the ever-growing collection of strays in the Cozzens family’s box of socks?

Does anyone else have this problem? It seems every time I pull out a load of clothes from the dryer and start the sorting process, I end up with at least two or three single socks. (None of them, by the way, belong to me). Apparently I’m the only one in the family who places BOTH socks in the hamper after use.

A few years back someone suggested I keep big safety pins in the laundry room and actually pin pairs together before washing. It sounded like a good idea. But the problem is, both socks don’t make it to the laundry room. One ends up in the sofa, another on the bathroom floor. One is tucked inside a sneaker, the other walks off to the Great Sock Hiding Place, the location of which will always remain a mystery.

My kids don’t seem to mind wearing mismatched socks. People often point to their feet and say things like, “do you realize you’re wearing two different socks?” Oh, they realize it all right. And they don’t care. To them, it’s become a fashion statement.

Well, this Christmas, I don’t think I’ll add to the problem (the problem being the box of socks, not the misguided fashion statements). I vow not to stuff the stockings with more potential stray socks. Instead, I think their fireplace socks might just be filled with rocks.

Lac du Flambeau Gets a Clue

You don’t see THIS everyday in your morning crossword puzzle:

3. _____ du Flambeau, Wisc.

In all my years of doing puzzles, I’ve seen _____ du Lac, Wisc. about a hundred times and it never got me excited. Today, however, seeing a clue for our little remote corner of the Northwoods—home to the Lake Superior Band of Ojibwe Indians and Sandy Point Resort and Disc Golf Ranch—in the USA Today puzzle, gave me a bigger rush than a double dose of cappuccino.

Sandy Point Resort is outside the town limits of Lac du Flambeau, but it does carry a “Flambeau” mailing address. The town itself is located in Vilas County and is comprised of approx. 128 square miles, 260 lakes, 65 miles of lakes, streams and rivers and 24,000 acres of wetlands. People population at the last census was 3000. I can’t say what the fish population is; however, I can report that according to the Lac du Flambeau Chamber of Commerce, the world’s largest sturgeon came out of Lake Pokegama and is currently housed in a Lac du Flambeau museum. This monster measured 7 feet, 1 inch, weighed 195 pounds and 40 inches around.

That’s quite a catch. And this clue was a great piece of bait. I filled in every square of the crossword in record time.

Making Sense of a Murder-Suicide

He had recently sent my younger sister an email, telling her she was missed at the class reunion. I saw photos of him on Facebook from that reunion and recognized him immediately. (The same could not be said about the boys/men at my own thirtieth reunion last year). Some sweet faces never change. His was one of them.

The news came to me inadvertently through a friend, who said she was still reeling from the tragedy. She assumed I’d heard. I hadn’t. I’d been out of town and paid little attention to the news. So, when she told me that an old friend, a boy from the neighborhood with whom we went to elementary and high schools had put bullets in the heads of his two young sons, his wife and then one in his mouth, the reeling began for me.

“What?”

This news is impossible to comprehend or explain. The note he allegedly left has not been released. According to my sister, his best friend had no insight. All accounts say he was a good citizen, a neighbor, a coach, a buddy. There didn’t appear to be any financial woes or domestic squabbles. But unfortunately, there were firearms in the house. And clearly there were underlying demons within this man, which led to a fatal and awful SNAP.

I don’t know if what remains of his family can or will forgive him. I don’t even know if God can forgive such inexplicable violence. All I know is that when we were kids, when our whole lives were still ahead of us, I liked him. I liked him very much. And all of us who remember him fondly are left with the unanswered questions and the charge to keep on living in spite of this horrible, practically unspeakable incident in our shared history.

Are we supposed to make sense of it? Can we? Perhaps the only thing we can do is hold our loved ones a little closer, be grateful for all we have, and treat this as a lesson in perspective.

Meanwhile, “Mange,” rest in peace.

Weapons of Self-Destruction

1. Kids

2. Wine

3. Worry

4. Heat

5. Heels

6. Over-exercise

7. Lack of Sleep

8. TV

9. Poor reading light

10. Did I already list kids?

 

Fell asleep with the TV on again and an open book on my chest. I don’t even remember what I was watching or reading when I got between the sheets. Anyway, something woke me up (a movie argument or a machine gun?) and a moment later, I saw a commercial for Robin Williams’ upcoming Special, “Weapons of Self Destruction.” Even though I forgot to take note of when the special aired, I immediately made a list.

See above.

Now, before I spend too much time in this hot flash worrying about my kids, lamenting that last glass of wine and all those miles I walked in Vegas wearing three-inch heels, I better go turn down the heat. It may be possible for me to get three more hours of sleep before I start the Monday mommy cycle all over again.

Flat Tire

“Good God! What the F--- was that?”

I was in the car alone—on my way to pick up the soccer carpool—when I hit a pothole the size of Montana. I only had two girls tonight, so I drove the sedan rather than the SUV-soccer-mobile. It was along my regular route to the high school, which I’ve driven a hundred times in the past few months.

I swear, that pothole came out of nowhere.

Was there an earthquake last night I didn’t feel? Did some construction vehicle drop a load in the middle of the road? What the hell causes a crater that large to appear so suddenly?

I want to make it very clear that I wasn’t the least bit distracted when driving. I wasn’t talking on the phone, texting or changing the radio station. In fact, I was in a pleasant mood, freshly showered after a double workout and an attitude readjustment after a day filled with angst. For once, no one had changed “my” radio station from NPR to the local Top 40 or the satellite Howard Stern show (gross-me-out!). I looked forward to seeing my daughter, hearing about her day, and talking about our Thanksgiving plans.

And then, just over a mile from home: Ka BLAM!

My front left tire hit this meteorite impact area, and it sounded like a TNT explosion. My car sounded off too. The dashboard lit up. Its first red alert indicated a “tire pressure” warning, which I momentarily read to mean: “Hey woman, you hit a pot hole that knocked the snot out of your tire.”

But I already knew that.

Ten seconds later, the alarm went off a second time. The bright red letters read: “Tire DAMAGE.” I pulled over immediately. I didn’t want to be the idiot who continued driving on a flat tire only to cause rim damage or whatever.

Instead, I became the idiot who didn’t know how to change her tire.

Heaven help me, I haven’t changed a tire since I was in college and driving a ’63 Dodge Dart, which was when I developed a revolving door supply of fifteen-dollar retreads. I suppose it’s fair to say I’ve been spoiled with a series of luxury, well-maintained cars. Okay, okay. Shut up! So I’ve driven my share of BMWs, Lexus and Mercedes. That’s not the point. The point is, I opened my trunk to find that jacks have changed!

Being the excellent student I’ve been my entire life, I resorted to the manual and learned how to do everything from locating the trap door in my new car to the spare tire to the tool kit, which impressively included protective canvas gloves. I unloaded everything, continued reading, and then uttered a helpless, “huh?”

Luckily, it was at this moment when a good Samaritan, a clean-cut, red-haired man named “Keith,” came along in a Lexus without a hood. He stopped and asked me the five most desired words to a sedan-driving damsel in distress: “Do you need a hand?”

Keith had never before seen a new-fangled jack like the one I presented, but with one look at my manual and an explanation as to why he was wearing greased-stained overalls with flowers embroidered upon them (he’d just finished installing a new motor on his Lexus and the overalls belonged to his wife); that man had my car jacked up and the spare tire in place in record time.

Long story short: the soccer girls were picked up shortly after practice and had no clue what it took to get them. Meanwhile, my husband, who was miles away in our other vehicle, stopped what he was doing to get to my side. Unfortunately for him, he arrived just as Keith finished the job. He was exhausted from dropping all his afternoon plans (and bless him for that), but I rationalized for both of us because of God sending Keith, who saved him from reading the manual and dealing with this foreign car jack. Keith, by the way, didn’t even bother to wear the kit-provided gloves to protect his hands from grease. I gave him a handshake anyway. Who wouldn’t?

I’m certain no one will rescue us from the expense of replacing that wide Michelin tire, which upon inspection, was definitely damaged by pothole impact. Insurance? Forget about it. Pima County? Huh! Doubt it.

Moral of the story: Tanque Verde Drivers Beware! Northbound Solider Trail Road in Tucson. North of Limberlost, south of Synder. Pot-hole. Butt-hole.

Parenting is THE Most Difficult Job

Take this job and shove it. I’m failing miserably in my role as a mother. Why? It’s not because I don’t have great kids. I do. They’re both healthy and beautiful and SHOULD be a parent’s dream.

So, why the whine?

It’s because I can’t take any credit for it. And because of this, I feel like a failure. And unfortunately, I’ve never considered failure an option.

Here’s my problem: I can’t find a way to NOT live vicariously through my children. Their grades are my grades. Their performances are my performances. Their pimples, their laughs, their farts, their failures, their successes, their joys AND their sorrows … they ALL affect me in a way I had never anticipated.

I guess I thought that in order to be a good mother—an involved mother—I had to give up my own ambitions and concentrate primarily on the health and wellbeing of my children. And how can anyone blame me? I got pregnant, right? They weren’t accidents. They were planned. I know we were lucky because the traditional methods worked and I got to have the moment of discovery and conveyance to their daddy. Twice. And during my pregnancies, I gave my body—my entire life—over to the growing fetuses within me. I ate well. I ate A LOT. I gave up wine. I did normal exercise until I fell and couldn’t get up. I delivered both children naturally. I even pulled out the second one myself. My doctor asked me, “Do you want to reach down and do this yourself?” Of course, I said “yes!” And every minute since bringing these children into my home, I dedicated myself to their existence.

Giving birth to them, as it turns out, was easy. No one told me how difficult raising them would be. No one talked about all the curve balls life has to offer. They didn’t tell me about bullies or bad grades—the unremarkable, even disappointing performances. They didn’t tell me about diseases or death. They didn’t tell me about the lies or the myriad of bullshit modern day existence would roll down my alley … all the while aiming for my pins of perfection.

And even if they did, hmmmm, did I listen? Wait, did I miss that class?

I want you all to listen and to know, I’m not just talking about me, and MY kids. I have friends who have faced and are facing far worse shit brought on during the course of parenthood than I’m facing. [[This isn’t just a completely self-serving rant.]] Some of the things I’ve learned in recent years—even in recent days—for example, have sent my mind reeling.

Know this: You have a child and you step into a world you simply cannot predict.

I NEVER thought I’d miss the days of diapers and car seats. NEVER. But if any young parents are out there reading this lapse into helpless, self-pitying puke of parenthood—ENJOY YOUR BABIES. When all they can do is fall down and skin their knees, when they are still under your control and you are still paying 100% attention and thinking of yourself as THEIR mom rather than YOURself, mark my words: life is a blessing. You are lucky to have them and you won’t regret it.

As for the rest of us? Get a grip. They’re not perfect and neither are we.

BTW: I realize I’m talking to myself.

When Your Teenager Treats You Like the Chauffeur

The other day we went to our annual neighborhood watch block party. It’s an opportunity to have real conversations with the people with whom you share the roads and to whom you wave everyday as you drive in and out of the hood. Let’s face it. Suburban living—even in our rural desert oasis—is all about driving in and out of the hood.

In addition to talking about safety and the overdue asphalt sealing of the three main roads comprising our subdivision, we asked about one another’s kids. Who is now in junior high? High School? How’s your son handling his first year away at college? The conversations are mostly mundane and predictable. We answer things like: “She’s fine. Still playing soccer.” And “yes, he made the basketball team.” Or “she’s great—just got her acceptance letter from the U.” Occasionally, however, someone decides to be perfectly frank.

“How’s your son handling his first year away at college?”

“Well, he’s enjoying it a little too much.”

“Going off the deep end a bit, is he?”

“Oh yes! We had to have the ‘Come to Jesus Talk’ the other night.”

Come to Jesus? I wasn’t exactly sure what my neighbor meant by that, but his general meaning was quite clear. I have another friend who calls those heart-to-heart-parent-to-child talks, “the blue chair talks.” When her kids are called to the blue chair, it’s serious business.

My husband and I have these talks with our kids, too. We simply refer to the process as “reeling them in.”  We’d like to give them a long leash, allow them privileges and reward them for good behavior, but the ole ‘give-‘em-an-inch-and-they-take-a-mile behavior comes into play ALL THE TIME.  

This morning I had to have one of those Come to Jesus, Blue Chair, Reel ‘em In conversations with my teenager while driving her to school. Without going into all the details, the main subject was about her expectations and assumptions that she could make all the plans in the world about this party and that performance, this practice and that meeting, and leave it up to me to not only gather the times and locations, but also arrange my schedule to get her to and fro.

This kid has NO clue that I have a life beyond chauffeuring her all over town. I’ve seemingly become a non-person to her—something without value except how it can be of service to her.

Lately I’ve found myself counting the days until her sixteenth birthday and wondering what kind of car we’re going to get her so she can do the driving herself. Granted that leash extension may open up a whole new set of Come to Jesus criteria . . . but at least I’ll retain the power to not only take away her cell phone, but her car keys as well.

And yes, I realize, that even though these teenage years are taxing, they go by very quickly. My mother, who I miss dearly, went to Jesus over ten years ago. And I’d give just about anything to have her wake me up, make my breakfast, and drive me to cheerleading practice just one more time.

Meanwhile, if anyone has a trick to penetrate the teenage mind—something that gets through—please let me know. My gas tank is about empty.

If It’s Tuesday, It Must Be Turquoise

I did a Tuesday show once in Wisconsin where my jewelry was on display. It was one of the rare shows that wasn’t juried, and as a result there wasn’t a lot of high-quality artisans selling their creations. I believe the venue was called Crazy Days, and my beautiful jewelry didn’t fit in.

Crazy Days are like Flea Markets. Shoppers come looking for a bargain. And even though my handmade, one-of-a-kind pieces were and are very reasonably priced, I had to endure watching overweight tourists waddle by while munching on soft pretzels and Minocqua Fudge. Some stopped in, bringing their lit smokes with them. Occasionally one would toss a bracelet back onto my display table and say something like, “Hrumph! I could make this for a dollar.”

I don’t think they could have even made the junk food staining their Green Bay Packer sweatshirts for a dollar. But hey, at least they took a moment to enter my street tent and give the products a look.

That’s more than I can say about one pair of old ladies with beehive hairdos, red lips and rhinestone glasses. Shuffling by with scowls on their faces, one of them spotted my sign advertising TURQUOISE JEWELRY FOR SALE.

“I HATE turquoise,” said one.

“Me too,” agreed the other. And then they waved their hands at me as if to tell me to get lost, and shuffled on, only to criticize the next vendor.

How could anyone hate turquoise?

Swarovski Sunday

Say it with me: SWA-RO’VF-SKI. Try it again. Take a deep breath, imagine you’re at the top of an Alp and let it go: SWA-RO’VF-SKI. I’ve been helping people pronounce this word—this brand name—ever since I started using Swarovski crystals in my jewelry designs.

I used to care about it being pronounced correctly the same way I used to care whether or not someone spelled my name with two Ls instead of one. I don’t care anymore. You can spell my name any way you want—as long as you remember it. And you can pronounce the name of these beautiful Austrian crystals any way you want as long as you take a minute to check out how nicely they go with the fine Hill Tribe Silver I describe in a previous blog.

Dream Life Designs

Swarovski Crystal, also known as Austrian Crystal, is regarded as the finest quality, full-lead crystal available today. It is named for Daniel Swarovski, who was born in Bohemia (at that time part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire) in 1862. Bohemia was a center for crystal and glass manufacturing and Swarovski’s family owned a crystal-cutting factory. Daniel served an apprenticeship in the factory and then at the age of 21, he developed a new cutting machine, which enabled him to cut crystal “to perfection.” He received a patent on the machine and in 1895, established the Swarovski Crystal company. Daniel's sons and grandsons carried on his work.

Today’s crystals have hundreds of identical facets in several directions (thus achieving the unmatched sparkle for which they’re known). Machines using high-tech computer programs and 3-D imaging cut them. The example at right uses Swarovski crystal wheels and crystal rondelles in a necklace called “Only God Is Perfect.”

My favorite crystals are the Aurora Borealis (another name for the Northern Lights, which I’ve been lucky enough to see in the Northwoods of Wisconsin). Aurora Borealis crystals came about in 1956. According to the Swarovski history, in this innovative process, crystals are coated with an almost imperceptible layer of metal, giving them a rainbow sparkle. Manfred Swarovski, Daniel’s grandson worked with Christian Dior to perfect this process.

Check out all my designs, many of which feature Swarovski Crystals at The Shop at Sandy Point Resort. FREE SHIPPING through the holidays.

Hill Tribe Silver

Hill Tribe Silver is made by the Karen Tribe in northern Thailand. This fine silver is 97.5-99% genuine, which is a higher silver content than sterling silver (92.5%). It’s therefore easy to bend and shape into forms. Oxidation, hammer marks, and slight design variances are part of the allure of these distinctive pieces. They can be worn often and will not tarnish as quickly as sterling.

There are six principal tribes in Thailand and they are the best known of the Hill Tribes. While the street life of Bangkok has changed and grown to include expensive cars, department stores and condominiums, life in the more remote hill tribe villages hasn’t changed for centuries.

The geographic area lies between the upper reaches of The Yangtze, Mekong and Salween Rivers. This is known as the Golden Triangle. The hill country reaches to and around the borders of Burma, China, Laos and Thailand. Roads are in poor condition and the main form of travel is by trail. The Karen Tribe arrived from the west, across the lower Salween River in Burma.

Until recently, Thailand was the only country in which it was possible for travelers to visit hill tribe villages, and is still the only country without travel restrictions.

Most Karen Hill Tribe Silver goes through an oxidation process. This causes the silver items to turn black. The silver is then polished leaving the black coloring only in the grooves. This allows tiny details and patterns to stand out. White Karen Hill Tribe Silver is a silver item that has not gone through the oxidation process before final polishing. As silver is the whitest of all metals, the item appears to be pure white.

Dream Life Designs’ Fine Silver Line includes Hill Tribe Silver pendants and toggle clasps, and incorporates, sterling, copper, Swarovski crystals, gemstones and Swarovski crystals. Each piece is one-of-a-kind. Check them out at http://www.sandypointproshop.com. They are available now with FREE SHIPPING through the holidays.