June 17, 2006

My Manhattan Afternoon

The other day I had the most Sex and the City afternoon, here in my hometown. It all started when I dropped by Saks. Usually I just go there to visit one of my old babysitters who works the jewelry counter, but the store had just marked down its spring clothes and I ran into a green halter top that begged me to take it home.

I went home and put on the halter. As with most tops, it was made for a woman with a bigger rack, but I put on my NuBra and strategically placed a safety pin and almost filled it up. I washed and dried my hair, put on makeup, and even tested three different lip colors before I realized I was about to be late for an appointment.

But it wasn’t just any appointment. It was an appointment with my therapist. I haven’t told you about him before because I didn’t have a therapist before. I’ve been seeing a Christian counselor to work on dealing with my grief about my mother’s death, but lately some other issues have cropped up that require some more intense work.**

So there I was, completely dressed and made up and on my way to my therapist’s office. It was so big city.

The decor of the therapist’s office didn’t match my New York daydream. In my imagination it was supposed to be beige and minimalist, but instead the walls were burgundy (very similar to the color of Drew’s favorite shirt) and there was lots of dark wood and heavy carpet.

No matter. It was a productive hour, during which I explained why I was there, using descriptive phrases like “lip plumper– it’s all the rage” and “Roy Orbison sunglasses” and “standing naked in the street with a sparkler up his ass.” The guy was very therapeutic, like a therapist should be, and I made an appointment to return.

Did I mention that I had to get a sitter to avoid taking the duo to the shrink with me? Ow. That was an expensive way to feel like an Upper East Sider. I made the best of it, though. After my session, I had an hour before I had to be home to relieve the babysitter, so I called Bill and arranged to meet him at a bar for a drink. That’s why I had taken such care in getting dressed in the first place. I hope you didn’t think I was trying to impress the therapist.

Bill and I met at a restaurant halfway between the office and home, and had a couple of drinks with no children in sight. The lady next to me was drinking a chartreuse concoction in a martini glass, and it was so lovely and summery looking that I thought briefly about ordering one. My liver accepts only white wine and gin, however, so I enjoyed a Sapphire and tonic and pretended it was every bit as delightful to look at.

As we drank and conversed, I was overcome with the confluence of so many factors that never occur simultaneously for me: the wearing of makeup! The stylish top! My sexy husband! The magnificent, child-free bar! The hip people around us (if you ignored the lady in the terrycloth shorts and Keds)!

I was so overwhelmed that I grabbed Bill’s face with both of my hands and kissed him in such a sexy manner that the people next to us muttered disapprovingly, “Get a room.”

We pretended we were leaving to get a room instead of hustling home and to pay the babysitter, putting an end to my make-believe big city afternoon.

So we ended up chez Glamore, snuggling on the sofa with our dirty boys, facing a dishwasher full of clean dishes that weren’t going to jump into the cabinets themselves, checking the computer for pictures of Finn at camp, and addressing the rest of the little bits and pieces that make up my decidedly un-big city life.

That was wasn’t so bad, either.

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**Don’t freak– my husband and children are fine.

April 25, 2006

Lions And Other Animals

I didn’t care much about exotic animals and how they lived before I went to Africa. Going to the zoo was a chore, not an adventure. The boys were always bringing home books and telling me random facts about various critters that I heard and promptly forgot. It was Finn who ruined the allure of my leopard print Snugglebutt pajamas by identifying them as a jaguar print, which was not nearly as sexy.

Once I got to Kenya and began driving observing the wildlife in its natural habitat, learning about animals became much more exciting. For example, on one game drive we came upon a group of lions lazing about. Even to me, it was obvious that they had eaten recently. They could hardly keep their eyes open.

Our guide told us that in the lion world, the lionesses do all the hunting. After they kill the prey, the men muscle in and eat until they are full. Only then do the ladies get to eat what is left. This fact made an impression on me. Our home is not so different from the Serengeti in this regard.

When it comes to providing food for my family, I am much like a lioness. I go to Publix and purchase the ingredients.

I prepare them, while also watching the news, helping with homework, administering first aid, and mediating fights.

When dinner is served my three cubs pounce. Often I have to restrain them from gobbling everything up until a blessing is said.

If I don’t hustle to the table on Taco Night, I am left to graze upon the sparse remnants of the meal.

Sometimes I just have to fix myself a bowl of cereal instead. I sympathize with the plight of the hardworking lionesses in Kenya.

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Since the tragic death of the hermit crabs I have added another Animal to this household, and it cleans messes instead of making them.

Yes, I purchased the purple Dyson Animal, and I am a satisfied customer. Here is proof of the vacuum’s remarkable capabilities. I performed a test that any nitwit could think up. First, while Bill lay on the sofa laughing at my enthusiasm, I vacuumed the den rug thoroughly with my old Hoover Wind Tunnel.

(This is the miniskirt that in an extreme lapse of judgment, I wore to my 20th high school reunion. Bad fashion choice. My little sister later helped me clean out my closet, and told me not to wear it out of the house; thus I wear it only around the house when doing things like making tacos or vacuuming.)

Then the boys gathered around and helped me assemble the Animal, which was quite easy.

The boys were begging to use the Animal first, but after spending that kind of money I wasn’t about to cede the virginal scouring of the rug to them. I vacuumed the den with the Dyson, and then we all gathered around to inspect the contents of the dirt chamber. Look what 100,000 G of centrifugal force sucked out of my “clean” rug:

Whoa! Seeing all that dust and dirt was so satisfying that I immediately vacuumed the rest of the house, with equally stellar results.

The Animal comes with about eight different attachments, which were pretty intimidating. I’ve never been one to sit down with an instruction manual and work out how to insert part A into part B. Fortunately, Porter had an innate feel for the workings of the Dyson, and soon had it in full stairway mode.

Those giraffe skin stairs were spotless when he was done. (Spotless– ha ha ha!! That’s the kind of joke you make when you return from Africa.)

April 17, 2006

African Adventures: Let’s Launder!

In the weeks before I left home, trying to get to Africa was so much damn work that I didn’t have time to think about how it would be once I actually got there. I was planning the boys’ schedules, arranging babysitters, getting my shots and trying to make sure I had enough medicines to combat blisters, hangnails, rashes, diarrhea, constipation, vomiting, migraines, excessive ear wax, the loss of a dental crown, and any other medical mishap I could imagine.

It wasn’t until a couple of days before we left that I could fully concentrate on the clothes I needed to take. I called my mother’s best friend, June, to ask for fashion advice. She was going on the trip, too, and she and her husband had been to Africa with my parents several times in the past.

“They do laundry at these camps in Africa,” June said, “so although you need several days’ worth of clothes, you can plan on having some things washed while you’re there.”

When I heard about this unexpected perk of the safari, I gasped in delight. The laundry at our house never ends, and I’ve pretty much completely given up the folding and putting away part of the process. Having someone else do my laundry would be a huge treat. That was the last thing I had expected on the Dark Continent.

Then I realized that I would be travelling with my dad and his friends and all the money and experience that comes with several extra decades of successful careers and wise investments. I’d heard my mom and June tell stories about their adventures around the world. They always involved ritzy places and lots of staff.

So while it had never occurred to me that you could find luxurious spots in Kenya or Tanzania, the comment about the laundry made me realize that my dad and his friends wouldn’t consider traveling there without the promise of soft beds and gourmet food. My mom couldn’t last more than a couple of days without getting a massage, and she had helped plan the itinerary. Perhaps there’d even be pampering.

I’m sure you’ve already read about the toilet situation on our trip, so you can see that it was a good thing that I had no unrealistic expectations about our accommodations while we were in the bush. I’ll admit, however, that I was extremely excited about the promise of laundering performed by others.

The first camp we visited had no electricity or running water. If you wanted a shower, you told the owners, who had some Masai warriors heat up some water and pour it into a bucket on top of your tent, like so:

There was a string inside the tent that you pulled to release the water so you could soap up and rinse off. It was an exercise in futility, however, as the water smelled just like the fire it had been heated on. It wasn’t the kind of shower that left you feeling invigorated and fresh. When I was done I felt jumpy and I smelled freshly roasted.

This was the same camp where my potty came with my very own shovel and bucket of ash:

Getting myself clean appeared to be impossible here, so I decided against asking for laundering services at this stop.

I fared better at the next camp. We arrived and were delighted to find hot water available for three hours in the morning and three hours at night with no Masai warriors required. Our tents had solar lights, which were dim compared to what we were used to, but a big improvement over the pitch black darkness that we’d been dealing with before.

Best of all, there was a woven laundry hamper and a leaflet with assurances that laundry left out one day would be ready the next.

The furnishings were quite reassuring, so I decided to try out the laundry.

As I was filling out the form for my clothes, I read that ladies’ undergarments would not be accepted. Later I learned that African men feel it is beneath their dignity to wash women’s panties. I concluded that they weren’t that different from most American men that I know, except for their spears and red blankets. (They didn’t have any problem washing my dad’s ratty boxers, but whatever.)

The next day I came back from a game drive and had a fantastic surprise. The undergarments that I had carefully washed in a little Bliss Soapy Sap were dry and lemony.

Even better, my elephanty smelling safari clothes showed up right on schedule:

They smelled clean, although I knew they had been washed in water from a river that was filled with hippos. I still don’t know how they accomplished that.

The Ngorongoro Crater Lodge was the fanciest place we stayed, as you could tell by comparing its toilets with the facilities everywhere else. Unfortunately, we reached the Lodge only after a long day of travel on three different planes and an arduous drive up the rim of the Crater. We were exhausted, and the lights at the Lodge were even dimmer than the ones at the previous camp. I didn’t have the energy or desire to root through my nasty duffle bag to decide which of my clothes were the smelliest.

However, when the folks at the Lodge brought us a tray of warm washcloths covered with rose petals so we could freshen up before dinner, I resolved to locate my dirty clothes as fast as possible and take advantage of the laundry service there. I figured it had to be top-notch.

I sat down with my gin and tonic and carefully sorted my clothes and filled out the cleaning slip.

I was totaling up my garments when I happened to read the fine print on the paper. I realize this picture is fuzzy and dim, but I was tired and buzzy at this point, and the room was poorly lit, so this is actually a very realistic representation of the document I was trying to decipher.

(You can click to enlarge although I did not have that luxury.)

Let me translate the sixth bullet point for you: Occasionally hyena and baboon raid the laundry yard

And at the bottom the paper said: The lodge accepts no responsibility whatsoever for guest clothing damaged during cleaning.

I must admit, these clauses made me pause. We were far enough along on our trip that I was familiar with both baboons and hyena, and I wasn’t going to wrestle one for my cheetah bra if it proved enticing.

Here’s a pack of hyena:

Sadly, they weren’t fighting over someone’s cute Zombymom Tshirt or khaki pants. They were focused on a carcass which is too gory to show.

In the end, of course, I decided to take my chances and send off the clothes. When I came back from dinner the next night, I was glad I had. My clothes were waiting for me in a lovely reed basket, wrapped in velvet and accented with a red rose.

Just the way I like them.

April 10, 2006

Weekend Recap

Last week was full of medical excitement including Porter’s stitches and the stomach bug that made its way through the family. I’m happy to report that as the week came to a close, everyone’s health improved.

Thursday night we took out Porter’s stitches. It started out as a family activity, but once I pulled Porter’s hair out of the way using some decorative bobby pins, exposing the gash and black stitches, Finn gasped and disappeared into the basement to play drums while the medical procedure took place. Drew huddled over Porter protectively as I worked, saying, “it’s going to be fine” and “let me hold that cotton ball on there for you, Porter.” He made a fine nurse.

I pulled each knot with a pair of tweezers and snipped carefully, then eased the threads out and put them in a baggie. Porter took his stitches to school the next day for show and tell. He reported that the boys were fascinated and the girls were grossed out, and so his display was a success by first grade standards.

Finn’s mind was on other things. I dumped all the boys’ clothes onto the living room floor and conducted the yearly “Try It On and Hand It Down” ceremony. At the end, it was clear that each boy needed some decent shirts to wear to school, and I started writing down what everyone needed and their color preferences.

“I really want a pink shirt and a purple shirt to wear to school,” Finn said.

“Ha, ha,” I replied. “Be serious. If there’s a color you love or hate you better tell me now because I’m hitting the Gap and Target one time and one time only.”

“I am being serious,” Finn insisted.

I looked up from my paper and noticed that while I was in Africa he’d gone to the orthodontist and changed his front braces wire from green to bright pink.

“Mom, those colors are really in now,” he said. “Trust me.”

“So you want a pink shirt if I can find one?” I asked doubtfully.

“That’s what I’m saying,” he said.

So I headed out the next day and came home with solid T shirts with pockets for Porter, striped shirts without pockets for Drew, and an assortment of pastel shirts for Finn. I spent so much time buying shirts that I had no time to do other things on my list, like research vacuum cleaners* or pay the bills.

The next day Finn went to school wearing this shirt layered over a dark blue T shirt, and although he looked like an Easter egg, he assured me that he was stylin’ and profilin’ and would be admired, not antagonized, for his fashion choices.

“Mom, girls don’t want a guy who is hot; they want a guy who is cute. This season, wearing colors like this makes a guy cute, and being cute makes him hot,” he explained. The carpool came before I had time to ask him when he had started to care whether the girls thought he was cute or hot, and where he’d gotten this fashion theory, or what might happen if wearing pink succeeded as predicted.

After school, he was still wearing the pink shirt, and when I asked him what happened at school he said, “Nothing.” I am going to have to call Chatty Mom and have her ask her goddaughter, who’s in Finn’s class, whether Finn is working on getting a girlfriend. I don’t think I’m ready for that.

While I was in Africa, the boys went to the beach and came home with three hermit crabs: Bobby, Frankie and Clyde. I’ve never done hermit crabs before, and Drew told me that they needed to be let out of the cage each day for some exercise, which seemed reasonable, and that they had been letting them crawl around on the den rug, which was clearly unreasonable.

I had to make a new rule for the hermit crabs called “They Only Exercise Outside And If I Catch Them Out Of Their Cage Inside There’s Gonna Be Big Trouble.” To soften the blow of the new rule, we planned a hermit crab race. Drew spent a lot of time drawing the course, and we all gathered in anticipation to see the competition. It was soon evident that hermit crabs are better suited to posing for photos than they are at staying in their lanes and running on demand.

(click to enlarge if you want to see Bobby’s natural looking teal shell. He’s Porter’s crab, of course.)

The weekend featured other sports as well. Drew and Porter are playing
soccer this year, which is a pretty new activity for us. Most of what I
know about soccer I’ve learned from reading BusyMom, because her kids have played for years.

I’ve written before about Porter’s tendency to get intimidated by structured situations, and we’ve never actually seen him play an entire game of anything that takes place on a field. In the past, when he has asked to play a sport, he’s spent most of the games sniffling on the sidelines, and we’ve let him, insisting only that he show up to support
his team. We figured he’d grow out of it sooner or later, or take up guitar.

Saturday, it was as if we had brought a different child to the field. He and Drew passed the ball back and forth to each other as they ran toward the goal. The hours they’ve spent in the yard kicking the ball around have clearly paid off. Porter played goalie for a
while, blocking several balls, and then he scored a couple of goals. He was running down the field with a smile on his face, enjoying himself. I looked around to see where the “Chariots of Fire” theme was coming from, but then I realized it was playing only in my head, and that my eyes were blinded by tears. When Finn asked me about them, I blamed them on the sun.

My boys are growing up, and it’s scary and wonderful at the same time.

March 4, 2006

What Not To Wear: In Bed

Anne Glamore has been married almost thirteen years. Just recently, her husband Bill decided that it would be nice if she started sleeping in sexy pajamas rather than the ratty separates she favors. Join us as we help Anne discover her bedtime fashion vixen!

Scene 1: Reviewing Anne’s Pajamas

Bill: Anyone can see that these are not technically pajamas. These are ancient shirts and sweaters. Anne puts on more than she takes off to go to bed. You’d think we lived in Alaska.

Anne: Nights can be chilly in Central Alabama. Plus, my husband is a cover stealer. I have to be warm at night or I get grouchy. When it comes to sleepwear, my philosophy is simple. I don’t want anything itchy or cold. I hate long nightgowns because they get all tangled up between my legs. That’s why I sleep in a shirt and pants.

Bill: Let’s look at the apparel Anne has slept in the last few nights.

Bill: Frankly, I think we can all agree that these outfits do nothing for you. There’s a shapely woman hiding under all that drab old fabric, and we need to let her out. But wait, why don’t you explain to me what you were thinking when you put these on?

Anne: I wasn’t thinking anything except maybe “Thank God the boys are finally asleep and I can get in bed.” I got the first shirt in New Orleans when my friends and I went to see Garbage and No Doubt and there was a cold spell– the temperature plummeted to 63 and I wasn’t prepared. Those pants are my Snugglebutts which are very warm and extremely comfy. I realize they don’t show off my figure but honestly, that’s the last thing on my mind late at night.

I got the gray sweater at Express a long time ago. It has a hole under one armpit, so it breathes well. It’s always nice to sleep in a shirt that represents your U, so I put on the Virginia shirt just to say “Wahoowa!” before I get in bed. I got the other two pair of pants cheap at Target.

Bill: Lovely. I hope you didn’t pay more than 99 cents for all six pieces, because that’s what they look like they’re worth. Now let’s take a look at the back of that New Orleans shirt:

Bill: Whoa, are those skulls? Those would not seem to be conducive to a good night’s sleep.

Anne: Well, they are, but they’re happy skulls. And the shirt is really soft.

Bill: Now, I realize you don’t wear quite that much clothing to bed during the summer. Let’s take a peek at your warm weather PJ’s.

Bill: I’m getting a definite theme here. You must think that sleeping in music T-shirts makes you cool, because I’m telling you, it sure doesn’t make you sexy.

Anne: It’s not a question of coolness. Where else can I wear them? A mom can’t just waltz into Publix wearing a Garbage T-shirt. Other moms might not let their kids come over and play.

Bill: Really? You’ve been going to their concerts all these years. Maybe I should examine the members of Garbage more closely.

(click to enlarge)

Bill: Agh!! Shirley Manson scares me.

Anne: Shut up. She’s awesome. And that guy on the far right is Butch Vig. He may look scary, but he’s a great drummer and he produced Nirvana’s “Nevermind.” I got his autograph last time I saw Garbage.

Bill: Between the skulls and Shirley, I think you’re wearing some scary shit to bed. I can’t believe I’ve been sleeping next to these weirdos all these years.

Most importantly, honey, none of these outfits is flattering. You’ve got a great body and a lot to work with. I understand that you’re concerned with being warm and comfortable. With that in mind, I’ve pulled together some evening ensembles that are attractive and feel good on the skin.

Anne: (Rolls eyes)

Scene 2: Bill Shows Anne What Not To Wear

Bill: Shopping for pajamas may seem easy. Actually it is more difficult than you think. Here are two outfits that would seem to be flattering, but that you should avoid. First is the token black negligee.

Bill: This look would be good on many women. In fact, it looks pretty fabulous on this mannequin. However, you need at least a full A cup to pull off this look and you just don’t have it. Ladies with tiny titties should avoid a look that needs some cleavage, and instead place the focus on other parts of their bodies.

Anne: Ooh, I love those colors.

Bill: Well, the colors are fine, but honestly, this outfit does not register on my peter meter. It’s new, and it’s soft, but it doesn’t show off your butt or your legs. This would be good to wear on a weekend with the ladies, but your man is not going to be so impressed. Plus, the mannequin gives this outfit some bosoms, but you wouldn’t fill it out like that.

Anne: I think I’ve heard enough critique about my breasts now, honey.

Bill: Don’t be discouraged. We’re going to shine some light on your ass and your nights will never be the same.

Anne: But I’ll still get to sleep, won’t I? Is this All About You  or is it a real attempt to help me help myself?

Bill: (pretends not to hear)

Scene 3: Bill Shows Anne What To Wear

Bill: On the left, I found a lovely lacy seafoam tank at Victoria’s Secret. Notice that it’s not trying to say, “I have a huge rack.” In fact, a woman with a huge rack couldn’t fit into this tank. The floral boy short is accented with a bow at the front. The bow is very important– it draws the eye down–

Anne: What do you mean, “the eye?” Who all is checking me out in this?

Bill: Okay, it draws my eye down to your strongest areas, like your flat tummy, your gorgeous legs, and the exciting tattoo that peeks out just above the waist line.

But you don’t have to limit yourself to the boy short. On the right you see a Hanky Panky thong which is also stylish.

Anne: Honey, thongs crawl up your butt. That’s not comfortable.

Bill: The saleslady said these were the most comfortable thongs out there.

Anne: That’s like saying Pol Pot was the nicest dictator ever. Thongs travel. Up.

Bill: Just give it a try before you rule it out, because it’s hot. Anyway, the top I paired with this is what I call a “redundant” tank. It says, “Sexy Little Thing” but that’s redundant, because I already know that about you! (hoots with laughter)

Anne: As I feared, you are nothing but a horny man disguised as a style consultant.

Final Scene: Anne Goes Shopping

Anne: For my first outfit, I chose a “redundant” tank that is perfect for the small-chested woman. I paired it with some panties that are actually comfortable and have the bow that seems to get Bill so fired up.

Bill: Me likee!

Anne: Next I found a stretchy brown camisole and boyshort set. It’s edged in lace but the lace is soft, so I figured I could stand it if it makes my husband happy. The mannequin has more of a waist than I do. When I wear this, my tattoo peeks out enticingly from between the panties and the top.

Bill: (touching fabric) Wowza!

Anne: This last outfit is for cold nights when I want to look my best but need some coverage. It’s a silky lace dress with long sleeves. I put a pair of black lace underwear with it.

Bill: See-through lace is always a good fashion choice.

Anne: Finally, although I am not a thong fan, I did buy this inexpensive sassy one for recreational purposes only.

Bill: I think you did a fine job of following the fashion rules and buying nightwear that will be comfortable and flattering at the same time.

Anne: If I get cold at night, I’m going to wake you up and tell you about it. And I’m throwing out all your nasty undershirts first thing tomorrow.

(Theme music starts and credits roll)