The Not It Girl is changing into The Chrysalis Collective.
Sunday night caught me, er, unawares. So I’m going to cheat and share one of my favorite videos with you.
It would be tough to explain to our kids now how cool and hot Sheena Easton was, and how mind-boggling it was to watch her and Prince together on the stage. I’m pretty sure I duplicated Sheena’s outfit at a school dance. Enjoy this 80’s throwback, “You’ve Got the Look.”
The 80’s were the best.
How you feeling?
I don’t like what I’m hearing. People down in the dumps, feeling helpless, overwhelmed, powerless. I’m not a therapist, but I have a few suggestions.
First, stop feeling like that. If you woke up warm, fed and comfortable, you’re rich. You’re rich. You’re rich. Say it over and over, because it’s true.
Second, stop watching the news, and get off social media. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: it’s the devil. It’s a fear narrative. Read something that uses language that lights you up inside. Whether it’s a horror novel, a celebrity biography or a poetry anthology, let the words flow through you until they resonate.
Third, go somewhere in your house where you can be alone, turn this song up, and dance. Dance in whatever way makes you happiest, maybe even do a little striptease while you listen to it. Better yet, it’s a super sexy song, so strip for someone else, or have some sex while you listen to it. Just be uninhibited, and let yourself go.
Life’s too short to be taken so damn seriously.
Why do I have such a problem controlling myself around stickers?
I’m obsessed with them. I want to own them all. I can’t just buy one or two when I travel, I have to buy a handful in every store I walk in. And every time I see the cutest sticker I have ever seen, there is an even cuter one two feet away.
I have sticker frenzy.
I am right now five minutes away from purchasing every single sticker on the OctoNation website. You KNOW how much I love elephants and octopuses. My fave creatures on the planet.
OctoNation has so many cute products that help spread knowledge and awareness of the fact that octopus are smart, sentient, playful, sweet, loving creatures. I will never achieve total happiness until I dive with one, play with one, and feel those little suckers on my hands and arms.
Secret: That is why I re-applied for my PADI-cert. I am going to dive with an octopus in 2022. More on that.
No, don’t even try it, bitches and bastards. OctoNation is not an affiliate of mine, and I’m not getting paid if you log onto the website. Sheesh, when did you get so jaded? It’s just that I’m sitting here ready to buy about twenty stickers, and I thought I’d share the website with you.
I have nowhere to put these stickers. I don’t decorate my laptop, and my Hydroflask has no more space. But I don’t care. I want them. All.
Enjoy your weekend.
Someone emailed me and asked me what I “love” about my plumbers. So alrighty then, let’s get to it.
It’s not necessarily my plumbers I love, although I do love them. Their phone never goes to voice mail, and their receptionist calls me warmly by my first name. When I send an email at 2:00 a.m. in a panic about goose feces, by the time I call them at 9:00 a.m. they have already read my email and are ready with an appointment. They don’t mind going in my house if I’m not home. And they laugh with me when I’m dumb.
They make my life easier.
Hear that? Easier.
Listen, I don’t expect my life to be “easy” all the time. Life is often tough, for anyone. But only another widow can possibly understand the gratitude we feel when anyone, especially men who know how to do “stuff,” helps us.
In the movie “It’s Complicated,” divorced Meryl Streep’s character balks when Steve Martin’s character helps her with a small job. He asks her what’s wrong.
“I’m just not used to people helping me,” she answered.
I felt that.
I don’t want to handle stuff. I’m not good with “stuff.” I don’t want to learn about hot water heaters, or moldy ceilings, or brake pads, or leaky faucets, or chipped paint, or new windows. Everything about being a spoiled entitled little girl rebels at the thought of understanding house “stuff.” I just want to walk into my house, turn on a light, and live my life.
But I must learn about “stuff.”
It has been an odyssey. I have learned so many things not just about my house but about myself in these past four years. Just the act of sweeping errant animal waste out of the mechanical room, knowing that the plumbers could walk in unencumbered had me strutting around the house with pride and looking left-and-right for a superhero cape.
Wonder Mom.
There was no cape to be found, but it didn’t diminish the pride I felt about accomplishing such an extremely distasteful task. You know why I did it?
I had no choice. I have no choice. Because with my sons gone, there is no one to help me with it. This is occasionally sad, but mostly good.
I once wrote a magazine article about female solo travel, and I interviewed some of the women I was in Canada with. This was an extremely physically arduous adventure trip, and actually quite competitive. Everyone wanted to ride horses better, spelunk faster, and climb more dexterously than the next gal.
“Why do you solo travel?” I asked my new friends.
“Because there are no men on these trips,” one woman answered. “When I travel with my husband (or sons, or brothers), I find myself looking to them to help me. I default to being helpless. ‘Can’t do this, can’t do that,’ until by the end of the trip I realize I didn’t improve my skills at all. If I travel with women, I have no choice but to do it myself.”
Holla.
People who make my life easier are few and far between. My plumbers are in that exclusive group, as are my handymen, my mechanic, the local electronic guys who installed my sound system, the electricians who fixed my counter lights, my lawyer, the car detailing guys who pick my car up and bring it back, and my interior decorators.
I don’t mind writing the check. Just for God’s sake make my life a little easier. But if you make my life more difficult? In any way at all? That’s easy.
I’ll drop you like a bad habit. Simple as that. No hard feelings, but you know, fuck you. I’ve done my time with “hard.” I’m all about easy now, baby.
Let me conclude with some sexy phrases that if interested, you can use them on me to get me all hot and bothered. Here are my top ten phrases from people who make (or have made) my life easier:
I’ll head over in an hour and take a look.
No worries, Mary, we’ll take care of it.
I’ll do it for you.
Nah, let me do it. I got it.
I can fix that for you.
Let’s set up an appointment for tomorrow.
I see your problem, that’s an easy fix.
Your car is fixed.
Just confirming our appointment today.
And my favorite:
It’s not something for you to worry about it. Leave the worry to me.
Mmmmrawrrrr….
I was looking through an old Moleskin notebook yesterday, and some old notes made me laugh out loud.
I had taken notes down when I was still in the dating scene, and by “dating scene,” I mean of course nonsensical, adolescent messaging and predictable excruciating suffering through days of middle-school conversations until I finally got so tired of the guy that I ended all communication with him altogether.
Good times.
Anyway, these notes are titled “What They Really Mean,” and refer, obviously, to the true meaning behind the things men say on dating apps. There’s only a few, but enjoy.
When he says,
“I love to travel.”
He means:
“I went to Branson once.”
If he says,
“I played competitive sports in high school and college.”
He means:
“My junior high team won the Dodgeball competition three years running.”
When he says,
“After church I was out all day getting stuff done.”
He means,
“I watched four football games and bid for baseball cards on eBay.”
If he says,
“Hey, sorry I forgot to text you this morning.”
He means,
“I’m playing hard to get.”
If he says,
“I love petite women.”
He means,
“I’m 5’4, but willing to wear lifts.”
If he says,
“Do you use a cleaning service?”
He means,
“Do you want to support me in my old age?”
If he says (and this is a real one, I swear. I actually met this guy in person, and he was the creepiest human being I have ever met in my life)
“I own a sporting goods store, and do you believe a guy came in one day wearing a leather bondage mask?”
He means,
“What is your stance on S&M?”
If he says,
“Hey, what’re you up to today? I have a ton of work to do.”
He means,
“I’m unemployed, and waiting to collect Social Security.”
And when I say,
“I gotta run.”
I mean it.
The last thing the salesman at the Audi dealership said to me before I drove off, as he handed me my key fobs:
“Mary, don’t lose these. They’re expensive.”
Yeah, well. I’m using my spare now.
I’m just dumbfounded. I’ve looked everywhere for it. I simply returned from the market, and put my purchases down. All I can figure is that the fob fell into a plastic bag, and I threw the plastic bag out. Nothing else makes sense. It’s maddening.
So anyway. I’m busy tonight, I just wanted to say that if you see it, let me know. Here’s a little something to get your juices flowing today. Early version first, 2007 version second. Both HOT.
Here they are still rocking, and looking even hotter:
You’re in the supermarket self-checkout line, and you see an older woman in front of you. She has a lot of items, seems tired, and keeps rubbing her eyes. All you have is a Kelloggs Fun Pack, milk and a box of Trojans. You exhale impatiently. You’re busy, and you just want to get out of the store to get ready for this great date. She’s doing her best to move quickly, but she keeps screwing up her scanning. When it’s time to pay, she squints at the keypad, trying to read the instructions. You roll your eyes slightly, and when she turns to you to apologize, you smile and say, “Don’t worry about it,” and mean it. You feel bad, because she seems nice, but you’re glad when she finally pushes her big old mom cart filled with Twinkies and Fruit Roll-Ups out of your way. You watch her walk away and you think, “Cute, for an older lady.” She doesn’t cross your mind again.
I am that harried woman.
You’re pulling out of the supermarket parking lot, and see a woman picking up items off the ground. You’re late for the gym, but you feel sorry for her. You pull into a parking space, and get out of your car to help her. She thanks you, and explains that she left the back hatch of her Jeep open when she pulled away, so all of the items fell out of the back. She’s distracted, she says, because she has to pick her kids up from baseball, and is in a rush. How embarrassing, she says. The eggs are broken, but she doesn’t make a big deal of it. She comments that if that’s the worst thing that happens to her today, it’ll be a good day. You smile and walk away, feeling good that you helped, and relieved that you’re young and unencumbered.
I’ve been that bag woman.
You go to the gym, feeling young and energetic. There’s a fit older lady on the elliptical in front of you, really working hard. You run for a few minutes, admire yourself in the mirror. You look hot, you say to yourself. You’ve been tanning and working out all week, and it’s paid off. You walk around the gym, half heartedly working on some machines, knowing all the men are admiring your youth and beauty. As you walk by, you notice that the older lady is still on the elliptical. You feel sorry for her, having to work so hard, when what you have comes to you so easily. You take a steam and a sauna, leave the gym, and see her still working out.
That older woman is me.
You’re walking on the beach with your friends. You’re wearing your new bikini, and feeling awesome. It’s summer, and anything goes. You have plans to go to a party later, and you can’t wait. You look up the beach, and see a woman in a huge beach hat carrying a beach chair, a boogie board and a beach bag. You stand by the water, and watch her yell at a bunch of kids to get their sunblock on. You see her finally settle into a chair, and pick up a book as her kids play in the water. “Boring,” you think to yourself. You feel bad for her, that all she has to look forward to is a dumb book.
That’s me, reading that book.
You see a woman at the baseball park. She’s clapping for her son, who just had a great hit. It strikes you how happy she seems, as she talks with her friends.
You see a woman in the mall, trying on one piece bathing suits as you look for a bikini. She smiles at you, and tells you that the blue one is prettiest. She remembers the days she could wear bikinis like that, and laughs, but doesn’t seem to care. You admire her, and tell her that her suit is pretty, too. And you mean it.
You see a woman walking her dog, checking out books at the library, doing laps in the pool, renting a dirty movie, drinking wine in a fancy restaurant. And every time you see her she looks beautiful, and happy. She’s always laughing, never embarrassed, and comfortable in her own skin. She tells you you’re beautiful, but you think she is. She loves her kids out in the open, has great clothes, and is a great cook. She’s every woman who has reached the point in her life where she likes herself, hopes others like her too, but doesn’t care if they don’t.
I’m all those women. And I thank God for it.
My skin care routine is quite involved. I buy hundreds of expensive skin care products a month, spend hours at the salon and in front of the mirror, and go to fancy spas for high-end beauty treatments. It’s just exhausting.
JK.
I do as close to nothing as possible. I rub Cetaphil Soft Scrub on my face in the shower. Sometimes I use Mac tinted moisturizer, and in the winter I slather on Mac Strobe Cream, my favorite product of all time. In between facials I will exfoliate with a face scrub like Sugar Face Polish from Sephora. And I love Mac makeup removing wipes. And when I run out of product, I go into my sample bag. Every woman has one, a bag where she throws all of the sample products she gets in the mail and in stores. I’ll just use stuff until I run out, and I also pack them in my travel bag.
Complex, huh?
I read articles all of the time about facial care routines, and it strikes me that female consumers are tricked into believing that they must buy expensive skin care products in order to have nice skin.
Horseshit.
Good skin is 80% genetic, just like being in shape is 80% diet and nutrition. I could never be a successful personal trainer, because I would feel compelled to tell my clients the truth:
“Exercise is good for you. It gets your heart rate up, and movement of any kind is health-enhancing. But if you’re going to go home day-after-day and eat badly or too much, no amount of squats, lunges or planks will matter. Nothing you do in the gym matters if you don’t have your nutrition on point.”
That would be an effective motivating speech, and I’d probably feel bad as the client demanded their money back. But hey, we all know the truth: You can’t outrun your fork, and you can’t outrun your face.
Genetically speaking.
I do the bare minimum for skin care. Sometimes in the shower, I’ll exfoliate. I’ll get a facial from Jessica a few times a year. I drink a lot of water, eat some vegetables and fruit, and get good sleep and exercise. I’m happy and love fresh air. But there are women who do all of that, and still describe their skin as ruddy. Sallow. Greasy. Oily. Pallid. And these women can buy as many expensive products as they want, use thick makeup and foundation and color, and the same will remain:
You’ll get what Great-Granny gives you, and you’ll like it. We have to accept what we’ve been given. I got great skin, and pretty feet. I also inherited a wide nose and thick thighs.
What’s a girl gonna do?
While I was away on a hiking trip for my birthday, I hunkered down in front of the fire to do some work after dinner. As I absentmindedly flicked through the television stations, I stopped at a channel that featured old sitcoms. “Barney Miller” was on, and as I drooled over this all-male cast, it occurred to me that this show was where I formed my earliest childhood definition of masculine hotness.
I mean cops, hello?
Hal Linden. Max Gail. Ron Glass. Abe Vigoda. Ron Carey. The quiet and unassuming but side-splittingly funny Steve Landesberg, who had a movie-stealing cameo as Jason Segel’s pediatrician in “Forgetting Sarah Marshall.” Strong masculine men from the 70’s just hit different, didn’t they? Here are some of my favorite hot 70’s t.v. men:
“Rockford Files.” James Garner as Jim Rockford. What is it about James Garner? Twinkly eyes, lopsided thousand-watt smile, self-deprecating sense of humor. Big strong gorgeous man.
“Kojak.” Theo Kojak. Not my physical type per se, but Telly Savalas had that X-Factor, baby.
“Little House on the Prairie.” Michael Landon. I mean, what young girl didn’t dream of having Charles Ingalls for her father? (Sorry, dad, no offense). Talk about great smiles. Although he was a little too “goody-goody” for me, he was built like an oak tree and had great hair.
“Columbo.” Peter Falk. That gravelly voice and trench coat, he was the epitome of cool, especially when he played dumb.
“The Waltons.” Ralph Waite as John Walton Sr. I drooled over this man, and when he showed up as Kevin Costner’s father in “The Bodyguard,” Kevin was quickly forgotten.
“Mash.” I mean, the whole cast. Alan Alda, Harry Morgan, Wayne Rogers, McLean Stevenson. I loved these men.
“The Odd Couple.” I had a thing for Jack Klugman. He was a newspaper man, and I loved when he ranted and raved.
“Coach.” Craig T. Nelson. Just such a funny gorgeous specimen of a man who had a great cameo as Ryan Reynold’s dad in “The Proposal.”
“The White Shadow.” Ken Howard. I loved watching him walk.
Dabney Coleman in “That Girl,” “Tootsie,” “War Games,” and “You’ve Got Mail.”
Sydney Pollack, just handsome and rich and powerful in “Tootsie,” and also director of “Out of Africa” and “Sabrina.”
Garry Marshall, who directed some of my favorite movies, like “Frankie and Johnny,” “Runaway Bride,” and “Beaches. He also appeared in “League of Their Own,” just stole the whole movie.
I miss these men.
When you walk into my house, there is a small little red sign that announces, “Bless This Home With Love and Laughter.” It’s been there for so long that I don’t even remember where I got it, or…why. I love neutral furnishings with pops of red, so I’m sure I bought it because of the color. Regardless, I leave it there. It’s cute, and true of my household.
Many years ago, a female acquaintance stopped over. I remember her glancing at my little red sign and laughing. I looked at it, then at her, and asked her what she was laughing at.
“What?”
She gestured to the sign.
“Cute, Mary. You crack me up.”
Ummmmm, ok.
I get prickly when someone accuses me of being funny when I’m not trying to be funny. Think of the famous “Funny Like a Clown” scene featuring Joe Pesci’s Tommy to Ray Liotta’s Henry in “Goodfellas”:
Tommy gets done telling a funny story, and while everyone laughs, Henry says to Tommy:
“Really funny. You’re really funny.”
Tommy, looking at Henry: Waddya mean I’m funny?
Henry: It’s funny, y’know, the…the story. It’s funny. You’re a funny guy.”
Tommy: Waddya mean? You mean the way I talk? What?
Henry (getting nervous): It’s just, y’know, it’s…you’re just funny. It’s…you know, the way you tell the story and everything…
Tommy: Funny how? I mean, what’s funny about it?
Henry: (worried now) Tommy, no, you got it all wrong…
Tommy: Funny how? What?
Henry: Just, you know, you’re funny.
Tommy: You mean, let me understand this…cuz I…maybe it’s me? Maybe I’m a little fucked up, maybe? I’m funny how, I mean funny like I’m a clown? I amuse you? I make you laugh? I’m here to fuckin’ amuse you? Waddya mean, funny? Funny how? How am I funny?
This scene, which has aged into cinematic lore, just gets more and more uncomfortable and oozes with boiling tension, ending with Tommy breaking a glass over Sonny’s head, then kicking him.
On that day, I looked at my cute sign again, and back at her, and then realized what she meant. She had a big, fancy house, the kind that no one is ever allowed in. She was a domestication queen, the type who spends hours looking at, what, swatches? Who the hell knows, it’s not up my alley. Maybe she expected a Renoir there? Maybe she thought it was crass? Silly? Low budget? I questioned her lightly.
I crack you up? Why?
No, your sign. It’s funny.
It is? How?
No, I didn’t mean anything.
I know, it’s ok, but why is it funny?
Because it’s you, you know, you’re funny.
I’m funny? Like, how? Like a clown? Does my house amuse you?
No, seriously, forget it.
I intend to.
(It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. It was a medium-to-light moment, but these women with these big fancy houses that they never leave, I don’t understand them. They don’t like our signs, I guess)
Why the sudden teasing backlash on social media over these cute house signs? I like mine.
Near my coffee station is a wooden placard that states, “Coffee served hot.” It’s super cute, and of course people know the coffee machine is there, and that it will come out hot, that’s not the point.
In my downstairs bathroom, a sign states that our family is loud and messy, but that we love a lot and apologize when we’re wrong. On top of it is a little wooden sign, “Life is Good.” And it is. So would everyone know that our life is good without that sign? Yes, but that’s not the point.
In the upstairs’ bathroom you’ll find “The ABC’s of Being a Good Human.” Without those ABC’s, would I still have raised good humans? Of course. But that’s not the point.
What’s the point?
These little affirmations we put in our homes remind us that it’s our space to do with what we wish. So the next time a pretentious domestic goddesses walks into your home and laugh at your signs, just tell her:
You ain’t clownin’ around.