Filed under: Parenting | Tags: Bath and Body Works, Christmas, cologne, family, humor, Middle-Age, perfume, shopping, southern, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens
What is it about the Bath & Body Works store that attracts the pre-teen crowd like Christmas shopping attracts bad drivers? It can’t be their low prices—seriously, $10 for a candle that smells like ashes from my fireplace? Or, $3 hand disinfectant that leaves your steering wheel smelling like stale cookies? This summer, one of the girls even purchased a candle called Mahogany Teakwood that, I swear, smells like Drakkar Noir. Remember that? Or, for you youngsters who may not be familiar with that scent from the 1980’s, the candle smells like teenage boy who’s just discovered cologne. I think I might borrow it, just for the trip down memory lane. Maybe I’ll watch Top Gun while I burn it.
All of these things I can live with, because it’s a place where my kids can shop that doesn’t sell clothes for hookers in teen-age sizes, and doesn’t get them all hopped-up on caffeine. And, being a pre-school teacher, I’m all for the disinfectant. I just wish they sold Lysol in flavors like Warm Vanilla Sugar and Japanese Cherry Blossom.
HOWEVER…I have come to loathe the scents the teen girls seem drawn to…the cloying, heavy sprays and lotions so sweet and thick, they must have been inspired by a mortuary trying to cover up the scent of formaldehyde. Sleepovers are the worst. In the morning, the downstairs has a miasma of “Twilight Woods” drifting amid the sleeping bags and piles of clothes and hairbrushes. You can practically see the blue haze, like a layer of smoke from a speak-easy in the 1920’s. I can only imagine this must be what a brothel would have smelled like before the age of deodorant and sanitation.
But, I think we may have finally emerged from the darkness. This morning, Daughter #2 came up to me with a glass of milk and said, “Mom, this glass smells like Bar-B-Que.” Now, normally, I would say dump it out because it’s 7:30, we’re already running late, and no I don’t want to smell your sour milk; but, since we’ve begun buying organic milk, I wasn’t about to toss out $4 worth of white gold. So I sniffed it while she held the glass up.
It smelled like her Bath & Body Works perfume.
“It’s your perfume,” I said.
“No it’s not. It’s BBQ.”
I took the glass away and gave it to Hubby. “Does this smell like BBQ to you?”
“Nope,” Hubby answered.
“Now sniff her hand.”
He did. “It’s your perfume, Cutie,” he said.
Horrified, Daughter #2 looked at us and shrieked, “You mean I smell like pork loin?”
Sorry, Bath and Brothel Works, but I think it’s safe to say we might be moving on to the other teen scents, probably with catchy marketing names “I Can Drive,” or “SnapChat Me.”
But I might go get one of those Mahogany Teakwood candles and put it in my stocking.
Filed under: Middle Age, Sports | Tags: bourbon, election, family, Food, horse racing, humor, Ireland, Montpelier, south, southern, subourbonmom, swing state, tailgate, Virginia
Last weekend I was doing what God has ordained all good Virginians do in the fall: Tailgate.
But not at a football game—watching horses race around a mile-long course at James Madison’s home, Montpelier plantation. They were jumping bushes and fences no horse in its right mind would ever do if there wasn’t an annoying tiny-man on its back hitting it with a stick.
For any southern tailgate, the men don their uniforms of khaki pants, button down shirt with bowtie, and navy blue jacket. The women dress up in silly hats, colorful scarves and ridiculous boots no self-respecting horseman would ever wear anywhere near a barn. They spread their southern delicacies (i.e. ham biscuits, devilled eggs and pecan pie—not everybody can bring chips and salsa!) on fold-up tables covered with their best tablecloths and silver chafing dishes. The centerpiece is an opus of fall foliage around silver candelabra or a horse statue. And lets not forget the most important feature: the drink table. Bourbon, wine, rum, vodka, champagne, and Bloody Mary mix are all ready to be tumbled into Jefferson cups or, in our case, red solo cups (nothing but the best for my friends!).
It was a beautiful day, free of cell phones, election flyers, and pimple-faced doorbell ringers. Not a tramp stamp in sight.
Until, THE INTERVIEW, that is.
That’s right, folks, an Irish reporter from a television station had a camera man in tow, circulating among the drunks, asking what it is like to live in a swing state. And guess what? He interviewed me. Yep, the least political person who’d already had about three bourbon and gingers.
That went well.
It’s a little vague, but I’m pretty sure I offered him a drink about every other sentence. In my golden-hazed mind, I managed to string together this thought: Irish-guy-must-want-to-drink-so-be-a-good-hostess-and-offer. He politely declined each time.
He asked me what it is like to live in a swing state. Thankfully I choked back a comment about all the rumors of swinging couples in the area where I live. Or at least I hope I did. In my head, I planned to give an intelligent rant about how we all are huddled in our living rooms, cowering from the ringing phones and massive recycle pile of election mail, and that the electoral college is unnecessary in this electronic age.
I’m pretty sure what came out was something like “It sucks.”
Yep, I’m a voter. Mr. Kluge, my Government high school teacher would have been so proud.
I’m pretty sure you’ll never see that interview on the news in the U.S., except maybe on YouTube as one of those Dumb American posts, but I have done my part to ensure that the international world’s view of Americans is still intact.
The news guy never did take a drink. Maybe if I’d had some Guinness…
Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: Blank Slate, humor, Katie Couric, red dress, southern, subourbonmom, The Bloggess
I was watching Katie Couric’s new show (self-named, of course), and marveling that she can still pull off wearing a super-tight, red dress. As I made snarky comments to myself about how the camera seemed to be carefully fuzzy around her face, I finally began listening to her chirpy voice. The guest Katie introduced was one of my favorite bloggers, The Bloggess (hysterically funny, when she’s not going all Oprah on us–check out the link). Apparently, The Bloggess found a way to pull herself up out of a deep depression by wearing an outrageous, fun red dress and having a photo shoot in a Texas graveyard. In the spirit of the Traveling Pants, she then decided to pay it forward and send the dress on to others who might need the lift. The dress and others like it has gone around the world, helping women get through their personal dark times.
Being loud and flamboyant, I don’t think just wearing a red dress would do it for me, no matter what the symbolism is. So I started to think about what it would take to remind me of who I am after wife, mother and teacher. In other words, when was I most, well, ME?
My immediate thought was college, because I was still all the “-uns:” un-married, un-employed, and un-taxed.The only thing I had to do was learn; everything else was gravy. So naturally, I spent an enormous amount of time playing practical jokes on people, drinking gallons of Beast and choosing the easiest Minor (women’s studies). One of the jokes we did a lot was to put an inappropriate book (i.e. Lesbian Ethics) in someone’s backpack, watch them get caught going through the detectors and have their bag searched at the front desk. So I thought maybe sending that book would be inspirational to those in their darkest times (Hey, no one said I was the brightest bulb in the bunch). I quickly discarded that idea, realizing that many, many people of all persuasions would be offended by getting a book with that title. So, I thought maybe an empty can of Beast, but declined for the same reason.
I decided to go back even farther….I think you’re the most free when you’re about 10 years old. Back in the day, you could roam the neighborhood for hours, only coming home at dusk when your mom would yell, or ring the bell, or do whatever your family’s signal was. You could build stuff and get cut, scratched and bruised without the world coming to an end. You were only dimly aware of responsibility, racism, world events and the vast future that lay before you. But what symbol to use for such freedom? My “blankie?”–too young. My Big Wheel–too bulky to mail.
Then it came to me. The answer wasn’t beer, toys or clothes–it was nothing. I know that for me to be free I need to be naked. Clothes, no matter how well-intended, always say something about you–where you’ve been (“I LOVE NY”), your job, your interests, your sense of humor, where you shop/your spending habits, etc. By shedding my clothes I could be me…and that means all the parts of me now. I want to go to a nude beach and walk around in the sun, letting it kiss the parts that are so white they look like a white bikini. I want to feel my drooping breasts bounce as I walk, and feel the muffin top I can’t get rid of jiggle. I want to feel the sand squish between my toes, and the salty air lift my hair so that the gray underneath sees the light of day. Most of all I want to feel weightless–not a mom, not a wife, not a teacher, not a daughter or sister or friend. Just me, the way I came into the world–a blank slate.
Ok, a much bigger blank slate.
So just imagine, all you soul-searchers out there just dying to be free of your life for a few minutes. It’s time to take them off. Walk around your house if you can’t go outside. Make sure the family isn’t there–this is definitely a by-yourself-thing. And you’re probably banking a lot of therapy hours for your kids already, so why add more?
Feel the air, open a window and stand just out of view–the breeze will still get you.
The best part of doing this is you can pay it forward by telling someone else about it. No post office fees, no badly-fitting dress to hem or take in.
Just you.
Naked.
Blank slate.
Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: menopause, shopping, southern, subourbonmom, walmart
So the other day I went into Walmart, a store that I loathe and desperately need at the same time. And while I go to ridiculous lengths to avoid times when I know the Creepers are going to be there, I recently encountered a new species of person to avoid: the Menopausal Woman.
Now, to be fair, I am on the cusp of becoming one of these creatures. In fact, most of the women I work with are in various stages of morphing: there is a constant battle going on over the temperature and caffein intake in our office, as well as constant discussion about why the “muffin top” won’t go away no matter how many sit-ups we do. There is also very little sleeping going on. Many of my co-workers FaceBook each other at 3:00am because they are awake for no apparent reason.
So imagine my surprise, when I have paused during my stroll (okay, pushing cart quickly, jaw jutting, not looking right or left so as to avoid getting sucked into buying shoes that I know will blister my feet, but OMG they’re only $5!), down the aisles at the pajama section, and I suddenly realize my cart is gone. Not only is it gone, but my purse, cell phone and 20 cans of dog food went with it.
I know, I know, we’ve all been told not to leave our carts unattended, and to keep our purses on our bodies. But this is Southern Suburbia, the insulated tin of Cream Cheese America! I felt naked (no purse or cell phone) and stupid, turning in circles, stalking around the pajama racks as if I am looking for something to buy and not frantically wondering how long I’ve been wandering around without my cart and where the Hell did I put it, anyway?
Finally realizing someone has walked off with my things, I faced a dilemma: Do I
a) find an employee and tell them I lost my cart somewhere between the shoes (yes, I stopped) and the pajama section, and face their looks of pity,
b) borrow someone’s phone to call my husband to come get me and admit I’m too stupid to shop at Walmart, or
c) cruise around the store looking for the perpetrator, wasting valuable time when the professionals could be catching him/her?
Of course, I picked C.
Four aisles over, I spot her: Menopausal Woman, quilted purse slung over her shoulder, staring at her list with a pencil in her teeth. I cautiously approached, experience having told me never to startle such a creature, and said, “Excuse me, M’am, but I think you have my cart.”
Menopausal Woman looked with confusion at the piles of dog food, cat food and $50 worth of toiletries (more on that later), and turned about eight shades of red.
“Oh my Gawd, what is wrong with me?” she exclaimed.
We laughed it off and I took my cart back, chuckling to myself and feeling superior. About three minutes later, I see Menopausal Woman sidling up to me again.
“Excuse me, M’am,” she said, her face a bright fuchsia. “Where exactly did I steal your cart? I still can’t find mine!”
I answered her, knowing that someday I will be Menopausal Woman. The signs are all there: I walk into rooms and have no idea why; my rear end is no longer the coldest thing in our bedroom; I have been known to stand in the grocery store parking lot and have no idea where I parked. So, I took this as a sign: be nice, for you shall reap what you sow.
Now, off to Starbucks for my $3 hit of caffein. I didn’t sleep well last night.
Subourbon Mom 