Almost Famous

You know, if I were famous, I could say that I was off shooting an artsy indie flick, and you’d all cock an eyebrow and nod politely while secretly thinking I’ve spent the past ten days in a “spa” that either a.)de-toxed/super cleansed my colon in yet another effort to drop these dreaded last few pregnancy pounds (not that I’m bitter…much); b.) specialized in tasteful cosmetic surgery and allowed me to lay low while I fully recovered from any residual swelling before I made my public appearance where everyone would remark on how “well rested” I now look; c.) got off my back whatever the current prescription drug monkey is de rigueur in Hollywood these days while I rubbed elbows with Britney, Lindsay, and Paris.

Sadly, I am not famous. (Though I really should be. And not in that “girls gone wild/fifteen minutes of fame” way. More like the “home town girl bravely discards the baggage of her past and makes good by setting positive goals for herself and, along the way, making the world a better place” kind of way because I’ve really been trying to rekindle some spark of personal passion that I’ve been lacking since my last pregnancy swallowed a lot of my energy. But I digress.) This means that I, as one of the nameless rabble, have to own up to my as-yet-un-famous whereabouts.

I shall now commence my owning up. The past ten days have brought about quite a few vaguely surprising twists in the life of this working mother. My three year old contracted rotavirus, which taught me that the human body is, indeed, over seventy percent water--only not the purified drinking kind one gets in an Evian bottle. I saw liquids of various shades and hues liberated from my son's bodily confines at speeds I thought only space shuttles could attain. This lasted for the first five days, when he appeared to be getting better, only to fall back into a tummy clenching fit of despair after a well-meaning grandmother offered to sit with said child and thought two glasses of orange juice might make a nice addition to his recently drain-o-ed and irritable gastrointestinal tract. (“But I thought vitamin C was good for fighting off illness!”) This landed us in the emergency room where said child was rehydrated, and I was encouraged (in the tones that kindergarten teachers reserve for the students who repeatedly forget to stop playing on the monkey bars to use the potty when the urge to relieve oneself hits) to give said child bland foods, rather than fresh squeezed citrus, as though it was I who needed this reminder. (Thanks, mom.)

Dovetailing the three year old’s bout with unintentional bulimia was my step-father’s heart attack. What appeared to be “trouble breathing” turned out to be a full-fledged heart attack requiring triple bypass surgery—which he flatly refused, against three cardiac doctors’ recommendations, for as yet undisclosed reasons, which probably have more than a little something to do with his fear of having his heart cut into. I can’t blame him for his fear, but the end result is that we all stare at him every time he burps wondering if this is the moment when the 90% blocked artery goes for the full monty. Naturally, my mother, who at the best of times is neurotic, has gone fully phobic. She keeps experiencing sympathy heart palpitations and strange, vague infirmities, which she relates to me over the phone in a wheezing oh-how-will-I-ever-make-it-through-the-day voice. This would not be nearly as big an issue if she were not one of our child care providers (see: “grandmother, orange juice” described above).

(Note: Before you feel too terribly bad for my step-father and mother, let me assure you that this sort of melodrama is fairly typical of them. My step-father will eventually agree to the surgery, but not before my mother fully freaks and takes to her bed, moaning about life’s injustices and her sudden spastic colon. It’s this thing they do. It may have something to do with their Catholic/Jewish backgrounds.)

Anyway, while all this drama was unfolding, I found myself in the middle of applying to grad school for a second masters, because –hey!—why not go for a tension trifecta??

So, what is a puking preschooler/cardiac crisis/moaning mother/grad school guffawing girl to do, you ask?

I’ll tell you what I did. I followed Cheryl’s massage lead (Thank you, Cheryl!) and headed over to a swanky spa for a hair cut to achieve a whole new look. I said a resounding yes to bangs—they’re apparently “in” again-- but not before I got a peppermint hot oil scalp massage and mango-lime moisturizer hand rub down. Then, I did a little shopping-- where I apparently channeled Audry Hepburn because I walked out with a tea length crisp cotton sundress cinched with a wide belt (a la Paris When It Sizzles), a chiffon scarf, and ridiculously oversized sunglasses. I took my new look, my new outfit, and my new book (Good In Bed, generously given to me by dear, dear Saint Karla. Thank you, Karla!) and spent the last two days of my ten day hiatus allowing my messy house to get a shade messier, picnicking in the park with my husband and boys, and gorging myself on Jen Weiner’s novel while snacking on leftover foil wrapped chocolate Easter eggs.

Moral: When life hands you lemons (or perhaps two glasses of orange juice on your son’s dicey digestive system), toss those citrusy fruits in a blender with some ice and make margaritas. Who's with me?? Yee haw!

By the way, a big shout out to all the well wishers who wondered where I snuck off to! And did you see how far the Six Degrees of Un-Seperation Project has taken us?? Universe, you do amaze me!

Freudian Spam

I am fascinated by the intricacies of personalized advertisements on the web. Apparently some software genius developed these programs that track what we web surfers view. As we blissfully troll through the internet, little software spies run around gathering data about what it is we find interesting and begin to cater to our preferences. Within moments, advertisements are pushed out to us that some program somewhere believes we will find appealing. Looking up new recipes for chocolate chip cookies? Ads for Hersey Chocolate Chips are likely to appear. Doing a little research on Caribbean cruises? You may find yourself reading an ad extolling the virtues of bermuda shorts. Wading through the net for information about remodeling your home? Don’t be surprised if ads for granite countertops start popping up on your screen.

This sort of personalized-interest-analysis isn’t all bad. For example, Amazon tracks the genres of books I tend to purchase and alerts me to new titles that I may enjoy. TiVo tracks the genre of television I tend to watch and suggests shows that cater to people like me. Sure, it’s a little Fahrenheit 451/1984-ish, but some of these suggestions have been helpful.

However, I think there is an attribute of these personalized-interest-profiles that is as yet unrealized: the self-analysis feature. I propose that you can save THOUSANDS in therapy trying to figure out what it is that makes you tick if you simply look at the advertisements headed your way. Thus, if you ever want to take a litmus test of the type of person you are becoming, just take a look at the ads the internet is pushing out at you.

Currently, my ads feature Bare Minerals, Prada, and Rejuvex. I also see quite a few plugs for baby gear and parenting advice. (Apparently something about me has led the internet to believe I deeply need assistance from other parents and that my children are in need of counseling. Well...DUH.). Okay, all those make sense. I guess.

However, I became particularly disturbed when my brother called me to chat while he was taking a look at my latest blog entry. While we were both looking at the same site, the ad I saw on the side of my blog was for pacifiers, while the ad my brother saw was for…(wait for it)…faux leopard print covers for non-lethal electronic stun guns.

Yes, you read that right.

So, what exactly is it about my brother that makes the internet think he may benefit from a tazer cozy? And a leopard print one at that? I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking: Is this something I should tell mom about??

My freak meter spiked for a moment, but then I calmed down once I remembered that I have been receiving spam for penile enlargements ever since I attempted to win the HGTV Dream House in 2006. (Hey, you can’t win if you don’t play. That house had to go to SOMEBODY.) That spam is either spot on (because if I DO have a penis, it very, very much needs enhancing), or there are clearly a few bugs in the personalized-interest-spy-programs.

I’m willing to chalk up my brother’s leopard print stun gun ensemble to a random program glitch. For now. But if he does anything to annoy me, you know I’ll whip out the faux animal hide riot gear and go medieval on him.

You may just want to take a look at your own ads and do a little good natured self analysis. What do your ads say about you?

Desperately Seeking Sophia*

(Note: The situation below prevented me from getting back to Katina, who clearly has an artist's eye for finding beauty in every situation. I can't believe I missed that photo opportunity, Katina. I'm learning that I need to be more on the ball with the camera. Yes, Cheryl, I missed yet ANOTHERphoto op! Anyway, here's a shout out to Katina and her photographer's eye. And here's another shout out to the rest of us who are clearly suffering from irritable bowel syndrome, the rare Asiatic "fluffy" strain.)

Picture it: My home. 7 pm last night. The frantic rhythm of the day is mellowing to a slow, steady beat as the family prepares for night-night time. A lithe, nubile young mother with alabaster skin (radiating the ethereal luminescence of well-applied Bare Minerals) and long, flowing auburn tresses sits down to her laptop to send off a few quick emails. She may or may not have been wearing the new baby pink Michael Kors kitten-heeled spring sling-backs with a cashmere short robe and cami pajamas from Neiman Marcus, also in baby pink. (Look, it’s MY story, and I’ll tell it my way.) She also magically lost her extra post-partum pounds overnight. (So THERE.) And grew an inch taller. (It could happen.)

That gorgeous young mother was me.

She presses “send” on an email to Karla with a K (aka Saint Karla) working out the details of a book exchange and assuring Karla that her family was now “germ-free.” The words “no one is actively exploding or oozing anything” may have been mentioned. TEN MINUTES LATER, I KID YOU NOT, the three year old climbs out of bed and says, “Mommy, my tummy hur—“ And that is as far as he got before the exploding and oozing began. Rotavirus. Bad.

For those of you unfamiliar with rotavirus, it is a particularly insidious ailment that rivals the plague, but without all those pesky swollen, discolored lymph nodes to deal with. It is the stomach flu on ‘roids. And my son has it. I spent the night sleeping on the bathroom floor with him. The bathroom has been scrubbed down with bleach numerous times. I smell like a pool. I’ve been doing laundry non-stop since 2 am, piling in load after load of sheets, blankets, towels, and pajamas and washing them on the SCALDINGHOTDISEASEKILLING CYCLE. I can’t even describe to you the violent bursts of fluid emitted by my son—not because I am incapable of doing so, or that mere words cannot paint an adequate picture, but because I am still so scarred by what I saw, cleaned up, and wiped down that I have blocked it from my consciousness. Suffice it to say that this experience was not unlike a fireworks display: it was loud, performed on a grand scale, involved multiple bright colors splashed across a great distance, and inspired a sort of awe while still making me want to cover my ears a little bit.

The poor kid has been lying in bed since about 8 am. Of his own accord. A three year old. He only moves to weakly ask me to carry him to the toilet and back to the bed.

And now, folks, I must shake out my baby pink cashmere Super Mom cape and return once again to the bedroom to minister to my child’s needs. But, you know--in a small way-- it’s kind of nice to be the Super Mom who saves the day. Now, where did I put those Super Mom Michael Kors sling backs….

*To be read ala Sophia Petrillo of The Golden Girls, which happens to be one of the best television series EVER.

Six Degrees Universal Tour Update

We welcome New York. Nice to see you New York, and thanks for playing! Bring it, Universe!

I Think I Was Absent on the Day This Was Discussed in Parenting Class

I never would have expected that I would catch my three year old drizzling oregano on the 7 month old and have to SERIOUSLY EXPLAIN why we COULD NOT put his baby brother in a pot and cook him....

Name Your Neuroses

[UPDATE: The Six Degrees of Un-Separation Project welcomes TEXAS, CALIFORNIA, WISCONSIN, ILLINOIS, IOWA, MISSOURI, CONNECTICUT, NORTH (or maybe SOUTH) CAROLINA, OHIO, PENNSYLVANIA, OREGON, NEW MEXICO, ARIZONA, ALASKA, INDIANA, GEORGIA, CANADA, and AUSTRALIA! You GO, Universe! I believe in you!]

My mother’s neurotic tendency to worry is, apparently, genetic. The same DNA recipe that makes my mother compulsively worry about the potential dangers lurking in my three year old’s bowel movement schedule (Would you believe she frequently calls me from work for a “poop report”? She does.) has been passed down to me.

Turns out, I’m not alone. While waiting at the ASHA Salon for my very first ever highlighting appointment, I read an article in More, a magazine catering to “sophisticated women forty and better.” (I am six years away from 40, but one of my perfectionist/ neurotic tendencies is to over-prepare. Thus, I started preparing for forty when I was thirty. I guess I want to be sure that I will do forty “right” when I get there. At this rate, I’ll be buying my funeral plot and arranging the music at my own funeral by the time I’m 36….) The author explained that she lets her mail pile up on the dining room table. This isn’t because, like me, she simply is too busy racing after her children and answering “poop report” phone calls from her neurotic mother; it is because she is afraid to open the mail. Apparently, years before she and her husband had some financial trouble. Like most people, some unexpected life changes occurred (birth of another child, laid off, moving to a new location). In the midst of all of this, a few bills went unpaid. Some overzealous and downright nasty creditors harassed them, even going so far as to call their new neighbors and tell THEM about their unpaid bills—which is ILLEGAL, by the way. As her financial situation improved, all of the bills were eventually paid. However, the scar this situation left on the author was an overwhelming fear of opening mail-- because it MAY contain a letter announcing a late payment. She had become mail phobic as a result of her financial worries.

I’d started reading the article because I also have a dining room table piled with mail, and I thought this piece may have some tips for organizing the overwhelming mess threatening to take over the entire room. However, even after I realized this piece would not provide organization tips, I couldn’t stop reading. Hey—I’ve had unexpected financial challenges in my life, and I know how frightening they can be. There’ve been plenty of times when I’ve been pressed up against the window of a chic shoe store, drooling on the glass, itching to feel that fourinchheeledsatinstrappynumber firmly secured to my peds but unable to afford them because I’m approaching a zero balance in my checking account and more important things, like food, need to be procured. But I didn’t write an article about it. For some reason, I thought we were supposed to keep issues like that hidden, like financial skeletons in our closets, collecting dust. I respected this woman’s bravery in publishing an article that laid everything out in such a raw, unfettered way. I also respected her naming her phobia.

This may sound a little weird, but I’ve kind of gotten the idea that most phobias are a result of unnamed fears. If we have the vocabulary to NAME the boogie man we are facing, most of its power is eliminated right there. The author of the article named her mail crisis as her "personal financial phobia.” When the mail started piling up, she said, “Oh-oh. There’s my financial phobia, again. I will make myself a cup of tea and get myself some of my favorite cookies and sit down with the mail in a bright, sunny location. I’ll sort the envelopes into piles of most to least scary. Then, I’ll tackle the ones that are least frightening first—build up some confidence. Eventually, I’ll move to the slightly more scary envelopes, and so on, and so on.”

I realized while reading the article that I have a phobia about financial planning. I am afraid that if I look closely at my financial future, I will find that it is dismal or that the only way I will be able to secure a respectable financial future for our family is if I give up my shoe fetish (gulp!) or road to gorgeousness adventure (double gulp!!). In my phobic state, I envision myself just barely able to retire, but forced to wear ugly shoes over my un-pedicured feet and with dull looking, wrinkled skin because I am unable to afford a good exfoliant and moisturizer. Reading this article made me name the phobia: “Ooops! There I go being financially phobic again.” Now, I am going to make an appointment with a financial planner, humorously explain my extreme ignorance where finances are concerned and the phobia that has resulted, and ask for some help. Sure, it will be a learning process, but I don’t think it will be all that difficult. Asking for help isn’t all that hard. Right?

Now, if I could only get my mom to name HER phobia. Gastro-intestinal blockage phobia, perhaps? Then, I could force her to sit down with a gastro-intestinal doctor and get her worries out in the open. I bet she’ll feel a lot better when she realizes my son will not explode on impact if he hasn’t pooped in the past 24 hours.

Care to admit what you are afraid of? If you name it, it may just go away!

The Bottom Line

(UPDATE: The Six Degrees Of Un-Separation Project welcomes ALASKA, NEW MEXICO, INDIANA, and OHIO! A special shout out goes to a new continent: AUSTRALIA! The squeal and subsequent fist pump in the air when I pulled up the cluster map and realized we'd gone multinational drew many stares from my coworkers. We're sending you the love, Australia! Will the Universe bring us Europe, South America, and Asia? Bring it on, Universe, bring it on! )

One of my coworkers discovered an article in a literary journal lauding the value of brevity. The author’s theory was that people today do not have time for details. As a working mom, I have to admit that my brain seems to delete a lot of extraneous information—like where I put my keys, which is why I spent forty frantic minutes at work one evening rummaging in my purse, my desk drawer, the bathroom, my jacket pockets, etc. only to find them locked in my car. (Sadly, I did the exact same thing the VERY NEXT DAY.)

The journal article explained that busy people want information in its purest form. Enter the “Six Word Bio.” The idea is, rather than tell your entire life story, condense your autobiography into six words.

Here are my attempts:
Miscalclated cycle. Now has two kids.
70's child. Can't take life serious.
Eats words. Drinks dreams. Sorta' psychic.

Oooh, how about some six word bios for the rich and famous? (Warning: Snark Alert!)
Oprah: Laugh, but I rule American TV....
Gwyneth Paltrow: What was I thinking with Apple??
Tom Cruise: We know you're gay, little man.
Nicole Ritchie: You HAVE to eat when pregnant??!
Laurie on The Real Housewives of Orange County : Sneezed and my face fell off.
Paris Hilton: Found God in prison. Lost him.
Martha Stewart: Prison got me free advertising, ha!
Donald Trump: Comb-overed homophobe seeks new reality series.
Bill Clinton: Monica! Now I sleep with president?!
Marry Manilow: Oh Mandy! Bo-tox has frozen my faaaaaa- aaace !
Barry Bonds: What's wrong with a little 'roid??
Abe Lincoln: This play is so booooooring.... Whoa!

Care to give it a try?