I was an only child and I really hated it. I knew kids fought with their siblings, and it wasn’t all let’s play pretend, but there were times when they had someone to play Connect Four with, and that’s what I envied. Perfection is only entertaining for so long.
Because of this, I swore I would have more than one child, and I do. I have four ranging from eight to 11. So you can imagine how insane it makes me when they whine that there’s no one to play with. When I insist they play with each other, they go through an interesting series of predictable phases.
Phase 1 “There’s no one to play with!”
Right, I endured three pregnancies (including one twin pregnancy), so I would never have to hear anyone say that. Your argument is invalid.
Phase 2 “Uggghhhh, I don’t want to play with my brother!”
Yeah, see above. Tough.
Phase 3 The Picking Stage
Resignation has set in that I am not going to whip up a playdate. One goes and finds another and begins taunting, poking, prodding. Not quite what I had in mind, but one child at least is amused. The other one keeps yelling, “STOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPUHHHH.” This phase lasts anywhere from 10 minutes to forever.
Phase 4 The Playing Stage
They either find a game, or the physical interaction turns into a wrestling match. I am generally less thrilled about the latter, because it usually happens in my living room full of sharp corners, hard surfaces, and breakable lamps. I kick them outside or to the basement, but I’m grateful they’re playing. Unfortunately this phase tends to be short, as it almost always disintegrates into…
Phase 5 The Attempted Murder Stage
One kid does something a little too enthusiastically and the other one decides it was a deliberate attempt to inflict injury, and retaliates in kind. Thus we escalate quickly to the next phase.
Phase 6 The Revenge + Tattling Stage
The gloves are off now. Each feels they are entitled to retribution for the wrongs done them. They never try to hurt each other seriously (if that were their goal, I presume they would just beat each other with one of our many baseball bats). However with each offense comes a heavily italicized tattle — “He hit me!” “She threw the airplane right at my face!” I let this go until I’m afraid they may really hurt each other, however unintentionally.
Phase 7 The Time Out Phase
This isn’t really a time out in the conventional sense — it’s really just separating the two doing battle, sending them to their corners, as it were. One may be sent to his room, another may be hustled off to run an errand with Dad. Either way, they’re given time to simmer down.
Eventually, however, the time out ends and they are once again drifting through the kitchen whining, “There’s no one to play with!” And so it begins again.
Just shoot me.
— Tracy Deblois
Tracy Deblois has a husband, four children, a dog, and a full-time job. Having grown up on the East coast, she and her family relocated to the West coast almost 10 years ago. She writes to maintain the tenuous grip she has on her fragile sanity. Her blog at Orange & Silver is intended to provide a humorous glimpse into the never-settling snow globe that is her mind. She spends her time answering questions about the location of her children’s belongings, and enduring the searing injustice that Season 5 of Downton Abbey aired in the UK months before it will be shown in the U.S. She can be found at orangeandsilverblog.blogspot.com, and on Facebook.
It’s deer hunting season here in flyover country. That means every buck stalker in possession of a Cabela’s credit card has slipped into blaze orange wear and donned a camo headlamp. It’s a taxidermist’s dream and high season at the Buck Knuckle Saloon.
“So, what’s the meaning of this annual quest for a multi-pointed hat rack?” I asked Madam. She rolled her eyes, as she does when I ask a culturally insensitive question. Then she told me a hunting story that made perfect sense.
Madam’s father, a retired judge, and three of his Depression Era cronies hatched a plan to make one last trip to deer camp, for old time’s sake. So, on opening day, they loaded Alden Jacobson’s Dodge minivan with the required, cigars, toilet paper, playing cards, cribbage boards and a rolling cooler full of groceries. Alden planned the menu, and appointed retired police detective Walt Shwank to help cook. Old Ed Witzig was in charge of tending the fire and the mousetraps. The judge volunteered to manage artillery. The four friends then drove north to their favorite hideout, Camp Rum Dumb.
Upon their arrival, they unloaded the perishables and aimed for the woods. Only the judge and Alden carried guns, a blessing for the deer and other hunters. Armed with binoculars, Ed and Walt tottered down the fire lane munching egg salad sandwiches and regaling one another with Camp Rum Dumb tales. There was the time Ed fell out of his deer stand and landed on a drowsy bull snake. Or, in 1965 a skunk family moved in under the kitchen sink.
A couple of hours passed with no deer sightings. So, they turned back toward camp to set up housekeeping. Alden and Walt cooked up a meatloaf and mashed potatoes, while Ed and the Judge played a round of gin rummy. After dinner, a crackling fire in the fireplace and a drop of Jack Daniels topped off a perfect stroll down memory lane. At midnight they all retired to their sleeping bags.
Then, about an hour later, a clatter arose from the kitchen.
“What is it?” whispered Walt, groping for his glasses. “Who’s in here?” he demanded. No response.
The Judge clicked on his flashlight to have a look. “What’s going on out there?” he shouted. A startled weasel with a salad fork in its mouth glared back at him.
“Well, I’ll be,” croaked Ed. “He must have liked the meatloaf.”
Nobody moved a whisker, including the weasel. Finally, the deafening silence ended with an equally deafening KABOOM. It seemed that Walt had packed his old service revolver and chose this moment to shoot a hole in the ceiling. Maybe he thought the weasel would see the moon through the opening and find its way out.
No such luck. The weasel darted off the counter but not out the hole. Then came a chorus of, “Shoo, shoo! Get out!” as the weasel rounded the kitchen and rocketed through Alden’s duffle bag. Given the rumpus coming from Ed’s direction, it was clear that the weasel had made it into his sleeping bag with Ed. This was followed by proof that a 75 year-old man can run like Jessie Owens when faced with a fork-wielding weasel.
I was almost afraid to ask Madam what happened next, but I did.
“Well, Noah you’ll be glad to know that the weasel made it out alive from Camp Rum Dum,” she reported. “And, believe it or not, old Ed suffered nothing more than a chill due to his sprinting out the door barefoot in his skivvies.”
Me oh my, I was also glad to hear that Walt’s gun made it back in its holster with no further mishaps. And so, the four old friends had a fine time deer hunting without firing a shot — more or less. The weasel lived. Camp Rum Dumb suffered slightly, though small wildlife appreciated the new cabin entrance. Judging from this story, I concluded that the fun of the hunt had very little to do with bagging a buck.
— Noah Vail
Noah Vail and Mary Farr have collaborated on a book, Never Say Neigh: An Adventure in Fun, Funny and the Power of You. Noah, author, philosopher, humorist, gin rummy ace and all-around “good news sort of guy,” blogs here. Never Say Neigh won an honorable mention in the 2013 Paris Book Festival.
Writing for laughs is seriously hard work, but the payoffs are priceless.
If you can make someone laugh with your words (because you intended to, not because your writing is so God-awful they can’t help but spurt coffee out their noses), you’ve done a great thing. You’ve brightened someone’s day, and improved their health, unlike those miserable wretches who make their living by writing traffic citations or delivering subpoenas.
Why not try your hand at the humor game? You’ll have fun, and if you don’t have fun, at least you’ll have more appreciation for those who do make you laugh. Here are my 12 tips to make your readers laugh out loud.
1. If you want to write funny, read funny! Channel your inner comic writer by savoring the greats. My favorites include British comic novelist P.G. Wodehouse (author of the Bertie Wooster series) and master essayist S.J. Perelman, who also wrote screenplays for the Marx Brothers. Their inventiveness with the English language is as astonishing as it is hilarious. Erma Bombeck could make even losing keys and a broken answering machine funny; Steve Martin is a favorite for his imaginative genius. I mean, could you have thought of writing a column called “Times Roman Font Announces Shortage of Periods”? It’s in his collection, “Pure Drivel,” and it’s enough to make me mad with jealousy. I also love Christopher Buckley, whose politically satiric novels include “No Way to Treat a First Lady” and “Boomsday.”
2. Keep it clean. Today, lots of comedians and humorists have confused explicitness with sophistication. Relying on bodily functions or an overemphasis on sex is usually more crass and junior-high than smartly funny. And also, what’s with the profanities? Hammering an audience with four-letter words isn’t funny; it’s deadening. Clever humor aims higher than waist-level.
3. Grab ‘em at the beginning. People have very short attention spans. Reel them in at the first sentence so you don’t lose them to their Facebook page, and keep your story moving.
4. Make your humor relatable. People love it when they feel you are writing about their lives, and gently self-deprecating humor is one of the most effective ways to achieve this. For example, “I discovered that I had a textbook case of ‘Congenital Fraidy Cat Syndrome.’ I knew it: my expanding medical knowledge was slowly killing me.” Or, “I had my fat tested today. It came back positive.” (Both lines by yours truly.)
5. Show your strength. Self-deprecating humor isn’t loser humor. Write with the kind of punch that reveals your fortitude to survive life’s worst agonies, including being on hold with your health insurance provider.
6. Be sharp, but not mean. Good humor has a point of view, but shouldn’t be downright nasty.
7. Don’t shy from “evergreen” topics. Misunderstood spouses, unreasonable bosses, know-it-all teens and why bad contractors happen to good people have been funny since lions roamed the Colosium, but a fresh angle is essential.
8. Find your distinctive voice. Use great writers for inspiration, but don’t be an imitator.
9. Know your audience. Don’t poke fun at lifestyles of the rich and famous in a piece you’re writing for Town & Country magazine, or gun rights for a piece in NRA Monthly. Study your target markets, then see if your world view and humor make you a good match for them.
10. Write what you know. Your writing will be more natural, convincing and funnier this way.
11. Be colorful and specific. Writing that you have 87 pair of shoes is funnier than saying you have a closetful. Talking about your need for “Jumpy Java” in the morning is funnier than talking about your need for caffeine. The more specific you can be, while throwing in a bit of exaggeration, ups the humor ante.
12. Get me rewrite! Outstanding writing may look effortless, but it’s not. Four or five rewrites are not unusual before your work really shines. Let a piece rest for at least 24 hours before looking at it again. You’ll be amazed at how much you’ll find to improve after you’ve both marinated in it for a day.
— Judy Green
Judy Gruen’s latest book is Till We Eat Again: A Second Helping (CreateSpace 2012). The book is being made into a musical by TroupeAmerica and will premier in January 2016. Judy also writes the Mirth & Meaning blog on judygruen.com.
After I helped you move a few clothes, a coffee pot and some cherished books into your Marycrest Hall room at the University of Dayton, I unfolded a letter you wrote to us last spring.
“Now is a crucial time to voyage off to a new world full of wonder and spirituality,” you wrote in an unsuccessful attempt to persuade us to allow you to travel to Tibet to study with the monks for a few months before college. You were just 17, and already expressing a curiosity about the world and your place in it.
I then pulled out a letter I wrote to you for your high school senior year time capsule and laughed at the childhood memory that popped off the page. “Do you remember this crazy and imaginative exchange we once had? Everyone knows you shouldn’t accept a ride from a stranger, but you thought there must be at least one exception to this rule. ‘If I were lost in the woods with no one around and a limousine pulled up, would it be acceptable to have a limousine ride?’” you asked as I drove you to school.
You have shown an inquisitiveness about the world and a spontaneity for life that books alone cannot teach. Some would say you’re overly confident and too impulsive. You’ve always believed you’ve had all the answers and certainly know the exceptions to the rules. You skirted that line with your teachers throughout school.
Yet as you start your first year at the University of Dayton, you find yourself full of questions. And you’re worried.
“You’re 18 and you don’t know what you want to do? That’s the best thing I’ve heard you say,” said political science professor Mark Ensalaco over lunch. “Ask tough questions,” he advised. “We need more people asking excellent questions instead of giving meaningless answers.”
In your first few weeks as a college student, you read “the most profound thing” you’ve ever read in Margaret Strain’s Writing Seminar 1. Mike Rose’s essay, “I Just Want to be Average,” opened your eyes to how one person who believes in you can change your life.
You helped your Saudi Arabian roommate write a paper. As part of the social justice learning-living community in your dorm, you traveled to Edison School to tutor a fourth grader in basic arithmetic.
You’re already exploring study-abroad options in Africa and are quick to grab a Nerf gun for stress-relieving, heated battles that break out randomly on the dorm’s second floor.
And while you’re not Catholic, you were visibly moved by Father Jim Schimelpfening, S.M.’s words at first-year orientation Mass at the University of Dayton Arena. “I hope you learn how to ask questions, the questions that really make a difference, the questions that change lives,” he said.
“We’re not a world at peace. Are you willing to be a peacemaker? We’re not a world with universal health care. Are you willing to hear the cry of the poor and be the voice for the voiceless? Who do you say you are? How you answer that question sets the stage for everything.”
Who do you say you are?
The answer isn’t part of a pop quiz in physics, won’t jump off the page of a reading assignment.
It’s a question that will weave through every class, every friendship, every experience during your college days — and beyond.
It’s time for you to voyage to a world you will create, a new world full of wonder.
— Teri Rizvi
Teri Rizvi is the founder of the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop and executive director of strategic communications at the University of Dayton. This essay will appear in the winter issue of the University of Dayton Magazine.
My boyfriend, Momus, and I have a pretty darn good relationship. However, we also have three failed marriages between us, so we’re not naive to the potential pitfalls. Thus, we expend every effort to ensure that our current relationship does not fall into disarray. Generally this is pretty easy. We agree on most things, work pretty easily alongside each other, and generally pick up the slack for each other’s weak spots.
However, into every relationship a little friction will come. When you spend practically 24/7 alongside another person (we work, live and play together), sand will sometimes fall into the gears. And, despite being generally reasonable people, we also can both get a bit irrational when steamed and resort to, shall we say, less than ideal methods of communication.
Momus tends to perseverate during arguments, and can become focused on making sure that I understand exactly what I have done wrong — using 57 barely nuanced critiques to make his point. This generally makes me want to scream, “Can I just opt for the water boarding, if you’ll shut up?!” I, on the other hand, cut and run to avoid the conflict. Sometimes in mid-sentence I will flee upstairs, sometimes I grab my car keys and head for the nearest state line, and sometimes I just yell ”Stop Talking!” As you might imagine, none of this goes over well.
As it so happens, my boyfriend and I were both trained as clinical psychologists long before we met. I abandoned that career path after deciding that people give me panic attacks, and Momus did the same once he realized how little patience he had for people talking about their problems at length. So really neither of us was what you’d call an ideal candidate for therapist of the year. But this training at least gave both of us solid technical tools for easing over life’s rough spots. Not so you could tell on any given Wednesday, or when in the middle of the Great President’s Day Blowup of 2013. However, we finally think that we have figured out the trick to better living through pop psychology: The Summit (TM).
I have to give Momus the credit here, as he is the one who first suggested The Summit. The idea is that we spend an hour or so every weekend reviewing the week, talking about any troubles that arose, and coming up with ways to avoid future friction. The genius of the idea (and the part that makes it work) is that during the week any gripe that doesn’t need to be dealt with urgently is “saved for The Summit.” So, if Momus thinks that I maybe should keep my comments about his food intake to myself, or if I have a quibble with his inability to put down the iPhone when we’re watching The Honorouble Woman, we save it to talk about at The Summit. We do not, under any circumstances, get in a big fight at that moment. Even though I just want to watch my damn show without seeing that little cell phone light pop on 47 times an hour, it really is not important enough to get into when we are both tired and perhaps not the most receptive to hearing “feedback.”
So we wait.
The secret sauce is really all about giving ourselves permission to air our grievances (because if you don’t, that volcano is eventually going to blow), but at the same time having the self-control to wait a couple of days to discuss them. By then we are no longer actively irritated by the actual event and are less likely to over-react due to the exhaustion of the day, work stress, or (and I admit it, this happens) crazy-lady hormones.
Often by the time we get to The Summit we realize that what bothered us at the time was just a momentary reaction, and not something the other person even needs to correct. Momus likes to quote one of his favorite existential philosophers, Mellencamp, in this regard: “Nothing matters and what if it did?” Sometimes those things that seem so critical at the moment fade in importance with a little time and perspective.
When there are real issues getting under our skin, The Summit helps us bring our good respectful psychologist language to bear. OK, sure, sarcasm is never completely absent our exchanges, but it is mostly restricted to the benign, funny form. We are also more likely to be able to accept our own mistakes at The Summit and move toward a plan to correct whatever is scraping against the other’s well-being.
Sometimes when we reflect on the fact that we actually do The Summit, we roll our eyes and feel very touchy-feely woo woo about it all. The Taylor-Burton conflict style probably suits our natural selves better: it’s a dysfunctional comfort zone. But we’ve both done those relationships and we’re tired of them. We just want to get through our work day, be good to our kids, and find ways to have fun together. Bickering about stupid stuff is a huge waste of our remaining years, and can be a relationship bomb of epic proportions.
We’ve been summitting (we even created the verb form) for about six months now, and it has been amazingly productive. The Summit has grown from a simple place to smooth down rough spots to a weekly check-in on our various self-driven goals (you know, of the eat better, exercise more variety) and aspirations for the future. It is a time that we actually both look forward to, and we have found that it will often roll on long beyond the hour that we have set aside for it.
And during the week, whenever the temperature starts to rise, you will hear one of us say to ourselves, “Save it for The Summit!”
And miraculously we do.
— Cassandra Delusion
Cassandra is in her mid-40s with a daughter in college and an 11-year-old son. She has somehow found herself working as a data analyst despite her love of words and deep mistrust of all things numeric (and an inability to add multi-digit numbers with any degree of accuracy). Former delusions led her to attain a degree in clinical psychology, take classes in library science, start a greeting card company and explore co-housing, despite the fact that others typically irritate her. She shares a blog, www.TheNextDelusion.com , with her partner-in-crime, Momus.
(This piece originally appeared on Muffin Top: A Love Story’s website. Cathryn Michon and W. Bruce Cameron’s rom com about body image will premiere in Dayton on Nov. 4, with a portion of the proceeds benefitting the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. For tickets, click here. To find a screening in your city, click here.)
“In the grand scheme of things, you’re only pretty for a second. So, you’d better back it up with something.”
That’s what I tell my daughters in attempts to keep their vanity in check. I’m currently living in that transitional stage — going from beauty to what I’ve backed it up with. I’m 39. Vanity is a tough fight and physical beauty, in the way that our youth-valued society defines it, is an easy distraction. Girls forget that they should be learning, discovering their passions and honing their emotional intellect.
I believe that substance trumps all, but I also adjust my posture and check the camera view before I click the green button when my husband FaceTimes me from the road. I want the sight of me to make him smile. I know that just to look at him, does it for me. Every crevice in his face reminds me of our path together — his wit and invaluable support. Does he love my deep grooves and capped smile? Will I still hold his attention in 10 years?
He would view my self-doubt as not having any faith in him. “I can’t wait until you’re a silver fox,” he’d say.
The conviction to age gracefully and actually watching age tug at me are two different things. As the mother of two teenage daughters, though, I have to confront these feelings and know where I stand if I truly want to be their living example. That’s not an easy feat when vanity creeps in from every crack and corner. Makeup to conceal, push ups to strengthen, and push-up bras to keep it all in proper place — those are our culture’s expectations.
I don’t believe it has to be all or nothing. I wear makeup when I want to. Just because I encourage my kids to focus on their character doesn’t mean I forbid them to enjoy their beauty. All points on the spectrum are worth celebrating. My girls enjoy a day in heels and the persona that makeup can enhance. But it can’t be their source of self worth.
Hard work and commitment to character are much more important than the color-coordination of one’s wardrobe and the smooch-ability of cherry-blast lip balm. The constant judgment surrounding a superficial value system relies on desperate attempts to cling to an ideal that cannot be sustained.
As a child, I lived across the street from my aunt. I spent equal parts of my time in both houses, playing with my cousins. Once, I had to pee while my aunt was in the bath. It was a one-bathroom home and I was young, maybe five. No shower meant no shower curtain. My feet dangled from my seat, not touching the floor, and I watched her bathe.
Her heavy breasts lay on her belly. She lifted each one to wash underneath. I was shocked by the size of them and couldn’t imagine growing breasts so large that I would have to lift them up to wash what was beneath. I hoped that such a deformity would never happen to me. But after 39 years of gravity and two years of breast-feeding, it is me.
In the morning, I stand braless in my bathrobe and pack lunches for my daughters. I recognize their bewildered and worrisome looks. Is this what they have to look forward to? My breasts rest above the rope that ties my robe closed. I’m sure they wonder if the rope line is the only thing keeping them above my waist.
It happens to all of us, in one way or another. Yet, to point out a woman’s age or that she looks old is considered taboo or an insult. Some women will fight it to expensive, delusional ends. I’ve decided to look forward to being an old lady. It sure beats the alternative. Nobody wins the battle against age. It’s our one collective destiny. The only way to cheat age is to die young.
Did I always have this conviction? No. It took me having two daughters. I want everyone to see them as I see them and I expect my daughters to understand that they decide how they will live their lives. In the end, it all comes down to life experiences. Why spend too much of that precious time fretting in front of a mirror? When instead, we can make meaningful memories and connections. This means that I have to see it within myself, challenge the vain mindset and reject the marketing that tells me I’m not good enough… young enough… pretty enough.
Do my girls love me because they think I’m attractive? No. But vanity is a hard fight that I don’t always win. I have to continue to challenge society’s expectations of me. My focus is to cultivate my talents, underscore my character, and to fall into life’s season of substance — gracefully.
— Bonnie Jean Feldkamp
Bonnie Jean Feldkamp‘s humor columns and service journalism articles have appeared in regional and niche parenting publications, such as Cincinnati Family, Staten Island Parent, Wilmington Parent, Space City Parent, Vancouver Parent and many more. Her weekly blog for new and expectant moms is published by the retail website www.MilkandBaby.com. And her memoir is complete and currently seeking an agent. Find her at @writerbonnie on Twitter or facebook.com/WriterBonnie.
I’ve never been a particularly sweaty person.
I mean, I’m no delicate flower or anything. Believe you me, I’ve dampened the underside of a bra. I’ve generated an ample amount of flop sweat before a first date. I’ve felt a serious prickling in the pits while walking up a short flight of stairs working out at the gym, as I so often don’t. But for the most part, I haven’t found myself in too many perspiration situations that an extra swipe of deodorant couldn’t resolve.
About six months ago, something in my body changed. Something gross. Something chemical. Something that caused every exertion, no matter how small, to bring forth a sheen of sticky, smelly perspiration. And I’m talking EVERY exertion:
• Ran to the mailbox? Drenched in sweat.
• Hauled out the trash? Drenched in sweat.
• Applied a tricky eyeliner? Drenched in sweat.
• Sat on the couch in my underwear while watching daytime television and eating a McRib? Drenched in sweat.
I’m sure you get the idea.
At first I was confused and disgusted by my body’s sudden decision to go from Soft & Dri to Damp & Nasty. I tried everything I possibly could to mitigate this new and clammy state of existence — different deodorants, 100% cotton underwear, sitting motionless for 10 hours on top of an air conditioning vent — but nothing worked with any consistency. The whole situation had me down, out, and on the verge of eating ten more McRibs, when it suddenly came to me:
This was just another symptom of The Oldening.
That’s right. The Oldening. I’ll wager that most of you are already acquainted with it — but if not, let me educate you.
It’s the phenomenon that makes bending down to pick something off of the floor The Most Dreaded Activity of Every Day.
It’s the phenomenon that causes your hair to fall out, your arteries to clog, and your bladder to say: “Screw this. I’m over it.”
It’s the phenomenon that turns every meal into a traumatic experience of barf-burps, heartburn and back-door emissions that smell like one or more of the following:
• Wet cat food
• Rotten eggs
• Fermented fish
• Corpse bloat
The Oldening can also bring with it a significant spike in perspiration — particularly if you’re overweight, out of shape, or on the brink of menopause. (Overweight? Yup. Out of shape? Oh yeah. Menopause? Check.) What’s worse, there’s not much to be done about it, except maybe shed some of that extra poundage or work on your cardio. And I’m sad to say that both of those solutions are non-starters for me.
My apologies to healthy people everywhere, but “diet” and “exercise” are two concepts that slide off my brain like delicious salted butter off of an ear of corn. So if you’re like me, I highly recommend going ahead and just embracing your inner Sweaty Betty. Why the hell not? I say have fun with it:
• Pit stains? Tell people that they’re intentional. That they’re a fashion statement. That they’re all the rage on the Continent.
• Body odor? You’re the one doing people a favor here. I don’t know a single person who doesn’t like the smell of a warm, greasy Italian sub.
•Cosmetics melting down your face? Everyone digs the “Receptionist Who Got Drunk and Cried at the Office Christmas Party” look. Work it. Rock it.
• Damp clothing? Built-in cooling system. Duh.
So what are you waiting for, Sweaty Betty? Go for it! Let your sweat flag fly!
— Sarah del Rio
Sarah del Rio, a 1996 University of Dayton graduate, is a comedy writer whose award-winning humor blog “est. 1975“ brings snark, levity and perspective to the ladies of Generation X. Despite being a corporate refugee with absolutely no formal training in English, journalism or writing of any kind, Sarah somehow manages to find work as a freelance writer and editor. She contributes regularly to blog site BLUNTMoms, has made several appearances on the Huffington Post Best Parenting Tweets of the Week List, and her blog won Funniest Blog in The Indie Chicks 2014 Badass Blog Awards. She has also been featured on blog sites Scary Mommy and In the Powder Room. You can find Sarah’s blog at http://established1975.com. You can also like her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/est1975blog and follow her on Twitter at www.twitter.com/est1975blog.
I’ve halfway decided I should start putting a little effort into my appearance. And when I say little, I mean at least three times this week I wore pants with zippers.
Fashion has never been my strong suit. I have sweaters I got after my youngest was born 20 years ago. Just this morning I asked my husband if he’d seen my favorite sweater.
His response, “The one with the bleach on it?”
“Nooo,” said I, “I mean the green one with the holes in the back. You know how I love that one.”
I’m not sure what precipitated this new-found desire to step up my game. I do remember occasionally wearing makeup at my last job. I even wore a skirt or two. Ever since we moved to Martha’s Vineyard I’ve just let it all go. It was sort of freeing at first and it’s still kind of awesome. Nobody cares. Dressing up here is a pair of those tights that look like the ones you wore in second grade with the cables on them. Let’s just say the makeup I’ve seen so far is what you might call “minimal.”
The great part is that this is totally in keeping with my own ideas on style. It suits me to a T. I’ve gone years now without putting on pantyhose and I couldn’t be happier about it. Besides, at this point the very idea of putting them on is a little scary, and I’m not sure my left leg could be twisted into position to pull them up over my toes. It’s better this way. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t try putting them on without speaking to a doctor first.
I do think that I might benefit from a little nail polish, maybe some lip gloss and a really nice, comfortable long sweater purchased in the women’s department. I have long been a fan of wearing men’s shirts. I have this vision of myself in Meg Ryan’s body and I’m lounging around in a long white oxford man shirt. My hair is sort of tousled and I stare at my husband while tying a cherry stem in a knot using only my tongue. I seriously think I could pull this off. I just need to find the perfect man shirt and be careful with the cherry juice.
It has occurred to me that I’m too young to give up on all of it. I can remember when I was a teenager thinking it was crazy to see women over 60 wearing jeans. I thought they all should be wearing salmon pink elastic waist pants and a nice rain bonnet. Funny. Now I’m over 50 and wondering how I can squeeze my butt into those jeans for another 20 years.
I’ve never been very feminine or what you’d call a girly-girl, but I do believe in accessories. I’m big on scarves and bangles. I’ve always felt they detract from the sound of my thighs rubbing together. I feel the same way about nice fingernails. I love mani-pedis. I’m pretty sure that either one of those services should cost at least $100. I give credit to those poor folks filing my toenails. I’m pretty sure I’d rather walk on rusty razor blades than touch that job.
Yes, I definitely think I should step it up. This past week I not only wore zippered pants to work twice, but I also pulled my hair back into a short ponytail. Everyone loved it. It was like I’d gone to Paris and came back to the Island with a new fall wardrobe.
“Did you get a haircut?”
“Look at you, all put together.”
“You look great today.”
It was downright inspiring. I felt like a new woman all because I didn’t wash my hair that morning and I kept it back in an elastic I put it in for my shower. Wow. It was almost effortless. If I actually did put some thought into it, I’m not sure everyone’s ready for this jelly.
— Connie Berry
Connie Berry grew up reading and loving Erma Bombeck. She is former editor of The Catholic Sun newspaper in Syracuse, N.Y., and a new resident of Martha’s Vineyard where she is copy editor for the Vineyard Gazette. She lives on the island with her husband and youngest son. Her two older children read her blog, thejoblessgoddess.blogspot.com, from Syracuse.