becoming A Woman of A Certain Age

JCK has realized recently that she has an EGO the size of her husband's derriere. This is not to be confused with her husband's actual derriere, which JCK loves, but JCK needed to pull from somewhere, and the state of Utah doesn't sell liquor. And, liquor is well needed for this tirade. At least in thought, if not application.

JCK used to think of herself as someone who was not Vain. But, dear readers, that would be a bold faced lie. And, JCK wants to come clean. At least to you. She's still working on herself, and it looks to be a life long project.

The ego blows up like a big balloon —Delmore Schwartz

Yes, indeed, JCK has a rather large EGO. Her id is BIG. Oh, how JCK wishes ...she could have employed this Egocentric Way of Being back in those days of yore, when she was a young, trembling actress on the cusp of her next Guest Starring appearance. However, JCK bailed out of that life style, citing Audition Obliteration Syndrome. A sad, sad tale, that JCK will not go into at the present time.

Conceit like a high gloss varnish smeared over him —Rosa Guy

Whence did this revelation occur? Well, JCK has been taken down a peg or two, or three, in what she likes to call the PCE (Post Children Era.) This would be when JCK decided to go au naturel and toss the hair dye, embracing her natural essence by becoming A Woman of A Certain Age. JCK wishes to note that before that time, she was known for always being mistaken for someone younger than her peers. Her face a soft oval, at times a bit moony, with eyes, large, innocent pools of hazel. JCK was the one who got carded. For years... Please, hear a *Sigh*... from JCK. Pre-Children, it had its perks. Oh, cruel word - that! PERK.

Looks at herself in the mirror like she was the first woman in the world —George Garrett

Why, just last night, at a school gathering of parents, a friend said "What I really like about this community is that there are so many older parents." JCK SWEARS, on her husband's derriere, that the friend looked right at her. And, smiled.Curse him! JCK returned the smile, albeit...sourly.

My vanity [after hurtful remark] like a newly-felled tree, lies prone and bleeding —Carolyn Kizer

However, JCK, of The Hopelessly Vain Club ...is going to have to give IT up. Throw it down! Her perch has rusted out, and JCK's plumage is a bit dull. She could dye her hair again. Give in to the masses. Yet, this reeks of desperation, and JCK is wont to appear desperate. After all she has her PRIDE. And, it wouldn't really change anything. Except her hair.

Conceit grows as natural as hair on one’s head; but it is longer in coming out —Bartlett’s Dictionary of Americanisms

JCK has always liked to cloak herself in other characters - whether on the stage, or in life. Writing provides a delicious way of darting out to the edge and coming back, gleefully filling her head, and heart, with choice tidbits of adventures yet dreamed. Yet, sometimes she wishes this age thing was a character she could discard as easily...

JCK wants to fight the good fight. To rage against the Machine that states that Women of a Certain Age are invisible in society. As if...they have nothing to offer. JCK thinks this is bogus and unjust and hits close to the bone.

Vanity is as ill at ease under indifference as tenderness is under a love which it cannot return —George Eliot

There's just this small problem. We age. All of us. And, JCK is no exception. She's going to have to truly embrace her whole being, inner and outer. Or...be doomed to the 2nd half of her life being a washed up, sad sack. Poor, poor JCK? Say it isn't so!

JCK could turn this around. JCK could be a trend setter. JCK just needs a little...time. STOP the grains of sand...falling, down...down! Alas, no! Time marches on. And on. And...so ON. Yes, JCK will fight the good fight, as soon as she thinks up a great name for her cause. If you know any Women of a Certain Age who like to sip tea and contemplate life in the fast lane, do send them JCK's way. She'll be glad to liven up their tea with a bit O'whiskey...



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JCK wishes to thank the Online Dictionary for displaying the brilliant witticisms from so many greats.

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Moms are blonde or brunette. Not ...gray.

I wish your hair was brown, Mommy.

Why do you like your hair like that, Mommy?

I love Miss J's hair.

Miss J, GIRL's preschool teacher, has brown hair. Like GIRL's. Like mine used to be. My daughter is in mourning for the loss of my once brown hair. She's never known me to have hair other than Silver. I don't like the word gray. It speaks of dinge and drab.

In GIRL's 4 year old world, she wants an even playing field. Where everything is similar. And comfort is measured in sameness. Moms are blonde or brunette. Not ...gray. The very thing she is wanting is what I fight against. Blending in. Being ...the same.

I really like my hair on most days. I love that it is easy. No scrambling to the hairdresser when the silver roots are showing. But, the ultimate truth is that I like it, because...it is different. It is something I've embraced for most of my adult life. Being different. Being other. Perhaps because I felt that way inside, and being visibly different on the outside is like a natural boundary. It speaks. It says...I am not one of many. Yet, of course, I am...

I could go back to the dye. I could. Yet, part of me would feel false. Because usually? The Silver feels like me. On good days, I like to think I look rather smashing and dare I say it...dramatic, with my hair. On bad days...it is pure, unadulterated, drab. And, the truth is, GIRL gets to see me on bad days. Often.

My paternal grandmother was gray/silver/white by the time she was in her early 40's. If not before. My father never remembers her without gray hair. There is nothing weighted in his words. It is just a fact. He doesn't remember.

Sometimes...in brief moments, I wonder if my decision is fair to my children. Fair in the sense that I am an older parent, anyway, and then I add silver hair into the mix. Kind of like taking out a big banner that says: OLDER MAMA LOCATED HERE.

I think I'll keep it for now. There is always time to change. GIRL will love it or hate it. Or not think about it much. Probably the latter. Or...maybe when I'm 50, I'll dye it purple...



***************

For more about my journey to becoming Silver, you can read and see the pictorial here.

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Bathing Suit. Season. Such a cruel word. Season.

JCK is suddenly aware that bathing suit season is upon us. Bathing Suit. Season. Such a cruel word. Season. As if one just frolics about ...unencumbered by bathing suit FEARS.

Now... All should be well because JCK is pretty relaxed about the bathing suit body issues. *AHEM* Or so she said last year. But, that was SO LAST YEAR. Instead, she finds that she is muttering to herself....WTF?! Often. Basically she has spent too much of the last year semi-vertical in a chair or on a bed. But, walking or moving her body, or bending into the divine of yoga? Not so much. And then there's the little issue of metabolism. Yes, there's that. You see, JCK has been COMPLETELY spoiled up until about ...oh, the last couple of months. She had this really groovy genetic thing going where she could eat pretty much what she wanted, within reason. (Reason being heavy on the chocolate.) But, as is true with most good things. They come to an end. And unfortunately the end has manifested in a lushER silhouette. JCK has determined that she would have been a perfect candidate for living in another time. Because lush is delightful when one wears long, flowing feminine garb or ...is NEKID. But, lush in a bathing suit in 2009. Well, it just doesn't have that je ne sais quois element that it did in her 20s when everything gelled together a little bit nicer.

However, the reality is that JCK doesn't want to put all this self defeating crap upon herself or for her daughter to pick up on that self-defeating crap. JCK wants to be the kind of mom who is right there in the pool with her kids. Not the mom who lies on the chaise draped in a sarong...dreading the take off. That moment when one ever so casually tosses the sarong over one's chair and then decides to lay back down again. The mom who lets the dad do all the pool play. Nope. JCK doesn't want to be that mom.

So, what is JCK to do? Apparently she needs to just GET OVER IT. Life is short. She's lost friends this year. They're gone forever. Do you think they would give up one moment of jumping into the pool with their children, because their thighs are fleshy? No. So, JCK is GOING to get over it. And she's also going to start taking better care of herself. Because the truth is...she wants to be around for a long time. Having fun. And not always muttering WTF right before Memorial Day weekend...

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I find myself sinking

I sit again with myself on a winter's night. Cool air pooling around my ankles. So many books surround me. Someone else's dreams coming to fruition on my shelves. The evidence is here staring me in the face.

I yearn for that feeling after an orgasm, more than the orgasm itself. When hot fire creeps up through your toes and finishes just there...in that tender spot at the nape of your neck...rapture. I want to feel the after. A high not reached by drowning in chocolate or sipping whiskey. Tea? Hell, no! Too sobering and serene. It is not serenity I want now, in this moment.

Do you ever feel like your timing is off? You show up to the show, but everyone has left the building? You missed it. The event of a lifetime! "Impossible to describe," they say. The way your life could have gone. For one night ONLY. Missed.

And now the oddest things make you cry. Reading to your children. The words to the story choking you, so that you have to pause and take a breath. Because they describe a life you'd like to have.

Then you hate yourself for wanting anything else.

I find myself sinking. The lure of quick sand sucking me down to that place of darkness. Always temporary. Yet, while here it seeps into my soul, and betrays my light. You, there! Self-Absorption! I see YOU gloating...



*****Painting titled: "Last Ride" by Chuck Gumpert.

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You would never know it if you met me on the street

It is not obvious, and is not easily detected or revealed. You would never know it if you met me on the street. Or at a cocktail party. Or on the playground. It occasionally comes up in conversation. Not often. And until now has not weighed on me.

It didn't affect my earlier life as an actress, a massage therapist, or an Executive Assistant. My daughter has not asked about it yet, but I feel the time approaching. Fast. And I don't yet know how I will explain it. I have not been overly conscious of feeling ashamed. Yet, for the first time this week, I did feel something resembling...shame.

I overheard my daughter and my husband talking together during the Super Bowl.

I want the Pittsburgh Steelers to win.

Why, Daddy?

Because that's where Daddy went to college.

Just words. Ordinary words. Yet...I am not a college graduate, and now it bothers me. Because I will have to explain why to my daughter when she asks. And my reasons? Years ago...solidified by youthful ego and blindness. The reasons now sound weak...so very weak.

At some point, I might want to go back to complete a degree. But, it wouldn't be for the usual reasons: furthering a career trajectory, or even the satisfaction of finishing something that I started. No. It would be because... I want my daughter to know that I value a college education. I'm not sure why I'm focused on my daughter knowing this, rather than both of my children. But, it feels important for her to know this about me. And, that's all I know...




*****Note: Well! What wonderful thoughtful comments. Thank you. I've commented on a few things below. Thanks for the discussion!

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Yes... sometimes, despite her children's undeniable lusciousness, she wishes to sling back a Jack and Coke at noon ...

She leads a lovely, rather ordinary life. And, on most days she likes it like that. She is contented. More than that...she hopes that someday, when her children are older, they will know that this period of time with them has been filled with richness. Indeed, they are her lifeblood.

Her best poetry comes to her when she is doing the everyday tasks of caring for her family - preparing dinner, tackling yet another mountain of laundry, or catching a glimpse of her children playing outside. Even in rare snatches, it arrives within her head amidst the cacophony of sound emanating from the rear seats of her minivan.

There are times when she knows the day is not going well by 9am. When she has trouble formulating a simple grocery list. Something that is as familiar as sleep and brushing her teeth. And then, while in the aisle...stands there in a swoon, fondling the wine bottles as if they are close friends. The labels lilting her way ...vanilla, smooth, soft, velvety finish... A song to her tone deaf starved heart. And ...later, when she drives into the gas station, pulls up to the gas pump, gets out, and realizes that the gas cap is on the other side. Her mind has traveled further than the much needed tank.

Yes... sometimes, despite her children's undeniable lusciousness, she wishes to sling back a Jack and Coke at noon... declaring to all and sundry that IT'S JACK O'CLOCK! INDEED. She's ready for her own whiskey a go GO. Perhaps, if she really knew what was going on in the neighboring houses, she would find kindred spirits in her need for ...space. Room to breathe.

Days when the loud hum of the stove hood's fan is welcoming instead of intrusive. The noise, a usual annoyance, her friend. For it closes out the nearby shrill cant of Diego as she fixes dinner. Or...it is Word Girl? The DIN. Beating into her like clubs wielded by neanderthals. Yes, white noise...YOU are welcome here.

The greatest irony is that there is no one to blame but herself. Unfortunately. Her world of laundry piles, meals to make, schedules to keep ...are all in a disarray of her own making. Because. She hasn't scheduled herself any time. And she is a snarling, bitchy mess within. Occasionally oozing out around her edges.

What saves her is the blank page. Sometimes it taunts--> daring her to throw down words. Sometimes it lets her slide keyboard strokes across its snowy surface. And sometimes it stares, bored, yawning... into a silent void. Yet, whatever the blank page, she usually cannot leave it so. For it feeds her. Whether it is a self-conscious rant or careless phrase or hours spent upon one word, it is enough for today...


***"Shaken and Stirred" Painting by Chuck Gumpert.

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And then the Doctor reels backwards toward JCK's open chart and double-checks JCK's age.

JCK has been getting kicked in the GUT lately. As in...Major Gut Kicking. Kick her to the curb, down the drain...kicking. It all started a little over a week ago at the Urgent Care facility down the road. JCK had ventured there in a state of pain, accompanied by her stalwart companion, her husband, E. JCK had been feeling like crapola. You see, the flu had begun to set in and there was such a strong pressure upon her chest that if she didn't know better...she would have thought her breasts were being flattened by an elephant. She was at the Urgent Care facility to rule out pneumonia. As it turned out, the chest x-ray revealed a clean chest cavity, void of any bacteria or other such matters. But, we're getting ahead of the story...

Apparently, chest compression pain is taken seriously. JCK was ushered back to a room quite quickly, after the initial questioning by the nurse. JCK then waited some...time before the doctor knocked on the door and came into the examining room. He asked the usual questions, listened to JCK's heart, looked in her eyes, ears and throat, etc., etc.

Doctor: When did the chest pressure begin?

JCK: Last night. Yesterday afternoon I started having a cough and then the pressure feeling began in my chest. Now my back hurts when I cough. My 4 year old daughter woke up yesterday with a high fever.

Upon JCK's revelation of having a 4 year old daughter, the doctor's eyebrows lurch up past his hairline. And then the Doctor reels backwards toward JCK's open chart and double-checks JCK's age.

STARTED LATE, DIDN'T YOU?!

JCK manages a weak smile. JCK knows she looks a little grayer than usual. She was feeling so badly that she didn't even bother to throw on a little blusher or lipstick. She is....a bit drab. The grey turtleneck doesn't help. It only appears to heighten the washed out look she is sporting. Almost like ...cloud cover.

But, JESUS! Isn't this L.A? Older parents abound here. It is almost de riguer, for God's sakes. Well, apparently not according to Doctor Ageism. It is almost as if he has uttered TSK TSK.

Doctor: You are still getting your periods?

JCK: Yes. I'm FUCKING FERTILE FRIEDA, baby! (Note: JCK did not say this, but she likes to think she did.)

Doctor: Is there any possibility that you could be pregnant?

JCK: No. None whatsoever.

Doctor: Tubes tied? Birth control pills? Knife taken to your husband's privates? (Note: The good doctor did not say this, but JCK likes to think that he did.)

JCK shakes her head...NO.

Doctor: Well, I don't like to take any chances. I'm going to have you do a urine test before you have the chest x-ray.

JCK: Oh, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! (Note: JCK also did not say this, but she likes to think she did.)

Conclusion: JCK was not suffering from pneumonia or pregnancy, but apparently is fucking old.

Because....

Today, JCK went to the park with her children and some friends. JCK was sitting on a bench for a moment to watch her children frolic in the California sun.

Little Girl: Whose grandmother are you? Whose children are your grandchildren?

OH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!

On most days JCK feels very good about her silvery mane. Her mantle. Her au naturale coiffure. It suits her. It is ...freeing. She will probably never go back to dyeing it again. It is a pretty color and she gets compliments on it frequently. By women. Not, apparently, from men and children. However, there are moments like these in which JCK has serious DOUBTS about her ability to ward off this commentary on her AGE. And the wisdom in choosing the silver streak lifestyle. Luckily the moments usually pass. It's just that...this time...it's taking her longer to get her groove back.

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I cannot write to please other people

When I first envisioned my blog, I thought it would be a wonderful place to document the lively antics of my children, and where I could describe the parenting challenges that are around every bend in the road. For a while, that worked. And it still works, but it also morphed into something else. Sometimes I write poetry. I am known to curse and to occasionally express thoughts that are sexually provocative. I am passionate about many things. All of which I love to write about, including politics. There have been moments in time, where I questioned the fulfillment of being a stay-at-home mom, and wondered where my "self" had gone. Mothering is bloody hard work, and there are extreme highs and lows, as well as lots of days in-between in which you can feel as if you are flat lining. Much of the time I am blessed with positive feelings about my life. Yet, how boring and unnatural would our lives be if we only expressed ourselves in tidy, neat splashes of yellow and pink. I like to color outside the lines of propriety.

All of this is me, and I don't know how to be any different. Nor, do I want to. One of the lovely things about getting older is that you feel a certain freedom to be yourself. Even if people don't like you or what you write. Perhaps your audience thinks they know you, and you write something that appals them. It was not your intent. But, should you then change your writing to suit your audience? To avoid making people uncomfortable? I don't think so. Everyone has their own unique voice and that is what draws us in, isn't it?

If I spend too much time worrying about whether people will like what I write, or whether I will offend someone with a particular subject, I would never be able to write here at all. The page would remain blank, and I would be living in fear.

I made a deal with myself when I created this space. The deal is this... I don't want to self-censor. I have to be authentic. I cannot write to please other people. That is not why I am here. Nor do I take pleasure in disgusting anyone. What I do love is the sight of the naked page, the feel of the keyboard under my fingertips, and catching the words as they free fall into sentences.

Erica Jong says it best:

As a writer, we need permission to avoid being the good girl, to go against societal brainwashing and the inner censorship we impose on ourselves.

The inner self of a writer, the self destined to live beyond the flesh, is not always visible in the writer's daily life. But the writer's true voice, once discovered, is congruent with the writer's soul. This voice is what all writers seek, and a very few find - to raise a cry that is integral with one's soul.

Here is the paradox of writing. You can't hide behind words. What and who you are shines forth on every page - whether you pretend objectivity or not. You strip down to the essential self.


***Painting courtesy of Google images

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The writing dream

After I wrote the poem "It is too late to hide her," I had the most vivid dream. When I awoke the next morning I madly started writing it down before the images faded. I believe the act of writing that poem released something in me that will continue to linger. The dream was about owning myself as a writer. I won't go into all the crazy elements of the dream, basically it was a dream about owning myself, having the self-confidence to declare who it is I am. What stands out most about the dream is when I said this: I am a writer. That is what they pay me for. So, I'm going to hold onto those thoughts for a while. It feels good to keep them tucked just under my heart. My own little dream floating out there, even in my subconscious.

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Bathing suit...a one piece WONDER

THIS....BULLETIN...JUST....IN ....FROM....JCK..... CUTE, DEEP BROWN, HALTER ONE PIECE BATHING SUIT FOUND!!! What's up is up and what's around stays a ROUND. No need for frump, bump or lump. And where did I find this gem? This pièce de résistance ? Once again, SCORE AT TARGAY!

In fact it "flatters, fits and inspires confidence."

And it even goes with the Targay hat!

No bathing SKIRT, people!! Never, NEVER, never! This fishnet Mama DON'T do skirts.

*off to do pushups and crunches...got to keep up my image of a 2 fisted, whiskey drinkin', chocolate munchin', caffeine gulpin' good ol' flat assed MAMA!


*TOTAL LIE on the pushups. Oh, and the crunches. Unless the chocolate is crispy!

**Photo Credit: Esther Williams from Google Images

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A clean bill of health!

Today looks promising. I went to a dermatologist to get a mole check. She checked me out. All over.

These are age spots.

These are maturity spots.

And of course the sun adds wrinkles and premature aging.

These little white scars on your arms...sun damage.

Make sure you wear sunblock and a hat in this climate. The southern California climate is not a normal one. People are outside 2-3 hours a day - just wearing sunglasses and a visor - if that.

You're fine, JCK!

A clean bill of health! No problems. Great news! No worries on skin cancer. On aging, well... that might be another story.

Here's to 5 more chocolates left in my 1 lb box from yesterday! If I'm going to age rapidly, I might as well enjoy my chocolates rapidly, too.

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How come I missed out on the tummy tuck?!

Aging. What a beautiful thing.

About, oh...a year ago, I was invited over to a close friend of my mom's to try on clothes that she didn't want anymore. She was ready to part with them. Since my wardrobe speaks of Target with only the occasional flash of Rod Stewart boots...mmm..preKIDS, I was IN. My mom went with me. I knew it was going to be a good time when my mom's friend opened up a bottle of wine at 3pm in the afternoon. The feeling was cemented when she walked in the guestroom bearing an armload of clothes and kept going back for more. It was a little overwhelming and intimidating...but, I hung in there. You see, I don't really have that "shopping gene" that most women seem to have. It makes me a little anxious and uncomfortable. I love great clothes, but the process of acquiring them - even when presented as a gift is not something that comes easily. As I slipped on leggings, shimmied into pants and slid sexy tops over my head, I felt as if in a dream. I was molting out of outfits and into new ones that definitely didn't feel like couture de Targay.

But then...

You have a beautiful figure. Enjoy it while you can. Once you hit a certain age, well ...it just isn't the same. And it never goes back.

It appears that the lady with the bounty friggin' cursed me. Wham! Not even a year and a half later...It has happened. I am 46 years old. And my stomach in the belly button area looks as if Saggy Baggy Elephant has taken up residence. My stomach! Forget droop. It drips. And there is this certain area directly over the belly button that looks as if it is there to stay. I don't know how to describe it really...other than a bread that's risen...and fallen. Kind of sunk in the center. I did gain 45lbs during my pregnancy with GIRL. It felt right. I ate everything. I was ZAFTIG and round. I loved it. I lost the weight, mostly due to running after BOY and having two children 10 months apart. Imagine a woman with two baby shaped footballs under each arm, running - and that was me.

But, I don't do all that much running any more. Unless I am running AWAY FROM THE KIDS into the house because...after all, it is JackO'Clock. And the addition of blogging into my life has been delightful, but sedentary. Alas, I believe I have hit that certain age. And it isn't fair, dammit! I don't feel 46. I feel...mmm 36.

When I went in for my postpartum 6 week check-up after giving birth to GIRL, I thought it would be a good time to bring up the subject of having my tubes tied. NOPE. Apparently, the time to bring up having your tubes tied is RIGHT AFTER BIRTH!! My OB/GYN sighed ...as if looking at that sad stray that's been hanging around your house begging for scraps.

I'm SO sorry, JCK. The time to have your tubes tied would have been right after you gave birth to GIRL. It would be quite a procedure at this point. Dangerous.

You've got to be fucking KIDDING me...I wanted to say. I'll show YOU dangerous, baby!! Dangerous is sending this woman home to her husband!! But, I slunk home and GLARED at E. Vasectomy...I hissed. And he wonders why every time he leers at me my hair stands on end. The thought of getting pregnant again, EVER again, is a thought that warrants a sign-up for that indefinite stay at Casa de Insane Asylum. Having more than 2 children is FABULOUS ...for OTHER people. I'll just hum along with 2 children, thank you very much. Keep your PopAwheelie's reserved for the 14 day safe margin. I'll wave the fishnets, you bring the blanks.

But, the worst thing? The worst thing about all of this...this, flesh dripping, aging thing? The worst thing is that it all could have been avoided. Yes, MA'AM! You see, I missed out BIG TIME. My friends who got the little "snip, snip tube tying action" also got a bonus. A free tummy tuck. Yes. They. Did. Wenches! And all I want to know is this...how come I missed out on the tummy tuck!?

**Picture Credit: Google Images

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I'm sure it does feel like a betrayal, and I am sorry...

Books on my Bedside Table?

We need to talk.

You may have noticed that I've been a bit preoccupied. Well, there's really no easy way to say this ...I've met something else.

How long has this been going on, you ask?

Well...almost a year.

I know. I KNOW! I just couldn't help myself. At first the liaisons were just at night, but soon I was doing it in broad daylight. It makes me feel so alive, so electric! I've never really experienced anything like this before.

That may sound new agey to you, but it's true, dammit!

I'm sure it does feel like a betrayal, and I am sorry... But, I've fallen in love.

Yes, it has a name. Not a very attractive one, but one that excites me. It is called...BLOGGING.

It's all encompassing, addictive, and ...

O.K., yes, I've let a few things slide.

Including you. Yes, you're right.

But, all those years? When I was digging into your stories and avoiding looking at my own? Well, now I'm looking and writing my own stories and it feels delicious.

I do miss you. Really, I do.

I remember.

Remember when you and I would nestle in for a good cozy read? The feel of your pages beneath my fingers, the scent of crisp paper, and the anticipation of all those lovely words. You transported and inspired me. We lay abed for hours... Sometimes you were my courtesan, sometimes my swain...

Perhaps it's just a phase, perhaps not.

I know it is a lot to ask, but I hope you'll wait for me.

You've been a loyal paramour all these years. For as long as I can remember. Forever and a day. And I still desire you, want you in my life, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to relegate you to concubine status.

Don't despair, my love. You'll get the most exciting part of me. I'll get to complain to you about how much Blogging expects of me, how drained and spent I feel. You'll be my light-o'-love. My paramour.

It may not be fair, but you DO know that I am the Chatelaine of this Castle, and you...after all, are my doxy. Well, maybe that does sound a little butchy, but I'm the one holding the whip!

You're obviously upset. You are!

Of course, you are entitled to these feelings. But, I'm just being honest with you.

O.K., if that's how you feel.

Fine, we'll give each other some space. A little breathing room. I just hope that you'll see in time that I'll always come back.

I have to go now. Blogging calls. But, just remember...I crawl into bed next to you every night. And it is you that I look at just before I turn out the light. It is you...

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An invitation to naughtiness

What is it about Tequila? An invitation to naughtiness. You're innocently standing there sipping your margarita, and suddenly...it's like you want to throw someone down in the grass and sniff their armpits. What is it? Spring? Pheromones? Is anyone noticing that your lower half is not rated G? It's on fire, but OH WHOOPS... Remember, you are at a birthday party for preschoolers. Oh, YES. Is this fair? Oh, NO. The only quickie you're gonna get is watching your son polish off a cupcake. No other delights for you, LADY. Not at this party. Well, there is the bounce house, but somehow...that is probably not what they had in mind. Too bad. And then... you also remember that you are not that sexy, younger version of yourself that you used to be, THAT younger self that spent all that time beating herself up for not being this, not being THAT. You'd take THAT right now, DAMMIT! You'd take THAT self and raise it 3, perhaps an acrobatic maneuver on the kitchen counter or even on the playroom rug. Train table...no, not exactly stable, and your child's life would never be the same if you took out the Island of Sodor. That younger self had some good rounded curves back then. Shit. What a waste of time. Margarita? No, I think I'll stick to juicy juice, thanks.

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Why I decided to go grey...a pictorial of my journey to becoming a tousled silver streak

Good GOD it is time for some smut. Time to laugh. Time to shake that intense, mind sucking numbing brain of meself and take a little stroll through photo memory lane. Join me, won't you?

It all started out so well. She was born in the 60's. A time of excitement...

...and apparently aliens. She shared her birthday with the first grey alien sighting. How thrilling!

She perfected the clasped hands pose early on.
And had her first bad haircut.

Later, her hair was the envy of all, most especially her "bowl-cut" bangs. She spent time on the Mediterranean.

And although a bit bucky in teeth, had a warm smile set off by excess hair oil.

There was a golden period. A time when she actually had an ass.

Alas, the golden period was short lived. Braces were donned at 16. Nothing else need be said...

Several years passed and then began the period of hair experimentation...

She vacationed in Mexico as a blonde. The hat was an accessory to die for. Especially worn with sweats. Tres chic.

Otherwise known as the Flashdance period. OOOHHHH...what a feeling to swing around BIG hair.

Learning to apply lipstick in a moving vehicle wearing these earrings was an accomplishment that filled her with pride.

There was that unfortunate Halloween. Or was this part of the Flashdance period? Please, notice the heels. No matter. Men scattered to the high hills.

She had her very own Like a Virgin limo tour. She was into the groove.

She wouldn't be caught dead without her lace. Or her dresses.

Finally she said...why am I not getting paid for this? And she got a job singing telegrams. Sometimes as a nurse. She took meticulous care of her men's blood pressure and could do a good leg thrust.

Then there was that unfortunate, doughy, sun splotched period in St. Maarten where she met a Mr. T lookalike. His bathing suit seemed...showy.

She ditched the island life after a week and a few months later was able to be in her brother's wedding. [Probably better that he wasn't clued into her island escapades.] Between the 1st fitting and the final, she gained 20lbs. But look at that young, rounded skin glistening on a spring day.

As an actress she had some very minor success. There was the mysterious Greta Garbo look. It lasted as long as this photo shoot and was never recaptured.

A few years later she met E while shooting the incredibly glamorous film genre known as the industrial film. They were relatively young and both liked shorts.

Although they each thought it fortunate that he had not experienced JCK's previous highbrow...yet...stylish... yet... oh so trendy periods, he was continually intrigued by her auditioning attire. [Here she is off to Covington, Georgia for In the Heat of the Night.] What a bad ass.

JCK had SO many talents she wanted to share with E. Among them coloring her hair to match the inside of an elevator. Purple gloves go SO well with black leather, don'tcha think?

After retiring from acting at least on stage and screen, she went on to massage school and became a massage therapist, leaving the elevator hair behind her.

Filled with endorphins they married.

A perm for the wedding, then brunette just for kicks. E had whiplash, but was never bored.
And then a golden, perky flip.

JCK moved to California with E and lived a full life. They did everything and more to have a baby. Their path to become parents led them to open adoption and on an evening in November 2003, BOY entered their lives.

This is moments after BOY has been born.

2 months later... GOOD GOD, she's pregnant! She gains 45 delicious pounds. She doesn't care.

GIRL is born. She is 10 months younger than BOY. This is enough to turn JCK's hair platinum. And then BOY starts walking. At 10 months old. Keeping up with two babies who are 10 months apart is a challenge. And the silver roots, which she has had for many years...covered up by a variety of hues, begin to creep in. The hell with it. She's going au naturale.

JCK is just too...tired to think about her hair. Uh Oh...She lost the 45lbs a little too fast. Henceforth known as the Old Ma Kettle period.

But, THEN ...it really feels liberating this going silver thing. There is a freedom in it. A relief. And the part of her that loves to be different is satisfied. Because this is different. Are you kidding me? It's radical, man. This is L.A. Nothing is au naturale here. Well, maybe the nudists...at our house.

Let the good times roll...

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When all else fails, quit your yammering and...rearrange the furniture

I find myself dragging my heels today and trailing a miasma of "woe is me." On days like this, when I can thrust myself up and over the cup of rancid thoughts, I take stock. And this is what I see:

I have a life that I dreamed of for many years. I have a husband, whom I love and who loves me. I have two exquisite children who enrich and touch my life on a daily basis. My plate is full of special friends and a loving extended family. And...I have discovered the varied palette of the blog. Sometimes cheesecake. Sometimes lemon rind. Sometimes the center of an Oreo. Sometimes a struggle.

And today it is a jousting match, just to be me. My feelings are unruly and it is difficult to write. Ever painful to pull those thoughts out, that are clenched so tight. And yet when I try, they are far too clever and slippery-- escaping through my fingers.

I do know this....When all else fails quit your yammering and...rearrange the furniture...

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I have to feel that I am doing more than scrabbling up a dirt hill via my fingernails

Balance. That's what I'm going for this year. I can picture myself thus. A balanced person. What does this person look like? It is yet to be determined. But, I know she exists. Somewhere in here. I can feel her tapping my insides, tickling my ribs, whispering to me: It's fun to be balanced. Try it. Your life will be so much easier. You sure set yourself up a lot. I mean, it's kind of HILARIOUS to watch you sometimes. The way you muddle through...

So, this is it. Soon I will be reentering the work force. (A job will appear that feels right and I will take it.) I will have to navigate the waters of employment from an outside source with being a mother and a wife --yet save a piece for myself. I've found that piece here in the last few months. And it has felt damn good. It is as if I have awakened from a long slumber and now that I have tasted from the delicious, delectable blank page of blogging, I don't want to let it go. I cannot. And I won't.

Yet... I have to feel that I am doing more than scrabbling up a dirt hill via my fingernails. It is cathartic to get dirty, but sometimes the dirt just feels ...well, dirty. My family is my ballast and I am the rudder (with a very bad sense of direction) and lest I forget even for a moment that this is true, thank GOD they are here to remind me of this. I can be my own woman and be a wife and a mother. Can't I? I really think I can. Being a mother has been the most amazing, joyful, enriching, frustrating, mind-blowing experience of my life. And I can't wait to see where the path will continue to lead us. I am here for them. I am here for my husband. I am here for me. I just need to find balance. Even for one day. And I think I'm on my way...I can feel it.

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Nothing worse for a woman than feeling fat AND hairy

I've had an important, earth shaking epiphany... and I say that there is nothing, nothing worse for a woman than feeling fat AND hairy. One is not a good feeling. Two is just plain let's go into the kitchen and eat a bunch of chocolate. Oh, can't do THAT. That makes me fatTER. The hairy part is just plain ...well, truth be told I think my legs are too tired and heavy to be lifted up, balanced on the shower stall wall and take a razor to....cut down the wild forest of BeLOVEzhskaya, and believe you me - LOVE has nothing to do with it. In fact, this is all a bit much for me to handle today. I think I'm going to go lie down, contemplate the upcoming New Year and airlift my Sequoia trunks up on a pillow. Maybe I could retrain my mind to think of them as a national treasure.

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This is crack...This is your mommy on crack...

I wrote this post back in June. As I am in the process of job hunting and getting ready to reenter the work force soon, it is good to look at these moments and admit to myself what the biggest challenge has been of staying at home. Yet, I don't regret it for a moment. But, I'm ready to shake things up....

Imagine if you will...the ubiquitous egg frying in a pan. And the words: This is CRACK. This is your Mommy on CRACK. No, that is not how the original ad went, but maybe how it should have gone. The egg sizzling and frying to a crisp in the pan is basically...my brain, mommy brain. Some days are so friggin' miraculous. And some are so full of frustration and anger and yes...disappointment and then GUILT. Because, here I have this amazing life. I am at home with my children - something I dreamed of, and don't have any regrets about. I am here. I am with them. I try as hard as I can to be in the moment with them as much as possible. But, there is a very real feeling of ...is this right? Is there something wrong with me that I don't feel incredibly fulfilled? Staying home is definitely about them. I think Moms or Dads staying home are doing it for the kids. Not for themselves, although we may convince ourselves that we are doing it for the greater good. I guess I'm trying to find some kind of peace with it. It is hard. And I am striving, constantly striving to be an adult and realize that yes, it is not supposed to be about me - and my fulfillment. I live fully knowing that I don't have regrets about being at home, yet I do have conflicts within myself about it. It is their time. Not mine. But, God...I understand so much more now. I understand the Valium housewives of the 60's, the affairs, the great, gnawing need to just bust out of yourself and feel alive! I get that. So, here I am busting out - hoping that by writing these things down and acknowledging these conflicting feelings that I will find something within myself that makes me whole. It is too facile a solution and so bloody desperate to go outside of yourself to fulfill the emptiness within. The challenge, the journey has to be to find "it" within myself. And of course none of this is new news or original or even very interesting, but it is what it is and grasping for "the crack" or whatever that may be at the moment is always tantalizingly near.

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Blog posts are little snapshots into our lives

WARNING: MY VERBIAGE RUNNETH OVER...

Mrs. G wrote a very thoughtful post yesterday on the boundaries of blogging, called Boundaries, Anyone? She raised several issues in her post and ended with this paragraph, "What are your feelings, reader, about the boundaries of blogging? Is your blog open to the public or your immediate family? Do you occasionally tip-toe or do you feel it's your life, your blog, your story to tell in whatever manner you choose...warts and all?"

I've been wrestling with these questions since I read her post. Just how do I feel about boundaries and my writing here, open to any who care to find me on the Internet? It is an interesting question and one for me that needs further exploration.

When I first started this blog, late last spring, I didn't tell anyone about it. There was something so freeing about the ability to just empty my thoughts onto a page and post it out into the world. Like sending little messages in a bottle, wondering if someone would find it and for a moment feel a connection through a message from a stranger. It was during a period of time in which I felt both suppressed and invisible. Suppressed because it had been many, many years since I had expressed myself creatively - other than the brief period of time that I took up painting to deal with the pain of infertility, or wrote my spiritual autobiography to share with a small, intimate group at a Covenant I class at church. Make no mistake, this suppression was self-inflicted.

In the last few years, my entire life has been about being a mother and a wife. And overall this path has been glorious and I wouldn't trade it for the world. But, as a woman and as a wife and mother, you are "trained" to put everyone else's needs before your own and you often lose track of who you are. Especially choosing to stay at home, despite the playgroups, the wonderful friendships made with other mothers and the variety of activities that fill your day. I think that it is extremely challenging to find something that is just for you - something to cherish and hold close - that is not within your role of a mother or wife. And I found that separateness, that fluid channel through blogging.

For me, my blog is a place to exercise my writer's muscles. To stretch and grow, to blunder and smash my face, to at times rip myself down the middle and show my insides - when I'm brave enough. It is therapy. It is a way of staying sane. Because I couldn't stay quiet anymore. It is my mini-course. My salvation. And most importantly, it is my connection to other people who might hear an echo into their own souls, as I have heard the echos in their writing, in their blogs. A sense of community. As if riding together on the crest of a wave that starts out far at sea, gathers momentum and then slams onto the beach. Do it. Just to make sure that you are still ... Awake. Alive. Present. Do it, because it feels good not to keep it all inside. Do it, because in the end it doesn't really matter - it is just words flung out, into the wind - maybe sticking, probably not. It is just not all that important, other than that it fulfills you. And that is important. To you.

It seems ironic to me that although I was having some kind of identity crisis, and feeling that I had lost a part of myself since I had become a mother, I chose to start a Mommy Blog. And to write about that part of my life. Yet, you write what you know and I do know about being a mom. I am reassured that I am recording the moments with my children somewhere, for the moments are so fleeting. Perhaps someday I will have the courage to write about something a little less personal, a little more interesting and something that bears more weight. For now, this satisfies and feeds my soul.

My husband, E, encouraged me to open up my blog to family members. At first I was a bit resistant. The idea of it was scary, vulnerable to do so. When I was an actress that was always the case for me. Far easier to perform to a packed house of strangers than for my family. Maybe because strangers don't have preconceived notions of who you are and their comments on your life tend to hurt less, if critical. And to mean more if in praise. Hey, someone out there likes me! And they don't really know me, so that must mean they really like me! A.K.A. Sally Field's Oscar acceptance speech. So, I did invite family members to come to my blog and some of them visit and some don't. And that is good, because somehow it feels balanced. And I don't have to repeat stories about the kids again in emails!

I fear that I teeter back and forth between tip-toeing and flipping my skirt up and saying, WHOOOHOO look at my panties! I am both of those people. My children are getting a little older now and I am more conscious of them having the ability to someday read what I wrote about my life with them. I would never want to hurt them in any way. And my relationship with my husband is off limits, yet I touch on things that hopefully he will not feel threatened by. Having his respect is crucial and vital to me.

I hope that I have not been guilty of airing dirty laundry. Maybe some stained laundry, but not dirty laundry. That holds no interest for me. Somehow there seems an agenda behind those kind of posts. An agenda that begs to blow up in your face.

Mrs. G's post has stayed with me and weighed on me until I had to sit down and write about this. It has gotten me thinking more about what I want out of blogging and is there a purpose to it, other than just using it as a vent or outlet for creativity. Perhaps it is meant to be temporary, to bridge the jump between writing about things banal and then really taking a risk and trying to write something more concrete - like a book. Perhaps it will be just another creative venture that dies out... All I do know is that it is a journey that I relish and hopefully will make me a more interesting person to my children, when they think of me someday as someone who had her own interests. Created her own fire in the belly. Even if it was pretty messy on some days. Because life is messy. That's why they invented baths. Blog posts are little snapshots into our lives. And everyone uses different lenses.

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