Stephanie Dolgoff's Blog, page 10

Is it really better to know what comes next?

My grandma Pauline, of the Bronx-transplanted mauve Lincoln-driving Floridian maternal grandparents who died when I was in my 20s, adored Mentos, specifically the mint kind in the blue tube. She kept them in her purse, in her cabinets, in her night table and, of course, in her gigantic mauve Lincoln. When I was a kid, I loved pillaging the Mentos, because they were addictive and there were always more, somewhere.

Today in the gym I saw a commercial for Mentos Rainbow. The ad shows a couple at home; the woman spots a spider and wigs, so the dude sneers at her like she's a wuss and goes to squash the spider, who grabs him by his index finger and cartoonishly flings him against the wall bookcase and the floor on either side of him, finally smashing him into the coffee table and dragging him out the door.

And then the tagline: "It's better to know what's coming next."

The idea being that the candies in Mentos Rainbow are in color and flavor order, and represented as such on the package, so you're spared that hideous, crippling anticipatory anxiety you get with, say, Lifesavers in the assorted pack.

You know how harrowing that can be. At any time, you could go for a Lifesaver and be surprised–seriously thrown!–by a too-tart lime Lifesaver, when you were hoping for a cheerful cherry or perky pineapple. That can leave you popping Xanax and dialing your shrink for a special emergency session.

When I think of the focus groups and the marketing meetings and the R&D dollars that must have been devoted to the decision to put the Mentos in predicable order I get a little sad.

"In an uncertain world," the pitchman likely declared, flashing through a Powerpoint presentation showing bombs exploding in Iraq, unemployment lines in Rhode Island and Michigan, and sullen Goth teens, any of whom could borrow your eyeliner without asking, "People want to be able to rely upon their candy eating experience, at least, being a calm one. Gentlemen, I present to you, "rainbow" Mentos." (Uncertain silence around the corporate conference table until Mr. Mento himself begins nodding. His lackeys likewise start bobbing their heads and soon the entire board breaks out into applause. "Rainbow" Mentos are a go! Whew. The world feels like a safer place already.)

Grandma Pauline had a hell of a time with uncertainty, and I have inherited that trait. Intolerance for uncertainty seems to magnify with Formerlydom, and is in part temperamental, at least as far as I can tell. Going through a separation, and not knowing so, so much about what happens next has been enormously stressful. Like, hair-falling-out, hard-time-concentrating, sleeping difficulties stressful. Will the kids weather it OK? Will I? When will our living arrangements be finalized? All the financials? What will the next chunk of time bring? Will my hair grow back? These are things I'd really like to have answers to.

But the Mentos ad got me thinking, is it really better to know what comes next? I get anxious, and the big scary stuff, sure, I could use a little certainty.

Still, too much knowing what would happen next sounds deadening to me. As scary as this separation is, as much uncertainty as there is right now, I don't want the next 40 years laid out for me in color and flavor order.

In fact, I don't want to know for sure there are Mentos in seven different locations in my home, so I will never be without. I might enjoy feeling the lack of the Mentos when I need them, to have to scramble for my Mentos. It might make me feel alive. And I sure don't want to know which Mentos I'm going to pull out of the pack next. I'm wild that way. I'm living on the edge. That might change when I move to Florida and start driving a mauve something-or-other. But for now, that's how I roll.

How 'bout you? Where's your line between anxiety and desire for predictability and being risk averse to the point of being asleep on your feet? Is life better "like a box of chocolates," per Forest Gump, or like a tube of Mentos Rainbow? I'd like to know.

Is it really better to know?

My grandma Pauline, of the Bronx-transplanted mauve Lincoln-driving Floridian maternal grandparents who died when I was in my 20s, adored Mentos, specifically the mint kind in the blue tube. She kept them in her purse, in her cabinets, in her night table and, of course, in her gigantic mauve Lincoln. When I was a kid, I loved pillaging the Mentos, because they were addictive and there were always more, somewhere.

Today in the gym I saw a commercial for the Mentos Rainbow. The ad shows a couple at home; the woman spots a spider and flips out, so the dude sneers at her like she's a wuss and goes to squash the spider, who grabs him by his index finger and cartoonishly flings him against the wall bookcase and the floor on either side of him, finally smashing him into the coffee table and dragging him out the door.

And then the tagline: "It's better to know what's coming next."

The idea being that the candies in Mentos Rainbow are in color and flavor order, and represented as such on the package, so you're spared that hideous anticipatory anxiety you get with, say, Lifesavers in the assorted pack.

You know how harrowing that can be. At any time, you could go for a Lifesaver and be surprised–seriously thrown!–by a too-tart lime Lifesaver, when you were hoping for a cheerful cherry or perky pineapple. That can leave you popping Xanax and dialing your shrink for a special emergency session.

When I think of the focus groups and the marketing meetings and the R&D dollars that must have been devoted to the decision to put the Mentos in predicable order I get a little sad. "In an uncertain world," the pitchman likely declared, flashing through a Powerpoint presentation showing bombs exploding in Iraq, unemployment lines in Rhode Island and Michigan and sullen Goth teens, "People want to be certain about their candies, at least. Gentlemen, I present to you, "rainbow" Mentos." (Uncertain silence around the corporate conference table until Mr. Mento himself begins nodding. His lackeys likewise start bobbing their heads and soon the entire board breaks out into applause. "Rainbow" Mentos are a go! Whew. I feel better already.)

Grandma Pauline had a hell of a time with uncertainty, and I have inherited that trait. Intolerance for uncertainty seems to magnify with Formerlydom, and is in part temperamental, at least as far as I can tell. Going through a separation, and not knowing so, so much about what happens next has been enormously stressful. Like, hair-falling-out, hard-time-concentrating, sleeping difficulties stressful. Will the kids weather it OK? Will I? When will our living arrangements be finalized? All the financials? What will the next chunk of time bring? Will my hair grow back? These are things I'd really like to have answers to.

But the Mentos ad got me thinking, is it really better to know what comes next? I get anxious, and the big scary stuff, sure, I could use a little certainty.

Still, too much knowing what would happen next sounds deadening to me. As scary as this separation is, as much uncertainty as there is right now, I don't want the next 40 years laid out for me in color and flavor order.

In fact, I don't want to know for sure there are Mentos in seven different locations in my home, so I will never be without. I might enjoy feeling the lack of the Mentos when I need them, to have to scramble for my Mentos. It might make me feel alive. And I sure don't want to know which Mentos I'm going to pull out of the pack next. I'm wild that way. I'm living on the edge. That might change when I move to Florida and start driving a mauve something-or-other. But for now, that's how I roll.

How 'bout you? Where's your line between anxiety and desire for predictability and being risk averse to the point of being asleep on your feet? Is life better "like a box of chocolates," per Forest Gump, or like a tube of Mentos Rainbow? I'd like to know.

And so I laughed, as I have learned to do

My hair is long, but I noticed this morning in the shower that the ends were nowhere near my nipples. That was the gauge I used when I was younger to know if I needed a haircut: If my hair hit or went past my nipples in the shower, it was probably time for a trim.

Yes, well. My hair is just as long as it normally is when I am due for a haircut. I had no choice but to conclude (and not for the first time) that my nipples must be lower. Yes, well.

And so I laughed, as I have learned to do at such silliness, and decided that perhaps if I grow my hair even longer, maybe I'd create an optical illusion and my breasts would look as if they were riding higher.

I mulled that over as I got ready to take the girls to school, the usual mad rush of figuring out how to cover my body and my under eye circles, while shouting direction into the living room ("Brush  hair! Shoes on!") I had just thrown their painstakingly crustless toast was in the toaster, and I asked them to let me know when it dinged, so I could prep it for them and then get back to dressing.

It dinged, they called me, and I ran out, topless, my bra around my waist. "Oooh!" they said, mock shocked. "Oooh!" I said back. It was nothing they hadn't seen before. I'm not modest, and we're all gals. As I approached the kitchen, I scrambled to pile everything into the bra where it belonged.

As they ate, I went back to dressing. A few minutes later, in walks Sasha, with the drawing above. Sasha is normally very proud of her work, but this she handed to me drawing-side down, with a sneaky giggle and then she scampered away. My breasts evidently point straight down like arrows on a Caution: Men Working construction sign. But as you can see, my eyes are larger than my breasts, and have big hearts as pupils.

And so I laughed, as I have learned to do at such silliness, and tried to find the hearts in my eyes in the mirror. Lo and behold, there they were.

What do YOU suck at?

I was playing Battleship with my daughter Sasha tonight, and she got very frustrated when the weird flat ship that looks like a garbage barge wouldn't stay on the board. In case you also haven't played since 1977, the peg board on which you stick your little ships is now vertical and needlessly fancy. I might be misremembering, but I think it was horizontal back in the day, which boded better for the ships staying put for the bombs to hit them.

Anyway, after trying and failing to keep it on three times, she got fed up and said she didn't want to play anymore.

Good Mommy angel sitting on my left shoulder: "This is a teachable moment! She should learn to manage her emotions and not give up when something isn't going perfectly! Call upon your vast God-given reserves of maternal patience and encourage her to persevere!"

Bad Mommy angel, sipping a glass of wine, hacking her way through an entire wheel of Brie on my right: "F**k it. It's almost bedtime. Kid's tired. You're tired. iCarly is on. Cut her a break. Have some cheese. She can learn that lesson some other time, maybe in school, where you won't have to teach it to her."

In the end, Bad Mommy angel more or less won out, although I did make Sasha clean up the game, and resolved to talk her through it next time.

Still, I could almost hear the inevitable Fox News commentator ranting about how kids these days are weak and dependent and how that will lead to the future failure of this country in the global marketplace and it'll all be the fault of cheese-eating moms like me who didn't lay on the tough love when we had the chance.

But here's the thing: I come from a personal culture of self-improvement and perfectionism, and my default in my teens and 20s and into my 30s was to do whatever it took to become better/smarter/prettier/thinner. Some of it was unhealthy and most of it was a waste of energy and time, most of all because there was no such thing as good enough, so I never got to feel good. It's taken me until I became a happy Formerly to give up on the idea that I need to be constantly improving myself. It's a huge relief, and get to eat a lot more cheese now that I'm done believing that I have to try so hard.

Of course whether you need to improve in a particular area depends where you start–I needed to calm down and give myself the opportunity to be human like everyone else. And there are certainly those who don't try hard enough and give up too easily. But because I still have a bit of the self-improvement slave driver in me, I thought, why not make a list of things I suck at, that I'm perfectly fine with sucking at.

Mine is below. PLEASE tell me what you suck at, and why you don't really care that you suck at it.

1. I'm a sucky cook. (But I'm an excellent dishwasher loader, so it usually works out.)

2. My handwriting is terrible. Big whoop.

3. I have never sent out a holiday card. No one cares! I think they'd care if I did and then stopped, but I'm under the radar of expectations on that one.

4. I need a calculator to tabulate a tip. Old me: You should be able to do it yourself. New me: That's what calculators are for.

5. I often have inappropriate feelings for a given occasion. Luckily I'm not bad at keeping them to myself.

6. Winter sports–feh! I excel at lanyard, however.

Oh, gee, there are too many to list. I suck at writing when it's bedtime, which it is. Please, celebrate your suckitude in the comment area.

photo CC derekGavey

Changes

I committed the classic Formerly Facebook blunder this morning. I was trying to hide my relationship status, and in so doing, announced to the universe (my tiny universe, but one which includes over a thousand people because of friends I've made through the book) that "I was no longer married!!!!" with a big freakin' red heart next to it. Ugh. Of course I tried to fix it by putting that I was married, but all that did was call attention to the fact that I'd been futzing with my status and something was up.

Well, something is up. My husband and I are separating after almost ten years, with caring and friendship and our daughters front and center of our consideration. For those of you who read my book, this might come as a bit of a surprise, but of course, things change and despite everyone's best intentions and a boatload of effort, marriage can be a bear and separating winds up being the best of two crappy options.

I managed to delete the news feed items on Facebook and adjusted my privacy settings to simply not offer a relationship status, so I don't need tech tips. What I do need is perspective from the Formerly Married among you about adjusting to this new real life status. Thanks in advance.

Book Group Questions!

Hi, kids,

Folks have been asking me for book group questions, so I thought I'd toss out a few. If you have good ones that I'm missing, please comment below.

Also, a reminder that I'm happy to Skype into book groups of 6 or more who are reading My Formerly Hot Life and lead the discussion.

1. Have you had a "Formerly" moment? What was the moment you realized that you were no longer exactly young?

2. What are some of the things that you were but are no longer? How many are true losses, and which are you glad to have left behind?

3. What are some of the things you've gained over time that you wouldn't trade?

4. Do you feel a pressure to "embrace your age" now that you're on the other side of young? Is that a good thing? Or does that place just as much pressure on women as the whole "look/act younger" push?

5. What do you think of the whole "cougar" and MILF trend? Wonderful expression of female sexuality at any age or barfworthy marginalizing of "older" women to fuel some male Hollywood fantasy? Or something in between?

6. The term "Formerly" didn't sit well with some people, who felt they weren't "formerly" hot and that was an insult. Do you feel as hot as you used to? Hotter? Equally but differently hot? Has your definition of hot changed over time?

7. Would you swap places with your 20something self? Why or why not?

Tickle me Formerly

If you believe, as evolutionary biologists do, that most everything we do, feel or have dangling from our bodies must have served some evolutionary purpose, you may have wondered what the deal is with tickling.

Me, I have never wondered such a thing. I don't have time to pee most days (I do understand the evolutionary purpose of a large-capacity bladder) let alone ponder the purpose tickling might have served in our development into the big-brained bipeds we are today. I have, however, wondered, as Milton Berle once quipped, why, if evolution really worked, do moms only have two hands? Good question, right?

Apparently some people, like my friend PT, who sent me this link, and this blogger at Popular Science, do have time to think about tickling. So you don't need to take the time to read it (go pee instead), it has to do with social bonding.

The last line did catch my eye, though:

In adulthood, tickling trails off around the age of 40. At that point, the fun stops; for reasons unknown, tickling seems to be mainly for the young.

I know this is a bit reductionist, but perhaps we become Formerlies because we don't get enough tickling!

As for the reasons being unknown, they're not: Past 40, we're too busy tickling our kids, if we have them, to get tickled. What's more, it's unlikely our partners (who may not get that many opportunities to touch our bodies these days) are going to let the window for sex close while they're going for big tickle. Tickle time is also limited if you fall asleep during Modern Family, even though it's so, so good.

Hey, I'm game! Retin-A, human growth hormone, Acai berries and Botox (and everything else they claim will keep us young if we slather it, take it, eat it, pay for it and inject it, respectively) might be fine, but I, for one, am going to try tickling. Laughter, a stress reliever, might just keep my cells from pumping out the grays (I noticed at least 10 new ones this week!) I'll let you know what effect it has on my smile lines.

Photo by Jer CC

Start off the New Year slacking!

I am so over resolutions, and so I'm not even going to comment on the fact that the new year is starting much like the last one ended–with the best of intentions and my giving myself a gigantic break for not doing it all, getting it all right and/or having it all, which is a big pile of horse hooey anyway, n'est pas?

In any case, my girls had a friend over for the holiday and they made it until 11:30 while I crashed at 9:30, after begging my own mom to stay up to put them to bed, which she did. Thank whom or whatever you believe in for moms, my own and (most) everyone else's. I can only hope that my girls say the same thing about  me from time to time.

I think they do. I took them to see Yogi Bear in 3D yesterday, which was pure maternal sacrifice. The worst! Several 3D spit-takes and a soul-sucking vacuum where there should have been humor. I left the theater nothing but two hours older than when I went in. But they enjoyed it.

We also saw Tangled a couple of weeks ago, which of course had the scary vampiric mom/kidnapper who kept Rapunzel hidden away so she could use her captive's magical hair to stay young and creepy, as opposed to old and creepy.

In real life, of course, kids keep us young on the inside (I like making Play-doh families far more than they do) while leaving us less time to do pilates and cover our grays. Then again, much less time to worry about doing pilates an covering our grays, which is a huge gift, as far as I'm concerned.

So Happy New Year, all! Here's to more play, more Play-doh and greater appreciation for all we do and, more important, try to do in 2011!

Someone put a sock in that kid

I had a reading at a friend's house and met Nancy, the mom of my friend's husband. She was a gorgeous green-eyed, grey-haired could-be Eileen Fisher model–the kind of woman we all hope to look like when we're old enough to be somebody's husband's mother.

Anyway, we were all sitting around swapping Formerly stories and she told me this one: Her 6-year-old grandson sidled up to her, climbed on her lap and asked what "those" were.

I'm sure this has happened to you if you have children in your life. "Those" or "That" invariably means some less-than-desirable aspect of your body that looks like nothing the adorable little whelp has ever seen before. The question is always asked in that curious, dispassionate tone of a scientist seeking information: no judgment, but a bit of awe and maybe a pinch of horror. My "those" have been at various times my ever-dilating pores, my varicose veins and the little white fatty bumps under my eyes.

In Nancy's case, "those" were the lines on her neck. So Nancy patiently explained that those were called wrinkles ("Yay! Kids, can you say wrinkles?"). If she wanted to, Nancy told him, she could go to a doctor get her skin cut open and have her flesh yanked back so the wrinkles looked smooth. (Nancy pulled the skin of her neck back to demonstrate as she told me the story. Even that looked painful.)

"So I asked him: Should I? And do you know what he said?" Nancy asked. "He said, 'Oh, no, grandma. Then it wouldn't match your eyes."

And you know what? Grrr, but he was right.

There's a Johnny Cash song about a Detroit auto worker who assembles his car from parts stolen one by one off the assembly line where he worked for years. It's called One Piece at a Time. That's what some women look like after à la carte surgical procedures–parts of them look older than the other parts, and the result is the plastic surgery version of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. This is no blinding insight and mostly I just wanted an excuse to mention the song, so thanks for indulging me.

Photo from Creative Commons CC

A quickie

Buying a bottle of wine yesterday, I was waiting on line to pay, when the clerk at the liquor store carded the couple in front of me. "Whoever's paying, I gotta see some ID," he said. "Sorry–can't see much of your face with the hat on." The woman–30, tops–fished out her license, showed him and left with her purchase.

"Now you have to ask me or I'll be offended," I joked. The guy smiled and laughed, and rang up my wine. I thought the joke had reached its natural conclusion.

But as I gave him my money, he said, "Can I see some ID?"

"Oh, I was kidding," I said, chuckling. "You really didn't have to ask." Nonetheless, I fished out my license. It all happened so fast, but I did have a second of wondering, maybe he is asking because there's a chance–however minute–that I could be younger than 21. As an upstanding alcohol merchant, he must trust but verify. Why would he ask otherwise? He knew I'd been joking. I handed him my license, which, since I rarely drive, hasn't seen the light of day since the last time I had it renewed.

He didn't take it. "Yeah, I was kidding too," he said. "Have a nice night."

Baaaahahahaha! The wine was good, anyway.

Photo by Quinnanya CC