Stephanie Dolgoff's Blog, page 6

Formerly "That Girl"

Yip, that was me: Married to my soul mate, educated, skyrocketing career, copious friends, 2.25 children and a picket fence. My friends often called me "that girl," as in "she's that girl you love to hate or hate to love. The girl who has it all."

I really did have it all. Until my marriage ended with a brick–a literal brick. You can't make this sh*t up, right? (The crazy backstory is on my blog, www.mikaleebyerman.wordpress.com, if you're curious.)

But in my 2.0 version, I'm redefining my "that-girl" image after my blindsiding divorce. I still have the world's crazy-coolest children and a successful writing career. But now, I embrace the oddities the universe is throwing my way–and I'm writing a book about 'em. From overdramatic dead squirrels to a New Year's Eve spent fixing broken penises (peni?) to my ex's new wife starting a blog to mock my blog: It's been a roller coaster ride, but I'm in the front row, arms up and only screaming occasionally.

Thank you for allowing us to embrace our "formerly" and our "finally." Here's to our versions 2.0, 3.0, 4.0, etc. Can't wait to read your book!

Ms. Menopause

I have a frenemy. This is a woman with a boob job that she swings in every man she meets.  She likes to share scantily clad pictures of herself on Facebook.  She lives for opportunities to outshine other women; it's like a sickness with her.  So imagine the moment of pure shining joy I felt when I saw tiny beads of sweat on her store-bought bosom.  But wait, it's not hot in here–ohhhhh, YES, YES, YES!  The she-devil will soon face the joy of watching her tattoo slip down her side like a glob of jelly; glimmering with the sweat of her ever more frequent hot flashes.  I may be formerly hot, but not that hot ; )

When "bad" words are good

This morning, I was emailing a woman with whom I'm working on a project, and remarked that I was so "effing excited" about our venture.

After I hit send, I could almost hear that deflated-sounding sitcom music ("Wah wah waaaaaah!") indicating disappointment or something falling pathetically flat. "Effing excited" struck me as utterly and completely Formerly.

I didn't even have the passion to type the actual curse word, or even the comic book version with all the symbols and then correct myself like I used to, working hard to restrain the expression of my irrepressible emotions to within the bounds of appropriateness.

No, I unthinkingly censored myself down to "effing excited," because the instinct to spew true obscenities has been socialized–quietly and metaphorically bled–right out of me by time, children and just general Formerlydom. And while not cursing may be more polite (I have also recently said "SUGAR!" instead of the other word, even when there were only adults present) it makes me feel a little ancient. I don't think I like the way this is trending.

Here's why: Once you lose the instinct to curse, I think, something in you gets dampened or extinguished altogether, and you start not minding that the wine sucks or that someone cut you in line or that the world is owned by a handful of banks and that people are hungry and jobless and that the only thing that is marketed to a woman your age is artificial sweetener, antidepressants and discounted trips to theme parks. We should mind all those things, not just accept them as mildly un-good.

My fear is that when the instinct to curse goes, it means that you no longer even have the intensity of emotion that curse words used to express…I'm not ready for that! Because on the flip side of strong negative emotions, there are strong positive ones. I will be really sad when things are no longer fucking awesome, but merely "nice," or even worse, "pleasant."

Not that I was ever one of those women who thought it was sexy to curse like a sailor, but when I was in my 20s, I reveled in the freedom to use the vocabulary I thought best expressed my emotional state, even if they were not SAT words. If my language shocked the listener into paying attention, then it had the intended effect, was my attitude. Labeling words "good" or "bad" seemed to me beside the point. Did they say what you meant to say? Yes? Then they're not "bad" words. Rude, vulgar, sure. But "bad?" No such thing.

As I got older, I was happier and and so had less need for profanity. With the exception of a wine-fueled vent session with friends about the asinine behavior of someone's boss, ex or in-law over the years, my cursing is mostly involuntary, limited to when I gash myself mowing through the meadow of leg hair that months of neglect has yielded and drip blood all over my white IKEA towels.

And then along came my daughters. How ironic that just when you most need to curse–among the many joys of motherhood are a million indescribable frustrations involving unflushed toilets–you can't, because you don't want your kids exposed to that kind of language. Like sex and tequila, I don't believe cursing is  appropriate for kids, who are learning judgment and limits and nuance. In due time my girls  will discover the up- and downsides of sex, tequila and calling someone a f&^kwad, but for now it's origami fortune tellers, skateboarding and Brownie troops.

So the other day, my daughter was doing her homework and erased a gash into her math handout, tearing the paper through to the table. "Dang it!" she muttered, then looked at me for my reaction.

I didn't know quite what to do, actually. She hadn't cursed, technically. She had pseudo-cursed, said the equivalent of "effed up." Her emotions were the same as if she had cursed: She was understandably frustrated. Empathizing with what she was feeling seemed more important at that moment than  correcting her down to "darn it." So I got her some tape. I knew, though, that if she said "dang it" in school, it would not go over well.

I'm at a bit of a loss here. Is any attempt to control the language in a kid or an adult, for that matter, an attempt to squelch the passion that to me is a sign of life, youth and vitality, no matter how old you are? And what about pseudo-cursing? I'd rather my kids scream "phooey" than the other word, but isn't it essentially the same emotional expression, and if so, what's the difference how they say it? One women wrote to me to say she loved my book but was offended that I used the word "fuck" in the chapter about health called The Big Metabolic Fuck You. But what my body did post 40 felt to me like it was waving it's middle finger at me and screaming those words, and so it seemed a propos to express it that way. Is it like, love the sinner, hate the sin (love the emotion, hate if it comes out all covered in venom?)

And most to the point, is not cursing a sign that you are flat-lining emotionally with age or oversocialization, have simply gotten more polite and respectful, which is good, neither or both?

Your thoughts would be so welcome, especially since it's been so long since I've posted. I've missed you guys, so please, weigh in!

Photo by rtgregory CC

See you in the funny papers!

Thanks to Amy who clipped this for me from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Not sure if Terri Libenson is a reader or if she inadvertently had the same thought.

Not for nothing, S.A.D., or Still A Doll, per this strip, are my initials. My mom swears she didn't do it on purpose, but knowing how strongly anti-monogramming she is, I'm pretty sure she's lying.

In the feast phase

Hi, all,

I have been nuts with work, for which I am beyond grateful, considering the state of the economy and how many capable people are scratching the dusty ground for whatever they can get. Like many things in life in these middle years, it's not the way it should be, but it's the way it is. I'm loathe to turn any stories down, even though I'm cranking into the nights and weekends, because I don't know if I'll be cycling into famine any time soon.

Still, I didn't want anyone to start Googling me to make sure they hadn't missed my obit. Below, a piece I did for Redbook that got a lot of love.

Please Don't Call This a Revenge Body
By Stephanie Dolgoff







Photo Credit: Dori Klotzman


Special Offer

I can see the tabloid magazine story now: Jennifer Lopez or some other recently divorced celeb is pictured going to work or herding her kids into the car. The headline reads, "Looking good is the best revenge!" and a "source close to the star" is quoted as saying that the ex is eating his heart out with chopsticks over her new, slimmer-than-ever body but that she's too busy shopping for expensive clothes in absurdly tiny sizes to notice.

Yes, well. I'm here to tell you that that's not how it is. Like me, these women are on the divorce diet, and I do not recommend it.

READ THE WHOLE THING ON REDBOOK'S SITE.

Too funny

In case you haven't seen.

So not special

Early readers of this blog (and my book) might remember a post I did on jeans shopping and how traumatic (in that not-traumatic-compared-to-a-breast-biopsy-but-still-no-fun way) it can be.  In case you don't or have time to click the above link, I joked about how rather than wearing jeans that say "Young, Fabulous and Broke" on the label, we Formerlies should wear jeans that expressed our true life experience. Things like:

Nothing to Prove Jeans

I Forgot More than You'll Ever Know Jeans

Talk to Me When You're 30 Jeans

and May Need Some Help Getting Pregnant These Days Jeans.

There were more. They cracked me up to write, mainly because they were about where we're at now, how it's actually kind of cool that we're here in this ridiculous but more peaceful place, and you know what? We still look A-OK in jeans, as long as they've got a little Lycra in 'em. No self-improvement required.

Anyway, so I'm at the gym today kidding myself that I'm exercising and on comes this totally irritating Special K commercial in which this attractive Formerly is jeans shopping.

Lo and behold, the jeans have labels that say "Confident!" and "Sassy!" and a few other things we would ideally like to feel when we pull our denim up over our somewhat less perky than before asses. She picks up a pair, hugs it, smiles and feels more "Confident!" and "Sassy!" already.

The inane voice-over says something about how it would be really great if women could focus on how great jeans make them feel when they fit and not on the number on the label.

Right. Even though the whole point of the ad was to reinforce the idea that to feel "Confident!" and "Sassy!" you need lose weight, which, of course, you need Special K in order to do. Two thirds of a cup with skim milk and not a flake more. Special K will make your ass smaller, and from that comes the confidence and sass that will make your whole life better, your husband not cheat on you and your boss pick someone else to lay off in the next round of downsizing. From Special K, everything flows.

Yes, well.

It's just a little insulting, don't you think? That whole "Buy our product that reinforces  your insecurities even as we pretend to wish you freedom from such concerns" thing?

Look, I want my jeans to fit as much as the next gal. I certainly feel more confident, if not sassy, when they are zipped as opposed to bulging open with my underwear showing, and when there's not too much overhang.

But I'll be goddamned if I'm going to run out and buy Special K because it serves me up a big bowl of bulls*^t and calls it empowerment.

Leave me alone already. I'm a Formerly. I'd rather be mocked for caring even as much as I do about my jeans (which is much less than I did when I had more time and less butt) than to be condescended to.

Now excuse me while I go eat something. Maybe a cereal that respects me. Clearly I'm having a low blood sugar moment.

Well, shut my mouth!

I can admit when I'm wrong, and I've been doing a little happy dance all day because being wrong in this case is net positive for the many Formerlies who reside north of the Mason-Dixon.

You might recall that I wrote about the first time I was ma'amed a few years back, and how that was one of the first indications I had that my self-definition (as the young, relevant, in-the-know hot chick I'd been for the previous several decades) was just a wee bit out of sync with what people saw when they looked at 40something-year-old no-longer-groovy me. At that time, the good people of the South very kindly rose up to reassure me that the term ma'am, I was told is simply what nice boys are raised to call women who are not obviously teenagers, particularly ones who wear wedding rings.

Here's how I handled it back in 2009 when a nice young man (yes, yes, that sounds old, but that's what he was!) working at IKEA in Brooklyn ma'amed me.

I said, "Look, I'm going to give you a tip: I can tell you're from the South, but up here, women who may still think they're maybe young–even if they're kind of not–don't like to be called ma'am. If I were you, I'd err on the side of "miss," even if you're pretty sure they're married and have kids."

"Oh, no, I have to call them ma'am. It's what my mama taught me and my brothers. That's the way you show respect," he said. "I couldn't not say 'ma'am.'"

"I hear you, but in New York, part of showing respect is respecting people's vanity, and pretending that they're not old, you know?" I said.

"I guess I do, yes, ma'am."

It wasn't as if I didn't believe him, exactly, but it still smarted. Ma'am meant nothing more or less to me than "I do not want to have sex with you but if you recommended a brand of butter substitute to me in the supermarket I'd trust your opinion." Not so much where I wanted to live my life and still don't.

Fast forward two years later, and I'm spending a week working in Birmingham, Alabama, where I have been ma'amed up, down and sideways several times a day. At this point, I'm more used to it, and, like a boxer who has been pummeled for several rounds, I don't even really feel it anymore. Please, sir, may I have another?

And then: Last night, I was out at this Greek restaurant near my hotel, and the cute, ponytailed waiter was flirting as he took my order.

"This is a good place but between you and me, there's lots of good food here in Birmingham," he confided, leaning over the bar. "Not to be too forward, ma'am, but I'd be glad to take you around."

"Did you just call me ma'am?" I sputtered.

"What, now? Yes, ma'am," he answered, perplexed.

"But you were flirting with me!" I said. He looked a bit taken aback, like he was worried I was offended.

"Well, no, I mean, yes, I guess, but I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable…" he drawled.

It took a few minutes for me to untangle the whole thing for him, give him a little Northern Formerly perspective and explain my particular associations with the word ma'am, and to assure him that while no, I was not going to go out with him, I appreciated that the thought would cross his mind.

Then I realized that sounded too pathetic, so I had to explain that of course the thought would cross his mind–thanks, and why wouldn't it?–but that I didn't think a ma'am was someone one considered asking out, let alone having sex with.

He looked horrified, so then of course I had to back it up and blather on about how I know he wasn't trying to have sex with me, but that the thought might have occurred to him, and if it did, that was OK, flattering even, but…

It went on like that, me digging myself in deeper, until he couldn't wait to get away from me. But that was OK, because the cute ponytailed waiter at the Greek restaurant in Birmingham, Alabama, has forever uncoupled "ma'am" and "frumpy asexual female being" in my mind.

Thank you, kind sir.

Fan-freakin'-tastic

Crap.

I finally owned my need for reading glasses for things like the mouse type directions on hair care products and low-light menu reading. I even managed to find a cool-ish pair that doesn't make me feel like I'm about to turn into a Columbia professor's poet wife wearing her specs on a chain of chunky "ethnic" beads over a flowing batik blouse. I crack the requisite getting-old jokes when I search for them before reading my kids Harry Potter, and, as they've been trained, they chime in that I'm not, in fact, old.

In short, I'm rolling with it. Bumpily, but I'm rolling with it.

Until just now, that is. I was in the shower, and endeavoring to shave my pits, when I realized, I CANNOT SEE MY OWN ARMPIT HAIR BECAUSE MY ARMPIT IS TOO CLOSE TO MY FACE! You can't wear reading glasses in the shower!

Just what in the good gosh golly goddamn are we supposed to do? I mean, really!

Skipping dessert for now

The other night, a bunch of us were out at Souen, this superhealthy, macrobiotic restaurant near Union Square, which has been serving patchouli-scented, hummus-eating healthy people since the early '70s. This was at the request of my friend Julie, who is a vegetarian. The food was good (I had some garlicky greens) and as much as I love a good cheeseburger, I got really into that feeling of filling my body with something indisputably healthy. My dish was so tasty–truly tasty, not just tasty-for-healthy-food tasty–in fact, that I had fantasy flashes of revamping my life so as to incorporate more kale.

It was all good until dessert. Julie got some kind of soy-based pudding thingy with cacao in it, which didn't taste like pudding but wasn't horrible, either. To me, the best thing about it was that it wasn't good enough to compel you to finish it, thus making it low calorie.

Jen, however, ordered the cookie of the day, which was the driest, nastiest amalgam of pressed gains that had ever been baked at 350 degrees, with sesame seeds sprinkled on top where by all rights there should have been pretty artificially dyed pink and turquoise sprinkles or at the very least chocolate chips. It is pictured above. She took one tiny piece and shoved the plate away disdainfully.

We all took a crumb and tried it. If you looked around the table at that moment, you'd have seen five sour-faced women sliding their tongues along the roofs of their mouths like toddlers who were given strained spinach in lieu of the expected apple sauce.

My experience of the cookie was that the no doubt salubrious grains it was made of were sucking the saliva from the pink tissue of my mouth faster than I could generate it, forming a dry glob of matter that I couldn't swallow for lack of lubrication. It was like I had a ShamWow! in my mouth. I drank some water, which helped, but that was it for me.

At that moment, a lesson I had learned and re-learned over the last year since I split from my husband found new expression. The problem here was not that there was anything inherently wrong with this cookie, distasteful though it was. The problem was that it was called a cookie, and thus our expectation of it having all the positive properties of a cookie–sweetness, for example, or some kind of solid fat like, say, butter, which would have made the texture an enjoyable part of the sensory experience–was bound to be horribly disappointed.

The cookie was simply limited.

"If you don't think of it as a cookie," I suggested, "But rather as a fiber supplement or perhaps a hockey puck, it's not so bad," We laughed as well as we could considering our jaws were fused together with healthy cookie mortar.

Cookies are limited, like people are limited (myself perhaps more than most) like relationships are limited. Everything and everyone is limited, and if you recognize and accept the limitations of the cookie or person or relationship, you can access it a lot more accurately than if you're constantly hoping the cookie or person or relationship will turn out to be something it just cannot be. But if you shrug, stop eating the cookie after one bite or stop thinking of it as a cookie and eat the whole thing without any expectation of sensual pleasure, you'll be a lot less frustrated, and can even appreciate the so-called cookie for its colon cleansing properties.

Several of us around that table at Souen were recently separated, and one had divorced a decade ago. Jen is in a lovely new relationship, which is a different kind of transition, and is exploring a different set of limitations. One of the women is adjusting to her new, more respectful friendship with her ex (he's a better ex-husband than he was a husband, in her opinion). The problem was not with him or with my friend (limited though of course both human beings are) but the fact that they were married. Their marriage was limited.

I am still figuring things out with regard to my own marriage, but when I look back on how I was with my ex, I know for certain that I felt limited, that I could not be the self I wanted to be, a self that might have made our marriage better and both of us happier. I don't yet know if my limitations were because our relationship was called a marriage and that, perhaps, led to us having expectations of it that I could not meet. If it had remained a friendship, perhaps it would have been the most fulfilling friendship ever. Who knows?

All I know is that you shouldn't call something a cookie in the hopes that calling it so will make it so. You have to call things what they are, even if it means you don't get to eat it.