Stephanie Dolgoff's Blog, page 8

Give me a handle flush any day

Please, tell me I'm not the only one who gets sprayed in the butt on those autoflush toilets. Even if you have to  lie to me, tell me I'm not the only one. It serves me right for multitasking during the sacred act of peeing.

Today I was in the ladies room with my girls, one of whom was asking for a tissue from the next stall. I leaned forward to fish through my bag and sure enough, I get that unwelcome butt shower. It happens more often than not. UGH. Very unpleasant, even on a hot day. So I sat back properly and that action, too, set off the motion detector again! Double butt shower with I don't even want to think about what kind of germs in the water. Gross! It doesn't seem to happen to my daughters. Bring on the golden showers jokes.

I could launch into some semi-senile diatribe about how these newfangled toilets are for the birds and is it really too much to expect people to have the common civility to flush manually, that autoflush toilets are one more sign of the nanny state, blah blah blah. But I'll spare you today, because I like you and I'm trying to shed my grumpy mood. Butt shower didn't help, mind you. But I'm trying.

I hope you all have a nice, dry day.

Photo by Rev Dan Catt CC

Just checking

I have this tattoo I got maybe 10 years ago and it got a little smushy looking (it's on my lower back, so it's actually not smushy-looking because that body part got smushy-looking, which is always a risk with tattoos) and I went to get it touched up and filled in. I think that may be a Formerly thing–getting tattoos touched up, as opposed to getting tattoos. When you're a Formerly, it's all about tattoo maintenance, at least for me. I have no desire to get a new one; I just want the ones I have to not look like my kids grabbed at me with painty hands and I missed a spot in the shower. It hurt every bit as much as I remember, but that's not the point.

The point is, on the table next to me was this 30something guy with full sleeves, getting an otter (an otter!) etched into the mix of flowers and anchors and what not he had on his forearm. His girlfriend was sitting next to him to keep him company and distract him and they were chatting. There was nobody to distract me so naturally I eavesdropped.

"She writes checks! Like," and here he slowed his voice down like an old lady and used his free hand to simulate writing with a pen, " 'foooorrrty dollars and seventy-five cents,' like, she writes the whole thing out! And then on the memo line, she writes, 'groceries!'" Again with the old lady voice. His girlfriend thought that was hysterical.

Encouraged, he continued. "Then she's all, 'Wait, I have to write it on the register and deduct the amount from my balance,' " he said and looked at her with disbelief. She laughed even harder. "Omigod, like an old person!" she said.

I am not kidding. They weren't teenagers, either. They were full-on adults, clearly talking about someone who was young enough to know that writing checks, is just, like, cranking up a Victrola to listen to some tunes. Is it just me or are only the elderly writing checks?

Give it to me straight. It's OK if it is just me you have to tell me that I'm a big old loser and behind the curve on this one. I pay my bills online, but I do write checks, at least a couple a month. I suck at balancing my checkbook and don't always write things down, but I still think that would be wise. Why is this laughable?

If they'd been kids I'd have dismissed them as ignorant, but he went on to discuss his job and he appeared to be self-supporting. Help me out here. Have checks gone the way of cassette tapes?

Well, this doesn't suck!

From Deadline Hollywood, the announcement that ABC is, in fact, hopefully developing MFHL into a sitcom. CLICK HERE. "In development" means, well, folks are psyched on it and maybe there will be a pilot to look at. Fingers crossed, but very, very cool! The husband-and-wife writing team who are cranking away, Jon Hoberg and Kat Likkel, and the director set to work on it, Julie Anne Robinson, so thoroughly get the poignant plight of the Formerly that I feel confident that we'll be well represented.

So I need a favor.

When I was undergoing IVF, some 9 years ago, I pulled out all the stops to make sure those hard-won embryo blobs stayed up in my uterus where they had been so carefully placed by a team of reproductive medical professionals, implanted, and grew to be the sweet, funny, eye-rolling and Wii obsessed little girls who are right now sleeping on IKEA beds in the next room.

I took drugs, I got acupuncture, I had giant syringes of syrup-like progesterone shot in the muscle of my ass and "faced the fear in my uterus" with the help of a New Age practitioner. I also enlisted everyone I knew to pray for me, even though I am an atheist, because I read a study about devout Christians in Australia and North America praying for women undergoing IVF in Korea doubling their success rates. I have no idea what worked for me, but something sure did.

Just in case it was the prayer, do me the favor of sending some positive thoughts to whomever you pray about My Formerly Hot Life going to pilot. I'm not asking for twins–just one good go at this thing.

A belt-and-suspenders woman

There are two reasons your jeans slide down your butt and need to be hiked up as you walk your children up the stairs to their classrooms.

The first is that you've seamlessly integrated a healthy regimen of yoga, meditation and mindful kale-eating into your daily life that the pounds have melted off without your noticing, so focused are you on what's truly important in your oneness with the world.

The other is that, in the insanity of modern life–in my case, divorcing, moving, refurnishing, refurbishing, earning a living, caring for two kinetically energetic 8-year-olds and standing under the smoke alarm waving a piece of cardboard every time I try to cook in my new apartment–you've had a few too many what-the-hell moments. The pants are sliding down not because they are so roomy but because your belly is more comfortable sitting atop the waistband, rather than being painfully bisected by it. They bag a bit in the butt, because the butt part of the jeans is now closer to your upper thighs, but no belt is going to help you now.

Second category over here.

Photo by The Giant Vermin CC

Be my best B-list friend

My girls, who are 8, are heavy into the BFF thing, and who is the "best" BFF, as opposed to the "second best" BFF or the third changes weekly. When I point out that this obviates the need for the final "F" (which stands for forever, in case you haven't been following the tragic saga of former BFFs Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie over the years) and, for that matter, the B, I am met with the tolerant stares reserved for those to whom we must be extra kind because their mothers didn't love them enough to breastfeed.* Sigh. Eye-roll. Clearly I don't get it.

Ah, my children, but I do. Somewhere between second grade and Formerlydom, the friend hierarchy gets less explicit, but the damn thing still exists. We all have favorite friends, those we wish we saw more, those we feel the need to impart how important they are to us. Luckily, now that I'm a Formerly, there doesn't seem to be an urgent need to pick just one.

Only ten years ago, when I was in my early 30s, that wasn't true. I saw Bridesmaids the other night–snorted Diet Coke through my nose several times, which hurt a little–and recalled a little similar drama around my wedding, albeit much less madcap. I had no formal bridesmaids or Maid of Honor because I explicitly didn't like the idea of designating anyone to be my top friend or making them all wear the same thing, but I did have three close ones who all helped to organize the festivities. Even without tapping anyone to be head bitch, there were Behind the Music-style power struggles about where to do what and how much to spend and what would make the bride feel happy and loved. The whole thing was terribly stressful and finally I just let them sort it out while slipping bits of advice to each of them in hopes of keeping the peace. I didn't care what we did. I just wanted everyone to get together and give me hugs and advice and gift cards to Bed, Bath and Beyond.

Nowadays, though, things are blissfully easier. While I have tacit A-list friends and B-listers and even Cs and Ds, it appears that I'm on their corresponding lists. The drama only arises when someone's on your imaginary A List and you're on their B or C list and I can't remember the last time that happened. The key to social happiness as a Formerly is mutuality of friend rankings and the understanding that if an A-list friend flies in from L.A., it's more than OK to postpone a date with a B-list friend or even a local A-list friend, who becomes a B-lister for the duration of that friend's stay. Or you invite everyone and they kiss and screech and drink and then go home to relieve the babysitter and it's all good.

In second grade, though, things are freakin' harsh. The hierarchy is codified because the girls give out these little magnetic half-heart necklaces they sell at . One gives half one's current BFF, and then is in the excruciatingly awkward position of having to ask for the half back when things turn over. I find it awkward, anyway. Vivian doesn't seem to think it's a big deal to walk up to last week's BFF and explain that she is out like the recycling. She swears no one's feelings are hurt because everyone else is doing the same thing and so are busy reallocating their own alligences. It has happened to her, she claims, and she has relinquished her half-heart with no hard feelings.

Instinctively I think Vivian is wrong, and urge her to consider what it must feel like to the girls who are not even offered half a necklace. I remember being asked to figuratively hand over my half at her age (back then, in the year gimmel, when I was a child, there was no Claire's, although, yes, we had taxis and didn't have to make our own cheese, as Sasha once asked me). I suggest we buy enough (cheaper) candy necklaces for all the girls and prepare myself for the wrath of their moms who object to the artificial coloring. I can handle the heat. I'm a big girl.

Vivian agrees (candy!) and we're going to try it next week. I have a feeling, though, that somehow they'll find another way to codify their places on the food chains, and there will still be hurt feelings, along with sticky necks.

What do you think? Is this b.s. inevitable? Do you still have any friend drama now that you're of Formerly age?

*Normally I give my readers enough credit to know when I'm joking but there are some people out there who have Google alerts set up for those who would disparage this womanly art so they can instantly flame them. Allow me to be perfectly clear: If you don't breastfeed, you are a bad mother and you are setting your child up to be a sociopath and quite possibly stupid and obese. I don't care if you've had a double mastectomy or are male or work in an environment that makes it impossible for you to pump. If you loved your child enough you would find a way. Have a nice day.

It's just wrong

You can't barge into the bathroom when I'm getting ready to take a shower–my first 10 minutes to myself in 18 hours–and then scream, "Eeew, big, white naked mommy!!!!" at the top of your lungs.

You can barge in, and keep your pie hole shut. Or you can stay out of the bathroom and shriek your adorable observations about my body, the naked whiteness of which you will have been mercifully spared. You can't do both.

I mean, you can, but I really wish you wouldn't.

Third option entails me getting rich enough to afford my own bathroom, but that's a long term long shot. And the fourth…I can't go into that but it involves duct tape and quite possibly my local child welfare agency.

I'm having a yogurt. It calms me down.

Photo CC brianandjacklyn

The sofa as a metaphor for relationships

Today they tried to deliver my new couch and we found that the made-in-California plum softsuede behemoth didn't fit into my rinky-dink New York City elevator. The driver had to shlep it back to the warehouse. After thwacking myself repeatedly on the head for not measuring the elevator before ordering the couch (who measures elevators?) I spent the afternoon working on solutions.

Having it carried up 19 flights would have cost about half of what the sofa itself cost. Sending it back to the company for them to modify it would have cost hundreds in shipping and labor and I'd have no couch for another six weeks. The only thing that made sense is to have the couch's arm taken off and then reattached in my apartment.

Did you know that there are at least two dudes that do that in New York City alone? Amazing. I'm putting my faith and my couch in the hands of The Couch Doctor. He sounded confident and competent. When he comes on Wednesday, I will have to ask him if his mother goes around bragging about "my son, the couch doctor." Or maybe not so much.

Anyway, that got me thinking about how many times over the years I tried to make things fit when they just weren't meant to, and how (with the exception of this sofa, pictured above, because it's just so awesome) I will not do that anymore. Can't. Too busy and over it. Done.

When I was in my 20s, I went out with quite a few fixer-uppers (who understandably resented my attempts to fix them up) and others still who were just not quite right for me. If I really liked a guy, I'd try to shape-shift to conform to whatever I thought would be a good match for him, before realizing how pointless that was and moving on to what I hoped would be a more natural fit.  Being in my 20s, of course, meant I had to do this 30 or 50 times before the lesson stuck.

Or sort of stuck. I'm now 44 and going through a divorce, and the long and the short of why, from my perspective, is that I'd have had to take myself apart á la my couch and reassemble myself in order to fit into the marriage. The stakes were high (two kids and ten years) so my husband and I tried for many years to make it work. Ultimately, the marriage wasn't changing to accommodate me as-is, and I found that trying to wedge myself in was futile. I guess I needed to learn that lesson one last time.

But it's learned now, and one of the gifts of being on the other side of young is that I think it's finally going to stick. I am profoundly sick of pushing and trying to make things fit that just aren't meant to. I even gave away all the beautiful shoes I owned that no longer fit my expanding feet. They may have been beautiful, but if they hurt, that's not enough.

So fingers crossed for this sofa making it inside my apartment. Please send me your good sofa karma on Wednesday.

It's my birthday!

And I won't be doing THIS (which until the end for the climax…the music swells!)

And I won't be listening to opera while I'm NOT doing it. And I'm starting to think the way my body has "shifted and move around" is the way it should have been all along and that my 20s were the aberration, and that that's OK. I'm 44, half a piano, as my friend the pianist says. I'd like to be a whole piano and then some. And I STILL won't do this. Not that any sane person would.

Have a great day.

Yee haw.

Sorry it's been awhile. I moved (just across the street but it may as well have been to Utah, what with all the packing, purging and chaos) and had deadlines front, back and sideways, not to mention endless IKEA to assemble. A writer I know pointed out that they do big business in divorce and suggested that she and I approach them to do a "setting up your life post-split" mag-a-log (one of those magazines you pick up and kind of get into before you realize that they're one long single-sponsor ad and then just feel pissed that you spent the three minutes a day you have to read on a big ad). I think it would make a great parody. Stories like, "Loss, Love and Laminate," or "How to Furnish A Home Now that You're Poor." Yeesh.

No, but things are good. I'm at a very cheesy dude ranch in upstate New York with my daughters. My feeling about this trip was, if they're happy, I'm happy. Given all that's going on, if they wanted to eat fries at most meals, I'm not going to get all Scroogey and halve their portions like I usually do; if they want to play laser tag and pretend to repeatedly shoot one another, far be it from me to make the stink I normally would about how murder is, you know, bad; and if they wanted to sing Katy Perry at karaoke night, as long as they didn't actually realize they were singing about having crazy sex without regrets or, presumably, contraception, hell, I'm going to get into explaining it? Nope. Not this week. I decided to let up and lower my parenting standards just a hair. So far, no one is on drugs, obese or carving satanic pentagrams in the flesh of her arms.



I have to admit, though, that I was kvelling when Vivian opted to sing Sweet Home Alabama instead of Justin Bieber like the other girls. She got up there are pretty much belted it out her Skynyrd, and the parents my age were bopping along and singing backup, myself among them. You could almost picture us with our feathered hair and tube socks, feeling every bit the free birds we were at summer camp or whatever when we were 10. I felt coolish by extension. If a very hip almost eight year old could hold her head up and sing the song like it was on the cutting edge of popular culture, how lame could we be, right?

Except that she knows that song from having seen Despicable Me on Pay-Per-View. To her, life is one long animated soundtrack, where silly-evil cartoon characters voiced by Steve Carrell rock out to the classics that are so old that the estates of the band are trying to wring whatever cash they can out of the titles before only parents in their 40s think their music is worthy.

In fact, far from validating her mom's taste in music, I do believe that by singing that song between Selena Gomez's rendition of It's Magic and something by the girl who plays iCarly, she's declassified the classic and somehow made it as cheesy as the guy in the cowboy hat who brings us our Froot Loops each morning here at the ranch.

Ah, well. Like I said, it's about the kids, right? There will be a new classic that my girls will be appalled that their daughters have debased and I will let out a grandmotherly chuckle when the time comes. I don't expect that future classic will be by Justin Bieber. He's no Shaun Cassidy. That's all I'm saying.

This plain scared me

I'm in the middle of moving (big Formerly moment, sending out my new snail mail address and land line phone number, like I have more than five actual human friends who visit me elsewhere than Facebook) so this will be brief. I signed up for Groupon the other day and got this as an announcement for a salon discount:

"Left untended, human hairs grow so long and unruly that passing grandmothers often mistake skulls for skeins of yarn to crochet into sweater capes. Tame tempting head threads with today's Groupon to [SALON X'S] Soho location on LaFayette Street."

The ad went onto say that a "cadre of versed hairstylists enact a full array of cuts and colors to match the aura of each of their distinctive clients." I'm not altogether sure I want my aura matched so much as a little volume trimmed in, so my face won't look so thin and I won't look so tired. I'm also not sure I need my hair cutter to speak in iambic pentameter. Finally, the salon promises to "reinvigorate enervated coiffures with enough energy to power small windmills and electroshock sagging silhouettes."

They want to electroshock my silhouette. My silhouette might be able to use a little something something, but I'm prepared to rule out electroshock. I'm not saying now that we're Formerlies we want to run out and get a mom cut by rote. That helmet thing doesn't work on anyone. Nor am I against long hair for women who are not teenagers. I have it, in fact.

But I have a question for you all: Are you done getting radical haircuts or colors at this point? Or are you still prepared for a electroshocking of your silhouette? How does that play on us non-teenagers, in your opinion? And do you think it'll give you that same sense of feeling different than everyone else that it might have in your 20s. Do you still need to feel that way? (I know I don't, and that's a good thing.)

photo by Saffy CC