tiny little hairs

I can't believe I had to learn about this from a man.

I read women's magazines and blogs. I write a women's blog, for heaven's sake. We hold nothing back, right?

We find it easy to tell everything we know about love, sex, love without sex, sex without love, men, menstruation, menopause, mental health, menus, recipes, weight loss/gain, careers, career equality, career moms, home school moms, young moms, old moms, choose-not-to-be-a-mom...the list goes on and on. 

But apparently we keep some things to ourselves. 

For example, little tiny hairs - hello?!? Why didn't you tell me? Why did I hear about them from Bill Cosby, America's Dad? 

Oh, don't sit there and pretend you don't know what I'm talking about! If you are over 35, you need to just 'fess up. If you're under 35, you're forgiven, but you should take note. You'll need to know about this. Soon.  

Body hair was never a problem for me before now. Most of my ancestors were pretty WASPy. From them I got red hair, pale skin, and invisible eyebrows. The rest were Native American. From them I got the ability to go long periods without shaving my legs. I would have liked a little melanin and my mom's cheekbones, but guess those weren't in the genetic cards.

Scientifically, redheads have the least hair of all the hair colors. There are lots of famous redheads now, but being redheaded in the 70s and 80s was not fashionable. I would have gladly been a little more hirsute if it meant I looked like Farrah Fawcett or Brooke Shields. It took a lot of years for me to embrace the fact that I would never look like a celebrity.  (Well, maybe Kathleen Turner or Carrie Fisher - but not in the Body Heat or Jabba bikini years...phooey.) 

Just when I'd made peace with my pale aging hairless body, I felt them. 

Little tiny hairs...growing on my face. Just like in Bill Cosby's comedy routine. Except for women. Except...not funny!

I couldn't even see them at first. They were elusive, sneaky little buggers, taking advantage of my aging eyesight and limited dexterity.

Finally I broke down and bought a 15x magnifying mirror and a really expensive pair of tweezers. I still couldn't see them indoors, even with the mirror. I took my trusty mirror and reading glasses outside into the sunlight - bingo! Nasty black (!) hairs were springing from my chin, some of which I hadn't even felt. 

I was surprised at how long some of them were. There was even one on my neck the length of a toddler hair. I wondered why no circus had recruited me to be their bearded lady. And I was thankful my husband is farsighted in more ways than one. 

Nowadays, I keep my mirror and tweezers in my purse. That way I can take advantage of the sunlight in the car. When my husband drives, I gladly sit on the passenger side and do a little personal maintenance. 

The first few times I did this, he was shocked. (After living with me for so long, it takes a lot to shock him.) I believe he said, "Ugh, are you going to do that where EVERYONE can see you?" 

Obviously not EVERYONE could see me. Just the truck drivers cruising beside us on the interstate, and I'm sure they had way more interesting things to look at than a crazy old woman plucking facial hair in an SUV. 

And obviously I couldn't give a fig if anyone saw me, because I just told everyone on a national women's website about it. I'm sure you forgive me.

As I forgive you for not telling me about this. 

Just promise me there are no more nasty surprises coming up. I mean, I'm 48...what else could there be! 

What was that...? Wait....are you serious?

Sigh, on second thought, maybe ignorance is bliss.  

why I am not voting this morning

I’ve never been much for politics. I tend to shy away from controversy, from debates, from disagreements.

I’m no dummy. I have a Mensa card in a drawer somewhere if you want proof. But that doesn’t mean I’m necessarily smart in practical ways.

For one thing, I feel like I need to know all the ins and outs of a political topic in order to discuss it at all. I shouldn’t feel this way. Most people have no problem talking about things they know nothing about. That’s pretty obvious, with all the misinformation and snow jobs blowing around this time of year. Perfect morons seem to be able to make a decision, come down as black-or-white on the issues at hand. Why do I have such trouble?

Partially because I’m an empath. I feel what others around me are feeling. Sometimes this is a blessing, but other times it is a curse. I tend to see both sides of an issue and have feelings about both because I know people on both sides. (I'm even worried about my use of the word "moron" in the previous paragraph.)

This leads to a lot of internal conflict. So much so that the thought of adding external conflict is almost unbearable. I imagine everyone I know, left and right, unfriending me on Facebook, shunning me at church, and excluding me from parties.

It seems people who tout “tolerance” the most have plenty to go around until you disagree with them. Then you get labeled. I don’t do labels. (Ok, now I really regret using "moron.")

Also, I’m not used to discussing politics. Our family didn’t talk much about it growing up. We pretty much knew which presidential candidate our parents voted for. But we never really talked about candidates or issues or even political parties as a family. If we did, it wasn’t memorable.

I had best friends on both sides of the aisle. One friend came from a large Anglican family; her mother was president of the Republican Women’s Club. Another friend came from a larger Catholic family; she wore McGovern/Shriver campaign buttons to school in the second grade. At least I was surrounded by examples of active political women from a young age.

My sphere of political diversity and empathy continues today.

Much of my family and some of my friends are very conservative. Some of them are on the radical right, like “I believe Barack Obama is a Muslim non-citizen who loves to kill babies” radical. But most of them just have strong beliefs in God and country and family, and believe in voting their conscience and their values.

Many of my friends and some of my family are very liberal. Some of them are on the radical left, like “I believe Mitt Romney hates all women/Mexicans/gays/Big Bird/fill-in-the-blank” radical. They also have strong beliefs in God and country and family, and believe in voting their conscience and their values.

So here I am, stuck in the middle again. I have little-to-no patience for people who insist a vote for Romney is a vote for misogyny, discrimination, and the 1%. Just as I have little-to-no patience for people who insist a vote for Obama is a vote for Islam, socialism, and the end of the family.

So what is a sensitive-but-thinking girl to do?

When I feel lost, I go back to basics. I consider our history, the founding of this great experiment of a country. When asked what type of government we had, Ben Franklin cautioned, “A republic…if you can keep it.” Ben was no saint and was considered a lowbrow for thinking ordinary people said anything worth listening to. He was the only person who signed all four founding papers – the Declaration of Independence, the treaty with Great Britain, the treaty with France, and the Constitution. He didn’t agree with everything in each of those documents, but trusted the compromise of “joint wisdom” to be superior to the fallible thoughts of only one mind.

Somehow “joint wisdom” has kept this country going for 236 years, through nearly endless foreign conflicts, a brutal civil war that should have ended the great experiment, and two world wars that could have ended freedom for all forever.

But they didn’t. The experiment continues in spite of our brokenness, our disagreements, our disparity of beliefs.

I find great hope in that. I find hope in the people I love, in the people I meet at church and at Starbucks and at the homeless shelter and at the arts fundraiser. I find hope in this great experiment of a country, in the faith of the founders and of the reformers who risked life and limb so there would be a United States of America and so I as a woman could have a voice in it.

And now to the question of how I could possibly consider not voting this morning. Because this morning my daughter looked at me and said, “Mom, please wait until I get home from school to vote. I want to go with you.”

So I will vote this afternoon. With my daughter by my side, I will enter the poll and cast my vote without regard to who might agree or disagree with my choice. And when we find out the results, either on Wednesday or sometime before January 20, 2013, I will have the same hope as I do today.

Because my hope is not in Mitt Romney or Barack Obama.

My hope is in you. 

saying goodbye to a saint

Today, we bury a mother. Her name was Patricia. But her family called her Gigi.

She isn’t my mother, or grandmother. She is a mother once removed, mother to my husband’s first wife, and grandmother to our children.

Her daughter and I share the same name, the same town, the same children and grandchildren, and, at different times, the same husband.

I have known Gigi nearly 20 years. In all that time, even when I first came into the family – the second wife, the step mom, the other Cynthia– she made me feel part of the greater whole. She embraced me, helped me fit in, helped me belong.

I loved her grandchildren – and now great-grandchildren - as my own. I embraced her daughter.  I suppose it is easier to accept someone who loves the same people you do. Or maybe she was just that gracious to everyone.

She was a Proverbs 31 kind of woman. She was confident in what she believed and she lived in the truth of it.  She had a tremendous faith in God that carried her through the illness and death of her beloved husband and one of her sons. She stood strong with those she loved as their lives fell apart. And she helped them stand as they rebuilt them.

She was an active woman. She never stopped, and she ran circles around people half her age. She went to every recital, every marching band competition, every graduation. She took care of young and old; her house was open to all. She always had a ready meal, a ready hand, and a ready hug. Even for me.

We were pretty sure she’d outlive our generation. Hoping, maybe. Because as long as she was around, her family had a rock to lean on and a safe place to fall.

When illness struck her, it struck hard. No one saw it coming. It was incurable, ruthless, swift but not swift enough to avoid suffering. A suffering she did not earn.

Today, she suffers no more.

It is fitting that we celebrate Gigi’s life on All Saint’s Day, the day on the Christian calendar that gives Halloween its name (“All Hallow’s Eve”). For we are no longer mourning her illness or even her death.

Oh, there is much grief and heartache and disbelief. There will be tears aplenty for lost time, for missing the sound of her voice, for her empty chair at weddings and birthdays and holidays.

She will be greatly missed. But today we celebrate her legacy that lives in all who knew her, and the newness of life she lives in now.

Because this saint isn’t just marching in – she’s running! 

just us halloweenies

Ho ho ho, Happy Holloween!

Surely you can understand my confusion. I hardly know what color candy to buy this time of year, there are so many holidays vying for attention. But let's focus on Halloween for now.

I loved Halloween growing up. Our parents always took us Trick or Treating in our neighborhood. Sometimes our cousins or friends came over and we all went together, carrying our pillowcases or plastic pumpkins as we ran from door to door laughing.

I remember having store-bought costumes a few years when we were little. But mostly we cobbled together something from our box of play clothes and whatever we could find in the closet. We were clowns, cowboys, witches, princesses, super heroes...the usual stuff. One year I remember being a gypsy, wearing drapery rings as jewelry since I didn't have pierced ears.

I kept this up through my teens. I'd volunteer to go with the little kids so my parents could stay home. I was using them as an excuse to keep dressing up as a vampire. The foppish Catholic Anne Rice kind, not the glittery Mormon Stephanie Meyer kind.

It's fun to dress up as someone other than yourself, especially a fantasy character. Unless you're a professional actor, Halloween is all you get. Just once a year.

I went to a party store tonight to get a wig for my daughter. She's portraying Princess Diana in her school's Historic Pageant, the Montessori approach to celebrating Halloween in an academic way.

So far she's been Queen Elizabeth I, Pocahontas, Mata Hari, and Lucretia Borgia. This year she picked Lizzie Borden. Apparently she's drawn to notorious women. We put down our collective foot and said "Thanks for playing, try again" and she went with her second choice, Princess Di. Still notorious, depending on your source, but at least she didn't give her parents 40 whacks with an axe.

Anyway, back to the party store. I went by myself because my daughter can't handle the visual stimulation of any sort of horror. Not that I like it. On the way to the wig aisle, I walked by an upside-down flayed torso with a partial spine sticking out, a few zombies, a handful of Scream-type characters, and lots of skinned and bloody looking body parts.

Some people have a sick idea of what makes great yard decorations.

There were also some really odd looking people in there. Funny thing was, they weren't even in costume yet. Apparently Halloween brings out more freaks than normal. I swear I've never seen the likes of them before. They looked, well, like they hung out in graveyards, but they were plunking down big bucks for some freaky flammable nylon costume they would wear one night.

And let's talk about costume choices, especially for women: Why is there a "slutty" version of everything you could possibly imagine? Slutty vampire, slutty nurse, slutty zombies, slutty Navy Commander, slutty Taco Bell Sauce... I did not make that up.

Do all women have a year-long secret desire to be slutty and just can't make a better choice on Halloween? Based on how I see people dressed downtown and at the mall, I'd say the answer to that question is yes....and no. Yes, they have a desire to be slutty, and no, they don't limit it to just  Halloween.

I'm not a prude. One year a group of friends were characters from Rocky Horror Picture Show. I was, of course, Magenta. A little slutty maybe...hey, I was in character. It is is Rocky Horror, after all.

But another year we were the characters from the Wizard of Oz and I was the Cowardly Lion. Not a sexy lion with tights and ears and a little twitchy tail, but a big full-on, body-covering costume with full makeup. That was an anti-sexual costume if ever there was one. And we won the grand prize, which had something to do with waterbeds. Which none of us had. Still, it was fun.

And I guess that's what Halloween should be about.

Once, years ago, I went through a pseudo-fundamentalist stage when I swore off Halloween. It seemed to have gotten really dark, really evil, really creepy, and I didn't want to play. I think it might also have been a little depression kicking in. I refused to buy candy and convinced my husband to stay in the back of the house with the porch lights off.

Great googly moogly, it was so boring!!

Then our baby girl came along. We couldn't let her miss the fun. Her first Halloween coincided with her first ear infection, so she stayed home with me handing out candy in her baby pumpkin costume. Since then we have done something every year, either at church, in our neighborhood, or with friends.

We don't make a big deal, don't spend gobs of money, but we try to have fun. Last year we saw "The Addams Family" on Broadway, and our daughter wanted to be Morticia. I could have bought a costume, but we found a dress at Goodwill and together we modified it. Add a Cher wig, some white foundation and black eyeliner, and a big spider ring - voila! a perfect Morticia.

This year she wants to be a Nerd. A "hurt nerd" on crutches. Apparently "nerd" is all the rage. Too bad it wasn't popular when I was a kid. I could have gone Trick or Treating every day without changing a thing!

the toughest ship to sail.....

The hardest thing about being human is relationships with other humans.

Think about it. What gives you more joy, more sorrow, more emotional and sometimes even physical trauma than having to deal with other people?

You have to deal with relationships your entire life, from birth to death. Even when they're over, you're lugging along what's left of that relationship by yourself.

They aren't all deal-breakers. Some are really big. Some may not mean much at all. But they affect us in some way, big or small, even when we don't realize it.

There's the grown man who flipped you off in traffic for something that wasn't your fault, the one who made you feel slightly angry and slightly ashamed, the one who made you use the terms "grown" and "man" in a whole new way.

There's the sullen girl at Old Navy, the one with the pierced nose who wouldn't look you in the eye, who said "thank you" so far under her breath that you wonder why she bothered to exhale.

There's the young man at the pharmacy, the nice bright-eyed one who remembers your name and pulls your prescriptions out of the bin before you even reach the counter.

There's the coworker who randomly leaves chocolate on your desk and who makes you feel better when the image in the bathroom mirror seems harsh and cold.

There's the woman who asked you out to lunch at your new job every day until she wore you down and you said yes, the woman who eventually became your best friend ever, the kind you can call after a year and just start talking to without catching up or even having to say hello.

There's the mother who gave birth to you and raised you and loved you and will never ever let you off the hook for anything, the one you spent the most time and money talking about in therapy, the woman you most love and desire to please while you pull away kicking and screaming. She knows how to push all your buttons. Including the ones that soothe you when the world is spinning out of control.

There's the old lover you can't forget, the person you thought was the "one", the man you dreamed of building a life with.... except he chose a different life that didn't have room for you.

Then there's the person you actually married, who is the most thrilling, infuriating, fulfilling, maddening, complex amalgam of dynamics imaginable, someone who adores you and fulfills all the old dreams, surpassing them and creating new realities you never imagined.

This is the ship of your dreams, the kind that makes you say cheesy things like "My, he is yar" like Katharine Hepburn in "The Philadelphia Story."

Relationships can be unwieldy, unpredictable, uncertain. Especially when they lose power. But when they are tended to, well oiled, stoked, and regularly taken out for some fun....my, they are yar.

Hopefully I can continue to learn and perfect the handling of that kind of ship.

women's lifestyle expert, apply here

I was recently asked by Skirt! magazine to be a National blogger on their women's lifestyle website! I am so honored and hardly know what to say! First, I would like to thank the Academy and my family for believing in me even when...oops, wrong speech.

Striking the "Godspell" set at the Dock Street Theater...a long, long time ago

Seriously, this is a very cool development.

Now, I'm not an expert on "women's lifestyles." I'm definitely a woman, and I do have a lifestyle, but that alone doesn't qualify me for the job.  Otherwise I could claim to be a skincare expert because I have skin and care for it.

However, my experience is not irrelevant either. It may even resonate with two or three people out there who might actually read my blog.

Now, as a woman, what exactly is my "lifestyle"?

Let's start with the basics. Basically, I am a wife and mom who works. Show me one who doesn't. What I work at changes depending on what hour of the day it happens to be.

In the morning I work on getting myself and one easily distracted daughter out of the house on time for carpool, regardless of whether the dog has peed on the carpet or someone has had a case of prepubescent hysteria. As I back out of the garage I try not to hit the trash can. Or my husband's car. Again.

Then I work on pleasing my customers at my "real" job (i.e., the one responsible for my bi-monthly direct deposit) by crafting technical manuals and papers and online help and "waving my magic wand" over someone else's mangled grammar. Sometimes I even make coffee, because I am a secure, modern professional woman. And because life is too short for bad coffee.

Afternoons are spent working on picking up my daughter from school on time and thinking about what I will do for dinner after carting my daughter to Irish dance and karate and piano.  (Did I mention how well I work to support the economies of oil-producing countries, even with my 24 mpg van?)

At home I work to get some sort of food into the mouths of my family that doesn't come in a box and get covered with milk. "Breakfast for dinner" does have a place in my repertoire, I just don't want to wear it out.

BLT with tomatoes and okra from my garden and a helpin' of Charleston cheese grits souffle 

Speaking of food, I'm working at keeping nasty stuff out of our diet, like HFCS and phthalates and flesh eating bacteria. So I put some raised beds in our side yard to grow fresh vegetables just like my parents used to. Green things are starting to push through the soil. It's probably a matter of time before the locust (or lice or Japanese beetles) descend, but at least I tried. We'll see how it goes.

I recently worked at losing 25+ pounds and rediscovered my love of fashion. Even shoes are more fun now. I never lost my love for shoes. No matter how the size of your hips might fluctuate, those 4" Nanette Lepores will fit every day. Now it's just easier to balance.

Depending on the day of the week, I work on my music and spend time with my friends at church. They are the most irreverent, silly, God-crazy, sold-out, loving weirdos I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. They challenge me and make me laugh and pray for me when I just can't do it for myself. They prayed my daughter into existence and have changed my life. I love them.

Some time during the evening I work at keeping my dog from feeling completely ignored. Ditto for the husband. And when the stars align, we all work together to keep the house from falling into C.H.A.O.S. (= Can't Have Anyone Over Status).

I work to stay in touch with my family. I love them so much, but - alas - most of them don't use email or Facebook regularly so I have to call them. On the phone. I hate talking on the phone. I have to work on that.

After bedtime snuggles - definitely NOT work - I spend an hour or so working on something that is just for me. It isn't always earth-shaking (reading! writing! shaving! picking my toes!) but it matters.

Then, after everything else is done, I work on staying awake...for just a little while longer. Because, you know, I LIKE being married and I never, ever want to date again. I would sure hate to see certain fires get neglected.

I'm a lucky girl!

I also deeply love that man and enjoy being adored by him. I'm pretty darn lucky that after 19 years of marriage my husband still calls me his "bride" and thinks I'm hot - I've definitely got a good deal working and don't want to screw it up.

So that's this woman's lifestyle in a thumbnail. A really big, Jack-and-the-Beanstalk Giant-sized thumbnail. It's hard to zip up all this red-headed weirdness into a compressed file. Thankfully not everything good comes in a small package.