Lucky charms

This is the bracelet commissioned by Di and especially designed just for me by Lisa. I wrote about it earlier this week.

This package from Granola Grrrl arrived in the mail on my birthday. I love the way she decorated the shipping box with stickers and her own message. I had a small collection of stones in a favorite piece of pottery on my dresser. They are now in a shipping crate crossing the Atlantic. No wonder I haven't felt like myself. I'm sure the movers wondered why they had to wrap and box rocks, but Granola Grrrl understands what it takes to be grounded. 

This handmade alpaca wool scarf was inside, and warms my heart, not just my neck. It's so soft and so full of goodness that I want to sleep with it. Yeah, I'm a weird grrrl. I'm not blogging drunk, really.

Finally, I recently discovered this chocolate and it is ME in confectionary form. Yes, it has chili peppers and cherries in it. And it's dark. Spicy, sweet, more than a little noir.  The mix is unexpected and delicious, just like a certain Grrrl.

Februrary 1, 2008

Neil Interviews V-Grrrl--World Exclusive!

I'm proud to have inspired Neil to launch The Great Interview Experiment, a project that has bloggers interviewing each other and posting the results. I was fortunate enough to have Neil himself interview me. (Kiss my grits, Wendy!)

I've been reading Neil for about two and a half years now. I knew him when he only had a handful of commenters, y'all, before he built his harem community of female readers and a following of men who liked his thought-provoking posts about sex everyday life, sex marriage, career, sex American culture, sex therapy, blogging, sex and politics. He also writes about the Olive Garden, his mother, Abba, restaurant coupons, his hometown of Queens ,  and life with his wife Sophia, who may or may not be a midget and may or may not remain his wife. 

Did I mention he graduated from a fancy schmancy Ivy League university AND prestigious film school? I bet you already guessed that based on his blog's intellectual subject matter and high-brow attitude.

Proof that Neil reads V-Grrrl and wears women's panties. He's so embarassing.

Neil is a New Yorker living in LA and one of the most entertaining and original bloggers on the planet. He's been a V-Grrrl in the Middle reader for years now, and I'm thrilled to post his interview with me:

Neil: I've been reading your blog for a long time, and I recently went back to read you first posts. Your blog started out more an exploration of being an expat -- an American in Belgium . More recently, your writing has become personal, even emotional, and less focused on your surroundings. Was this a creative choice form or has something happened in your life during this past year to change something in you?

V-Grrrl: It wasn't a creative choice as much as it was an evolution. When I first became an expat, the changes in my life were all encompassing, and I was focused on dissecting and analyzing everything that was different. After a while, Belgium became home and life felt more ordinary. Being an expat became a smaller part of my identity and less a topic of my writing.

Another reason my writing has become more personal is that over time I've become more comfortable in sharing my emotions and my life on my blog. It makes for more powerful writing. I try to keep my posts authentic, even if it means revealing things I'm not proud of. That takes courage and was stressful at first, but then as the gap between my "public persona" and my private self narrowed, I felt better, more confident in myself and less afraid of what others would think. It's been liberating to share the good, the bad, and the ugly with my readers, to share my humanity with them.

Finally, I think midlife is an introspective time. So much is going on in my life right now as my marriage matures, my kids grow up, and I take stock of my choices and the relationships I have. For me, it's a time of reckoning, and the emotion of that comes through in my writing.

Neil: You are moving as I write this. Are you moving back to America for good? Why are you moving? What will you miss most about Belgium ? The pissing boy fountain? What will you miss the least? Are you nervous about the move? Or happy about the change?

V-Grrrl: Our plan was always to stay in Belgium for three years, though we did consider staying longer. There are practical considerations driving our decision to return now, things related to my husband's career and also the children's education. I love Europe but want my children to launch into the world from America. As a "trailing spouse," I haven't had a work visa or permit or an opportunity to get one here. I'm not ready to retire yet--another reason to head home to America.

Will we stay in America for good? I hope not. My husband and I talk about coming back to Europe as soon as we launch the kids into the world, and I definitely plan to come back and visit friends and family.

What will I miss most about Belgium ? My friends, E's Belgian family, the beautiful architecure, the way it's green year round, the enormous number of parks, and the Belgian sky, which is moody and dramatic. Believe it or not, despite the prevalence of gray skies and horizontal rain, I like the climate here. I have fantasies about moving to the Pacific Northwest now that I've lived in Belgium .

What will I miss least? The howling wind and the crazy drivers.

As for being nervous about the move--yes I am. When you become an expat, you dwell in a space between your native country and your new country. Expats call that "the third culture." I know I'll never feel fully at home in America again, even though it's "home." The surface of my life looks unchanged but I feel profoundly different. How do I settle this "new person" into my old life? Where does she fit?

Neil: How has living in Europe changed you?

V-Grrrl: When you leave your country behind, you truly start over. Life is stripped of its social infrastructure, family ties, community and cultural touchpoints, EVERYTHING. I shed all my "labels" and everyone's expectations. It was terrifying and liberating at the same time. Disconcerting and grounding. For the first time ever, I devoted significant portions of my time to my personal writing and creative pursuits, including art. Living and traveling in Europe , surrounded by people from different cultures and backgrounds, has been amazing and wonderful and so enriching. I'm more open minded, more liberal. Living in a country where I don't speak the language, where new experiences are a daily occurrence, has also given me confidence in my ability to handle myself.

Neil: I didn't know much about your artistic talent until all of a sudden, you started posting your artwork more frequently. Were you always creating artwork and just being shy about showing it, or is this scrapbooking, etc. a new endeavor? Where would you like to take it?

V-Grrrl: I never took art in high school, but in my last year of university, I took studio art, art history, photography, and a beginning graphic design class. I absolutely loved all four classes and regretted that I was graduating and couldn't pursue more art studies. My dilemma since then has been that I've felt like an artist without a medium. I have a good eye for art and a creative sensibility but lack traditional art skills like painting and sketching. I've always gone to galleries and museums and bought art, and I enrolled my children in private art lessons, but I never did anything artistic or crafty until I moved to Belgium .

My friend Sherry introduced me to rubber stamping and cardmaking, crafts I never thought I'd like but came to love. That fed a growing interest in mixed media art, in collage. Last August, one of my readers sent me a book on art journaling, and that inspired me to dare to claim myself as a mixed media artist. I began an art journal and started posting my pages on the blog. As for where I want to head with it--well I want to advance my skills and use of media. I want to continue to art journal and maybe grow into making pieces for display.

Neil: Can I get personal for a second. I've always pictured you as a classy woman, interested in raising her children with strong morals. So, I was surprised at first that, of all my readers, you seemed to always enjoy my sex gags. After awhile I began to notice that your writing is very sensual itself, not overtly sexual, but filled with sights and sounds. Are you aware of these two parts of your personality -- the upscale expat Christian mother AND the lusty sensualist? Do these two distinct personalities ever get you in trouble, like checking out the Reverend's butt?

V-Grrrl: Ah Neil, you know me so well! I am VERY aware of these two parts of my personality; the dichotomy keeps life interesting. My closest friends appreciate "V the Christian Mum" and "V the Lusty Sensualist" in equal measure. I can't say the same for everyone else.

Does it create problems for me? ALL the time. I have to watch how I present myself because not everyone is accepting of my warped sensibilities. My husband doesn't appreciate sexual humor, innuendo, or comments AT ALL, and it's a rough spot between us. He exhibits a lot of forbearance. And me? Must.Bite.My.Tongue.

Once someone accusingly said, "Doesn't the fact that you're a wife and mother mean anything to you?" The question was meant as a reproach for the "inappropriate" nature of some of my comments. All I could think was, "Hmmm, being a wife involves a lot of sex and I became a mother as a result of that. So where are the great chasms separating marriage, motherhood, and sex?"

I have a great sense of humor; I laugh often and laugh loudly. Sex is a very funny business--I can't stop myself from being a bit "naughty" (as Di likes to say). But hey, I appreciate all kinds of humor.

For the record though: I never check out clergy butts, OK? My clergy read this blog, and I just want to make it clear, I'm NOT that kind of grrrl. I am, however, prone to moments of irreverence, the kind of grrrl who hears the Christmas carol Silent Night and thinks, "This will be the LAST silent night of Mary's life. She's got a boy child now. She and Jesus will both be crying in the morning. Wah! Wah! Wah! No more peace on earth for her."

Neil: Is there something that you bought in Europe that is very precious to you that you are shipping very carefully home?

V-Grrrl: I bought fifteen pieces of framed art and some pottery from Italy , Holland, and Poland . My favorite? A small piece of Modigliani pottery I bought in Rome . I wanted to hand carry it in my suitcase because I didn't want to ship it and be separated from it for eight weeks. I practically kissed it goodbye. (Di loaned me a movie on Modigliani over the weekend, and I'm going to watch it this week.)

Neil: Did you stop working full time when you had your kids? I know you worked as a journalist. What are your plans now as the kids get older? Are you secretly writing a steamy novel?

V-Grrrl: I worked as a news reporter years ago, but right before I had children, I was working as an editor for a small publishing firm. After my son was born, I began working part-time from home as a public relations writer and strategist. It was an ideal situation. I worked through an agency on a project-by-project basis for various corporate clients. I wrote Web copy, marketing materials, advertising sections, white papers, and articles. I did a lot of ghostwriting for executives.

I have a mass communications degree, and I think I'm well suited for PR work. I plan to return to it in the U.S. I'm also considering pursuing some freelance writing gigs. Not a fiction grrrl. No steamy novels in me, but I do like to write poetry and essays.

Neil: You met your husband at 17? Did you get married early?

V-Grrrl: I had one serious boyfriend before I met my husband E the summer between my junior and senior years of high school. E was a college senior, five years older than me--attentive, romantic, warm, sexy, considerate. He just kept getting better the longer we dated. I was engaged at 18, and I married E when I was barely 20, during spring break of my second year of college.

I have regrets about some of the choices I made in my 20s, but I don't regret marrying him. We've made a good life together for almost 26 years now. Sure, there are times when we question whether we're meant to stay together; we have different temperaments and sensibilities, but we've persevered.

Neil: Through your blog, I met Di (at least virtually). She takes such wonderful photos of you. How do you know her?

V-Grrrl: Di is from New Zealand and lives in Belgium . I began blogging about the same time she did and we read each other casually for about a year. In the fall of 2006, she sent me an e-mail and told me she was going to launch a photography business and was trying to build a portfolio--would my family mind being photographed? I'd seen her work on her blog and jumped at the opportunity to "model" for her.

I met Di for the first time during that photography session, and I offered to use my PR experience to create a marketing plan and help her with her Web site. Our friendship grew out of that collaboration, and we're very close now. There's an intensity to our bond that I cherish. Our affection for each other shows in her photographs of me--I'm always smiling and have a certain radiance. She brings out the best in me while accepting the wobbly bits. : )

Neil: Where does most of your family live -- like aunts, uncles, etc. Have you missed a close extended family while out of the country.

V-Grrrl: Most of my extended family is based in NY but my siblings are scattered down the East Coast from Maine to Georgia . I rarely see my extended family, and even when I lived in the States, I often went years without seeing some of my siblings. My parents died 16 years ago, so my siblings and I don't have a central place to gather or parents holding us together anymore. The demands of family and career limited our ability to travel. Most of my nieces and nephews are grown now, and I have more than a dozen great nieces and nephews. Even though we all get along fine, my family is not that close, so living overseas hasn't been that big an issue for me.

Neil: Who are your kids like the most? You? Your husband? No one?

V-Grrrl: My children bear little physical resemblance to me. I have brown eyes and curly dark hair and my kids are very fair, blue-eyed blondes with straight hair like their dad. Thankfully, neither of them got my nose! My son's hands are exactly my hands, and he has some of my temperament--a bit of melancholy with a sly sense of humor. He's reserved. He has his father's mechanical intuition and shares my love of science. My daughter got the best of me and my husband in both her aptitudes and character. She's got the prime DNA in the family.

Neil: I notice you like poetry. Is there one poet that really speaks to you?

V-Grrrl: It changes based on where I am in life and in spirit. I used to be devoted to Emily Dickinson , but lately Mark Strand and Billy Collins have been speaking to me.

Neil: Next week is your birthday. You recently wrote a beautiful post about the passing time. Your son even shaved for the first time. I know that time seems to be speeding up for me as I get older. Do you feel the same?

V-Grrrl: My sister was diagnosed with cancer when I was 16 and she died young, on my 20th birthday. I've always been very aware of the transient quality of my life. I live with a clock ticking in the background, and it gives me a certain intensity and point of view. I have to be sure that the things I spend time on matter to me and that the people I love know that I love them. I have low tolerance for BS. I like to savor my experiences. I'm all about process and less about product. I can't stand to rush around or stuff my schedule full of activities. I don't confuse being busy with living a meaningful life. I refuse to sacrifice my time to the American idea of productivity.

Neil: Are you taking cholesterol medicine yet? For me, getting old is when you have to think before you eat a slice of pizza.

V-Grrrl: I was a vegetarian, distance runner, and vitamin popper in my 20s, and health conscious through my 30s. I always exercised and did the right thing. Around the time I turned 40, I developed an idiopathic cardiac problem. God has such a sense of humor. Last time it was checked, my cholesterol was only 155, my blood pressure was that of a 14-year-old, and yet my life includes regular visits to a cardiologist and daily medication. Sometimes my heart fatigues me, and I have to plop on the sofa. It's humbling.

Neil: Are you a good cook? What does everyone ooh and aah over when you make it?

V-Grrrl: I wouldn't call myself a "good cook" because I reserve that label for people who put far more time and effort into cooking than I do. When I bake, I bake from scratch, and I like to make soups. I love garlic. Di thinks everything I cook for her is fabulous. My husband always thanks me for preparing meals. My kids? They're not so impressed and complain a lot. I hate preparing food for my family. I guess that makes me a bad mother.

Neil: You say that you sometimes get prone to depression. I notice a lot of bloggers have this problem. Do you think writers/artists are more prone to depression than more "normal" folk? What snaps you out of your moods?

V-Grrrl: I've dealt with episodes of depression since I was a teenager. At first it was seasonal. As I aged, the episodes got longer, the remission shorter, and the recovery from them was less than complete. I was losing ground. I was encouraged by a friend to get medical treatment about five years ago and it changed my life. Really, it saved my life.

While I do think artists/writers are more empathetic and sensitive to life than others, I don't think they're necessarily more prone to depression; they just express their angst more openly.

What snaps me out of it? I need medication keep my depression under control. Music helps me shift moods, and getting outdoors and taking long walks lift my spirits. The love of family and friends keeps me plugging along through the dark moments, and anyone who makes me laugh out loud is part of my depression cure.

Neil: and lastly... I just had to ask this --
If I asked for a photo of you in a bathing suit , would you send it to me?

V-Grrrl: If Di took the photo, I just might, not because I look great in a bathing suit but because I accept the body I have now better than the one that used to rock a bikini. Watch the mail, Neil. You never know what it will bring. : )

January 28, 2008

The power of boots

E bought me my first pair of cowboy boots for my 19th birthday. I'd been clamoring for a pair since I was 16 but various twists of fate and a lack of money had kept me from fulfilling my dream. The pair E bought for me were "urban cowboy" boots, round-toed and square heeled. They looked a lot like these:

I'd tuck my Levis into them and stride across campus. Those boots made my long lean runner legs look even longer and leaner. This was the beginning of my love affair with boots.

In the mid-80s I lived in Oklahoma and bought two pairs of sharp-toed, cowboy-heel wonders--one with a tall shaft and a harness strap and the other with a shorter, slightly flared  shaft, weathered leather, and tarnished silver buckles.  The latter was my favorite. Oh, I felt mighty fine in those boots and even bought a leather jean belt with silver conchos on it (just like Bruce Springsteen wore during his Born in the USA days). I had a pair of dangling concho earring from Shepler's and some Native American jewelry from New Mexico to complete my look, but I was still wearing Levis because no matter how long I lived in Oklahoma I was NOT going to be a Wrangler grrrl. I knew WHO I was, after all, and I wasn't going the Wranglers, ropers, big hair and big belt buckle route no matter how many cowgirls crossed my path. (Right, Kelby?) 

In addition to my cowboy boots, I also had the ubiquitous black leather riding boots of that era, and later square-toed high heeled boots. They were wardrobe staples, but they never made my heart race. They weren't sexy. They weren't sassy. They were just boring. Not like these boots:

These are my famous "wicked little boots,"  subject of much discussion and debate. It's hard to appreciate all their sharp-toed, pointy-heeled glory in this photo, but let me tell you, they make my black velvet jeans sing AND when I wear them with tights and a dress, I feel unstoppable and daring. E calls them the "Grinch shoes." Bernie calls them my "pixie boots." You can guess which description I like better.

When I left Oklahoma, I took my scruffy weathered-leather cowboy boots with me to Virginia, but over time the shape of my foot changed (along with the shape of every other part of my body--sob!) and they no longer fit me perfectly. I've kept them all these years simply because I like to just set them out on the hardwood floors, admire their hardy lines, and let them stir my soul and my memories. Those boots could tell STORIES--the places they've been, the adventures they've known. I had an eye out for replacements, but life on the fringe of the far flung D.C. suburbs isn't conducive to shopping for cowboy boots.

I did, however, see some in a catalog that I adore, Isabella Bird. They offered a number of styles I liked, but my favorites by far were the Prairie Flower boots. For years I eyed those boots and for years I talked myself out of buying them. Then lo and behold, two weeks ago I noticed they were on sale. And when I say on sale, I mean ON SALE. We're talking about 70 percent off.  It took less than a minute to go online and order them. BAM!

Aren't they gorgeous? Real cowboy toes and heels and just the right bit of decorative stitching. I'll be striding into the next stage of life with confidence and power in these babies. Won't it be fine to be back in the South again....

December 29, 2007

Visit the Ugly Shoe Hall of Fame!

I have sometimes described myself as "Just a grrrl traveling in comfortable shoes." Some people named Nance might say "really ugly shoes." But hey, I'm not insulted even if the truth hurts: my foyer closet is home of The Ugly Shoe Hall of  Shame Fame.

Long time readers may remember this post about my mother's hideous feet and the way they contributed to my anti-fashion shoe sensibilities at a young age. A few years spent selling shoes in my 20s didn't enhance my sense of style. Instead I came to appreciate ugly comfortable shoes all the more because I was standing on my feet for at least seven hours at a stretch. Owwww. No way I was doing that in heels!

When I moved to Belgium,  I began a life that involved walking everywhere.  It was almost two years before I had a car of my own, and I spent plenty of days on the cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks of Brussels, Paris, London, Rome, and other cities that we explored on foot. The walks got longer and my shoes just kept getting uglier.

I came to Europe with these:

They're the station wagons of female shoe wear. So suburban, so not sexy.

Then my first winter here was long, gray, and especially cold. E's travels to Australia influenced these purchases:

When I wear these Uggs, E-Grrrl says it looks like someone stuck tacks in my legs. She's just hoping I'll discard them and she'll inherit them in all their ginormous fleece-lined glory.

And before you say it, NO, these are not slippers, they're CLOGS. Please don't say they're Ugg-ly. They're so cozy and almost cute. Note the charming artsy embroidery! Very European!

My sturdy black walking boots were finally declared "terminal" after carrying me across Brussels, London, Bath, Portsmouth, and Paris. No amount of polish could revive them. So when we went to Italy last year, I had to buy new tourist shoes. Keep in mind that anyone who travels with my husband E is going to go on numerous urban death marches through the concrete and cobblestone jungles. Miles and miles and miles.  I got this pair of Eastlands from Zappos:

Don't you just bet the Italians in their slick designer shoes were awed by my good taste? I refer to these as Frankenstein's Baby Shoes. Admit it--that nickname makes sense. And that grease stain on the toe? It seriously disturbs E, but me, um, not so much. With a shoe this ugly, why worry about stains?

But I'm proud to announce that there's an all new entry in the Ugly Shoe Hall of Fame. See these babies?

These are an early Christmas gift from E.  He bought them for me when I dramatically declared they were the most comfortable shoes I had ever put on my feet, boasting a high-tech molded insole that perfectly balances gel-like softness with firm support.  I love 'em so much, I might wear them to bed tonight. 

December 7, 2007

Good things

After a week in the doldrums, Friday is taking a good turn--

• I hauled a stack of kids magazines, two bags of videos, and a bag of kids' software and some music CDs to the American library and donated them.
• I got the latest issue of Rolling Stone with Bruce Springsteen on the cover. The only thing better than Bruce's music is the intriguing contents of his mind. Getting inside his head and his creative process was singularly satisfying. Great interview. And as a bit of trivia, I discovered he's Italian on his mother's side and Irish on his father's--just like me.
• Sometimes when one feels as gray as the sky, the only way to get some color in your life is to unleash some grrrl power. That explains why I, the woman who normally wears boring Hanes for Her cotton underwear, spent an inordinate amount of time choosing three pairs of very sexy panties off a rack yesterday.  Finally, I've graduated from the underwear that is sold in plastic packages next to the socks to the good stuff that's hung on hangers in the lingerie department. Oooh la la. I'm feeling very French.
• I bought an issue of Allure magazine and vowed to be more beautiful...
• And today I zipped on my wicked little black boots with the pointy toes and sharp little heels to run errands with the kids. I left my boring square-toed middle-aged soccer mom loafers at home--and that felt mighty fine. 
• There was a new barber in the barber shop, the place where my son has gotten many a crappy haircut. This guy took A's extraordinarily thick, hard-to-cut hair and gave him a haircut that was absolutely perfect. And he did it all with scissors and various cutting techniques and not the evil military hairclippers of doom. It was nothing short of amazing. Of course, I had sensed the barber had awesome talent when I noticed his kickass black cowboy boots with the silver buckles. I told him in French how much I loved them...
• After the perfect haircut, we went to a consignment shop where E-Grrrl of the hard-to-fit feet found an almost new pair of Clark's Artisan clogs in her size for only $3. They're beyond cute, with lots of hippie chic decorative stitching, and being Clarks, they're well padded and comfortable. Lucky her. Lucky me. Buying her shoes normally means I spend at least $60 because inexpensive shoes never fit her right--and then she outgrows the expensive ones in a matter of months.  Finding these clogs made my day. It also means she won't be borrowing my Ugg clogs anymore.

So what made your day? What's looking good for the weekend? Do tell. Let's share the good stuff, y'all.

November 2, 2007

Stop this train

"So scared of getting older, I'm only good at being young." John Mayer

As recent posts have hinted, sometimes “life in the middle” is tinged with angst and inspires more than a little soul searching. My 19-year-old self is trapped in my 45-year-old body. Often I am truly mystified to discover I’ve reached a point in life where conversations with friends regularly include talk about sending kids to college, grandchildren, chronic health problems, elderly or deceased parents, and retirement plans.

When did that happen? When did we cease to be the young upstarts, the rising professionals, the parents of preschoolers, the ones with Big Plans? When did we become the ones that are starting to get in the way of the next generation?

More and more I have a sense of losing my place, of running out of time, of missed opportunities. I wonder where I’m heading, I question where I’ve been.

I never wanted to be one of those annoying women who obsess over age and beauty. I never wanted to be one of those people who gives up on her dreams because she believes she’s too old to achieve them. I never wanted to become a living fossil, stuck in a moment that has long passed. I never wanted to sit on the sidelines and pass my ambitions onto my children like a baton I can no longer carry to the finish line.

But sometimes I catch glimpses of THAT woman in the mirror and I shudder.

About a month ago, after developing some symptoms, I checked a book out of the library on menopause. It sat on my desk for weeks like a bill I wasn’t ready to pay. I finally made a cup of tea, took it to the kitchen table, and sat down and started reading.

I was looking for a motherly guide to The Change. I was looking for a reassuring voice. I was desperate for someone to pat my hand and tell me the best is yet to come, Grrrl! Menopause is nature’s way of saying kick the kids out of the nest and get on with your life. It’s not that bad--soldier on and be all that you can be!

Instead I got a scientific treatise on the upcoming demise of my womanhood. I didn’t want to hear about thinning hair and diminished sexual response, sagging skin and shrinking sex organs, fragile bones and easy weight gain, increased risks for heart disease and mental fuzziness. I felt so compromised, so diminished. Why did I get a book on menopause written by a MAN?

To add insult to injury, the book had a chapter on how to dress to enhance your self esteem. Of course it presumes that you KNOW your beauty has faded and so you had better work harder to keep your place in society. I was furious! The implicit message was that if you wrap sh*t in pretty enough paper, you won’t notice the smell. I wanted to slap the author.

There should have been a pocket on the back cover with a razor blade in it so the reader could slit her wrists once the author had succeeded in convincing her that if she’s reading a book on menopause, her life is over anyway.

“Now, now dear, why not make the world a better place and throw yourself on the burning pyre of your youth?”

Why didn’t they just title the book “Menopause: Nature’s Way of Saying You’re Obsolete”? That was the message I was getting.

It upset me so much that I started to cry, then I berated myself for crying like some basket case from Girl Interrupted, and then I mustered an ironic smile when I realized I was probably emotionally jagged because I was suffering from both perimenopausal insomnia AND premenstrual hormones, caught in a hormonal vise of doom. What had I become? Who was this crazed moody woman?

What a way to be “V-Grrrl in the Middle,” I thought. I wasn’t sure Zoloft or margaritas could help me crawl out of that crevice. I felt stuck in the dark, wedged between fear and regret.

The day after the Menopausal Meltdown, I was out and about with E, tracking down a notary to help us with the paperwork related to the purchase of our new house in Virginia. We were walking all over the enormous compound where E works. I didn’t feel well at all, had taken medication, was chilled by the damp rain, and was moving slowly.

E, on the other hand, was doing what he always does: zipping through life in fifth gear. (When John Mayer sings, “You live your life with your hand on the horn,” I always think of E, wanting people to get out of his way, single mindedly focused only on arriving at his destination.)

On a good day, I struggle to keep up with him. On a bad day, I don’t even try, figuring that at some point he’ll notice I’m not with him anymore, and he’ll stop and wait. That day I kept falling behind, and E was struggling to adjust his pace to mine.

Finally he said to me, his voice tinged with humor that didn’t quite mask his frustration, “I cannot physically walk slowly enough to stay with you. I don’t know HOW to walk that slowly.”

I stopped and looked at him: “If you had a bleeding uterus and felt like someone with two clenched fists was wringing out your guts, you’d know exactly how to walk this slowly. Maybe even slower--because men have such a low tolerance for pain. I’d be leaving YOU behind.”

Ouch. Yeah, I said that. Be glad I wasn’t carrying a hammer or I'd be writing this from prison.

Later when E-Grrrl and A commented that I was grumpy, I sat them both down.

“Listen, we’ve done lots of talking in the last few months about how you’re at an age when your body is producing hormones that will make you look and feel different.

“I’m at an age now where I’m on the other end of that process. Your body is gearing up hormone production and my body is in the process of shutting it down. Sometimes all the changes put me on edge. I know I have to work on NOT being cranky, but I just want y’all to try to be patient with me, and I promise to try to be patient with you while we go through these changes together.”

They looked relieved and a bit proud that I’d shared a Big Adult Truth with them.

Clearly they didn't see the fear on my face.

September 17, 2007

Triumph of the grrrls in toy bras

I don’t remember how Shirl Grrrl and I became friends. We met in 7^th grade when I was the new kid in town, and we both thought N was cute and funny. We shared our disgust when he didn’t sit with us on the bus we rode on one of our field trips. Instead he sat with a dim-witted blonde girl, put his arm around her, and kept edging his hand ever closer to her bodacious ta-tahs. Shirl and I did not have bodacious ta-tahs (not then, not now) and so we were jealous on more than one level. This was our first important life lesson: In middle school (and beyond), boobs would nearly always triumph over brains, a law of nature I've dubbed the Jessica Simpson Effect. 

We spent hours on the phone discussing this, N, and other dramas, and we constantly pissed off the people that shared the “party lines” that served our homes in rural Virginia. The party on the party line was always Shirl and me, and sorry, the old biddies down the country road were NOT invited. “I wish they would quit picking up on us! Is somebody listening?”

Shirl is a Southern Grrrl but not a Southern Princess. She totally appreciated my weirdness and got my jokes. I would write over-the-top fiction and poems just for her. My stories featured the adventures of superheros and villains that had names and characteristics that were remarkably similar to our classmates and teachers. Making fun of our lives and situations helped us with all our insecurities and angst.

Shirl Grrrl helped me laugh at the snarky girls in middle school who liked to tease and snub me and roll their eyes when I went by in the hall.

“Well GAWSH!”

“ I NEVAH!”

(Remember AJ and PB, Shirl Grrrl?)

We also bonded over our high school crushes. I still remember Shirl’s delight and confusion in her relationship with a certain tuba player (yes, a TUBA player), her secret longing for hometown honey JLM, and her unrequited love for J, the farmer boy. She saw me through two big high school romances and my bouts of adolescent depression. We hung out at softball and football games, waiting for SOMETHING to happen (not on the playing field, but near the parking lot where the REAL action was.)

We had our inside jokes, secret catch phrases, and bizarre vocabulary: “Everything’s corny!” “Alas, alas!” “That’s so corrupted” “There goes Chicken Lips.” We passed notes, had sleepovers, watched Saturday Night Live together, and studied creative writing in a special school program.

We kept in touch after high school graduation but never lived near one another again. Once when I was visiting my parents in Virginia and Shirl Grrrl was living at home, we made plans to get together in the evening. When we saw each other, we discovered we’d both spent part of that day shopping a Belk’s Department Store AND we had bought the exact same outfits. What made the coincidence even more ludicrous is that I’m 5’7” and Shirl is 4’11” and we’d never been known for dressing alike.

We both swore we’d never have kids and both changed our minds in our mid-30s. As we dealt with the demands of motherhood, we even had the courage to say, “Oh Lord, whose idea was this anyway?”

Shirl re-located from North Carolina to Indianapolis at the same time I crossed the pond and came to Belgium. Together we endured the rigors of moving and starting over and living in small apartments with small kids while waiting to move into houses. She is the one who introduced me to rubber stamping and card making and got me and E-Grrrl hooked on paper crafts.

Yesterday was Shirl Grrrl’s birthday. Now she’s almost as old as I am. We still get depressed together and she still helps me deal with snarky grrrls.

Commenting on a classmate’s recent boob job, Shirl said in her Southern drawl, “Honestly, V, why did she get implants at this point in life? I'd never do it. Where could big boobs possibly take us that we haven’t already been? Think about it!”

Good point.

We’ve been THERE. We’ve done THAT. And we did it all wearing toy bras! Woo hoo!

Happy (belated) Birthday, Shirl! May the titty fairy come in the night and leave you a BIG surprise (John made me say that!).

Yours til the Wonder Bra fits,

V-Grrrl

August 9, 2007

Fast Forward

Last week I received my first fall catalog, and I was thrilled because even though summer isn't officially underway yet, I love fall clothes. Eddie Bauer was offering a sneak preview of their fall collection for middle-age fatsos select customers and offering free shipping and a 20 percent discount on all orders over $75 placed from the catalog by June 4. They didn't even have the new stuff on their Web site. Now don't I feel special gettin that catalog. 

Needless to say, I was all over it with a packet of Post-it notes marking my favorites. While it's true Eddie IS my boyfriend, the real reason I couldn't resist ordering is that I much prefer fall and winter clothes to spring and summer ones.

Wool sweaters. Fleece. Hoodies. Boots. Turtlenecks. Leather.

All things brown, cranberry, and olive green.

I am a Grrrl who is all about cozy--and summer stuff just doesn't get me excited. Part of that is a reflection of my age--I don't have sleek, lightly tanned limbs to expose to the world--but part of it is just that I'm very tactile and I relish the textures of cold weather fashion.

So I pored over the catalog, making a wish list and chopping it down, trying to separate the "must haves" from the "maybes" and figure out what was worth investing in. I sent my order off two days ago.

Now I just have to get through the long, hot days I'll face in Virginia and Florida this summer, and solve the Southern Grrrl's dilemma of trying to stay cool while keeping my whale-belly white fair skin covered.

How about you? Do you like fall/winter clothes or spring/summer clothes better?

June 1, 2007

Attention makers of Nair--you are not my friends

On Saturday night I decided to grease up with the new and improved cocoa butter-laced Nair so I could skip shaving my legs in the shower and save some hot water. (Al Gore LOVES me, y'all).

Not only would I be saving water, but while the Nair was doing its job of dissolving unwanted hair and leaving my legs silky smooth and sexy, I could be working on buffing my heels and trimming my nails so that all the soft and lovely goodness of my legs would not end with icky feet. It's the weekend and I want the top to bottom beauty treatment! I'm a multi-tasking, high maintenance Grrrl.

I shook the bottle. I read that you were not supposed to leave the Nair on your skin for more than 10 minutes, and I dutifully checked my watch. Then I slathered that vile stinky yellow lotion all over my legs and started counting down the minutes to smooth and sexy while pampering my sweet not-so-little feet.

After a few minutes, my legs felt tingly. I was not alarmed. I've used Nair before. I'm a pro. I know if you rinse off too early you end up with horrid half-dissolved stubble and have to shave anyway. Y'all, I am NOT shaving tonight. I promised Al I'd save the environment. I'm waiting until the 10 minute mark.

Tingle. Tingle. Tingle.

Ten minutes. I jump in the shower and rinse, and I use a washcloth to make sure I leave no Nair and no hair behind. I am an overachiever. 

Tingle. Tingle, Tingle.

The legs look a little blotchy. Oh well. I use baby lotion all over them figuring it's super gentle and soothing. So smooth, so soft, the color will get better I'm sure. I go to bed.

Sunday morning I wake not to silky soft, smooth and sexy legs but splotchy, blotchy, wildly itchy legs. Covered with red, itchy bumps, I look like I served as an all night diner for a billion mosquitos. But since only my legs are affected and I was wearing pajama pants, I know these aren't bug bites of any kind.

Oh no! I've been visited under cover of darkness by the Nair Witch! (Didn't they make a movie about her, y'all--the Nair Witch Project?)

She cast a mean and evil spell on me. For two days, I've been hemmin' and hawin' and scratchin' my legs like a hound dog. If I were more flexible, I'd probably gnaw on the itchiest spots. My legs have that pinky, purple opalescent look of frozen chicken pieces and now are sporting some stubble as well.

What happened to smooth, silky and sexy?

Ewww. They look  like a picture in a dermatology textbook. It will be days before I can shave, and by then I'll  be as hairy as Wilmer Valderama.

Al Gore, I have one thing to say to you: you are NOT my boyfriend. From here on out, I'm all about hot showers and Daisy shavers. Some hairy bitch can save the world instead.

And that evil Nair potion? On its way to the landfill. I'm sure it will eat through its own container, corrode the landfill liner, and contaminate the water supply eventually. Sorry, y'all. My intentions WERE good and we all know where good intentions take you. Straight to .....

Ever the itchy, red, and pimply,

V-Grrrl

May 21, 2007

Good? Enough?

So out of the blue someone asks “How much time did you spend on the computer today?”

And I reply, “I don’t know.”

End of conversation.

But the real question hangs in the air—“What did you do all day?”

And a stony-faced nun rises from my childhood memory and raps me on the knuckles with her great Measuring Stick of Worth, seeking to awaken my Shame. Was I "productive"?

Ever notice that no one asks people with paychecks what they do all day or whether they accomplished anything sitting at a desk or in a meeting. No one is logging the time they spend on the computer, how many minutes were spent pouring coffee and chatting with office mates, talking on the phone, or composing memos and e-mails and Very Important Correspondence.

No one questions the value of the people in offices. Of course what they do matters or they wouldn’t be paid for it, right?

But I’m a woman without a paycheck and with school age children, so my life is up for grabs and open for judgment. Everyone feels they’re entitled to a big piece of it since apparently I’m not using it—or at least not using it properly (meaning not using it for their benefit). Since enquiring minds want to know, here’s what Tuesday looked like:

I got up at 6:30 a.m. and fed the cat and threw in a load of laundry and fixed breakfast for myself and the children and took my heart meds.

I rustled up lunch money for the oldest, packed snacks, reminded the youngest about an afterschool activity, wrote two notes of appreciation to their teachers on handmade cards, sent the kids upstairs to brush their teeth, ignored the oldest one’s messy hair, declined to argue about the necessity of wearing a jacket, and walked them to the bus stop.

Then I walked for exercise for an hour, past people on bikes and mothers pushing strollers and men and women waiting for the bus and cars pulling out of driveways and whizzing past me on their way to Something More Important (than walking).

When I came home I peeled off my sweatshirt, made a cup of tea, and checked e-mail and read blogs and left comments. I listened to a podcast on the life of a monk, and because I felt stiff after my walk, I practiced yoga for a while. I prayed for friends in tough spots.

I pulled a Bible off the shelf, read the readings that had been assigned last Sunday, and then read the sermon Kempton sent me because I’d missed church. Thought about what he’d written and what I read and sent him an e-mail in response. I suppose I could have emptied the dishwasher and cleared the breakfast dishes instead. That would have been meaningful.

My heart was out rhythm despite my meds and so I split a heart pill into four pieces and took a quarter more. I lay down, and I fell asleep and slept for I don’t know how long. I wasn’t wearing my watch yesterday, and since my life has no purpose, I don’t log my time on the computer nor my time on the sofa. I’m lazy and worthless that way. Really, I should put myself on a strict schedule and only allow myself a nap if the doctor orders it.  Never mind the side effects of medication and the crappy heart, I should just PUSH myself to do more, be more.

I woke up hungry and made a grilled cheese sandwich with pepperjack. The editor from Expatica suggested I write something about cars or driving for him this week, and I dutifully put together a tongue-in-cheek 700-word piece on driving in Belgium. If I had a work permit or my old job back, this article would have earned me about $250. But I don’t have a job. I work for free so people won’t forget what I’m capable of. The bad news is that people forget anyway or don't care in the first place. Anyone can write, right? I sent the piece off and it will be the lead feature on the home page on Thursday or Friday of this week.

In the afternoon I put away all the stamping and art supplies I’d used to make cards over the weekend. I pulled out the kids’ photo albums and looked for duplicate photos to put in them. I played with the cat. I read articles from CNN’s U.S. and European sites. I combed real estate listings in Virginia. I checked some more blogs. I set up an appointment for an eye exam in the States. Maybe I should have folded underwear and towels instead and lined the shoes up in neat rows in the foyer--but I didn't. I'm always failing to be all that I could be. I'm sure that's the fault of my kindergarten teacher. She set me on the wrong path.

I answered two e-mails from school. I read others and left them for later. Does this make me a procrastinator?

I thought about going to the bakery to buy bread, but I didn’t want to have to walk there in the rain. I don’t know why I don’t like getting out and walking in the rain. Must be because I’m lazy and don't care if my kids can't have toast after school.

I drank another cup of tea. I asked my oldest, now home from school, about his day. I didn't ask him how many minutes he logged on his Game Boy. I did congratulate him on getting a perfect score on his science project.

I made meatloaf and carrots and corn for dinner. I skimmed through the days catalogs. I wrote a letter to Sherry. After dinner, I looked at old photos with my daughter. I remembered when I was thin and she was little. That seems so long ago. Time goes fast when you're just a fat housewife. Every day is more of the same.

I got back online. I cleaned up the Favorites menu. I followed a link to a jewelry design page and looked at bracelets for a while. You know all housewives do is shop. We stay busy looking for ways to spend our husbands' money! I didn't order anything. What's wrong with me? I'm a failure in every respect.

I cleared a lot of junk off my desk and took a hot shower with the question “How much time did you spend on the computer today?” twisting in my chest until my heart ached.

I crawled into bed and beat myself with the unforgiving Measuring Stick of Self-Worth that was handed out with that question and all it implies. I tried to salvage the idea that it's not a crime that I don't have a passion for housework or women's clubs.

Surrounded by darkness, the questions whisper and disintegrate:

Do you think I am

Good enough for you?

Do you think I'm

Good enough?

For you?

Good?

Enough?

May 9, 2007