There was a certain Grrrl....

Photo by Di Mackey

Who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

She was very, very  good,

And when she was bad,

She was horrid.

Di managed to capture both sides of the Grrrl today. Behind the smiles, there's a hint of something more--my "naughty" side, she calls it. Why am I blushing? Only Di knows...

Images copyright 2007 Di Mackey Photography. All rights reserved.

There's more of Di's work in my online Photo Album and at her Web site, www.dimackeyphotography.com.

Conversation with My Keyboard

V-Grrrl: The weather is supposed to be beautiful all week, Keyboard. I don’t think we’ll be spending much time together.

Keyboard: Oh thanks. Now I know what the opposite of “a fair weather friend” is.

V-Grrrl: All the sunshine has me thinking of our summer trip to Virginia and Florida.

Keyboard: Are you going to hit the beach?

V-Grrrl: Yeah, and I can’t wait to cross the dunes and see the waves. I’m sure we’ll be spending time at the pool as well.

Keyboard: Oooh. That means you’ll have to wear a swimsuit.

V-Grrrl: I know. I’ve been avoiding wearing a swimsuit for the last few years because I feel so self-conscious, but you know, that’s just stupid. When I was younger, I vowed I would never morph into one of those simpering middle-aged women who thought their lives were over when they stopped wearing bikinis.

Keyboard: Exactly! Life’s too short to spend time worrying about your pot belly.

V-Grrrl: That's not a pot belly, Keyboard, that's a "love bumper." Ahem! Besides, I've been so busy thinking about the blue veins on my legs that I forgot all about the belly. I wonder if my old suit still fits. I’ll have to try it on.

(V-Grrrl digs through the plastic box under the bed and finds her cute Hawaiian tank suit with the low cut back. She shimmies into it, thinking it’s tight but maybe she can get away with it.)

Keyboard: Hmmm, it’s not awful but it’s not good either. Let me see the back.

(V-Grrrl turns. Her Keyboard gasps and types some exclamation points. !!!!!!)

V-Grrrl: What Keyboard? What’s wrong? (V-Grrrl stretches to catch sight of her reflection) Oh no! No, no, no! I have BACK fat! How did that happen?

Keyboard: Just when you’d made peace with your front fat, the back fat stages an ambush from behind.

V-Grrrl: No lie! Gah! I had no idea that was there! Where did it come from? This looks horrible. We can’t have the Hawaiian tank suit cutting into the back fat like a knife slicing ham. Quick Keyboard, take me over to Landsend.com. I need to pack my back fat away. I need a Slender Suit!

Keyboard: Or a Miracle Suit. Or maybe just a miracle…

V-Grrrl: I'll take whatever I can get. If you find a miracle for sale, charge it!

March 27, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.

Channeling Bridget Jones

One of those days…a day when I’m not comfortable in my own skin, when I look at my baggy jeans and clunky shoes and down vest and think, “You should try harder.”

When I wish I was the type of woman who has her hair professionally colored and highlighted, who buys underwear that’s sold off a rack and not in a package, who can walk gracefully in heels, who can look good in a low cut shirt.

The problem with planning a romantic weekend in London is that it reminds me of how far I fall from the carefully marketed and packaged ideal sexy woman. I think one of the reasons I love the Bridget Jones movies is that Bridget is such a mess. She makes trying too hard look silly, and she succeeds in spite of herself. The movie’s message is that being a bit of a wreck is endearing—well, at least some of the time.

So I guess I should quiet the critical voices in my head and tell myself it’s OK not to be thin, beautiful, and perfectly turned out. In spite of wild hair, cotton underwear, and comfortable shoes, I can have a “v. good time on my holiday mini-break.” Right Bridget?

March 9, 2007

Forget the films, let's talk fashion at the Oscars

I admit it. Even though I'm a distinctly non-fashionable person in real life, I love to analyze the glamorous gowns seen on award shows.

After a quick click through Wire Image's red carpet photos on Yahoo, here's a snapshot of who scored and who didn't:

Reese Witherspoon never looked better in her life. The smooth yet slightly tousled blonde hair, the smoky eyes, the deep purple gown with its graduated shading and irregular hem conveyed confidence and glamour in a backhanded fashion. She looked impossibly sexy, and she's not someone I ever expected to pull that look off.

Nicole Kidman has morphed into someone who inspires an uneasy fear, like the White Witch in Narnia. She's too thin and too pale, her hair is too straight, and her face has been botoxed and surgically re-shaped until it has all the emotion and radiance of a plastic mask. Add the blood red dress and she just gives me the shivers--in a bad way.

Helen Mirren is who I want to be when I grow up. Elegant, beautiful, sexy, confident. I loved her gray hair, the fabulous beaded dress with the swishy skirt, her genuine smile and expressions. Plus the sight of REAL boobs and naturally sloping cleavage on the red carpet was refreshing.

Meryl Streep leaves me feeling so confused. A part of me admires the chutzpah it takes to show up at the Oscars in a kimono accessorized with chunky bohemian jewelry and post-menopausal bedhead. Is she making some kind of statement opposing the perfectly-turned-out character she played in The Devil Wears Prada? I don't know. Her talent is such that it seems a shame to quibble over her clothes; maybe she doesn't care but I  care. Meryl, you're the QUEEN, don't be afraid to shine a little!

JLo's unfortunate choice of a Grecian-style gown and country club bob took all the sizzle out of her Latina sex appeal. Sad. And every time I see a photo of Marc Anthony, I want to suggest a blood transfusion, IV, and some vitamins. He looks tubercular. Any second now, he's going to cough up blood.

Penelope Cruz's dress was so over the top, so va-va-voom. I didn't like the ballerina pink color and the fussy details yet I feel compelled to give it a thumbs up. She's Spanish and a former ballet dancer so a dress that is sweet yet spicy suits her.

And what's up with Cameron Diaz? She looks like she's going to the prom in that horrid white dress with the awkward portrait collar and freaky train. The messy hair and the orange tan--bleah! She has GOT to fire her stylist. Whoever is advising her on fashion, hair, and makeup is failing miserably. Come on, if you can't make Cameron Diaz look good, you ought to be working as an engineer or something!

Gwyneth Paltrow looks like a WASP-y version of Morticia on the Addam's family. In other words, I think she'd make a good date for Marc Anthony!

Beyonce is so beautiful, so radiant, so glamorous in an understated way, she deserves the best Oscar for styling. She is ALL THAT and pulled her look together perfectly.

And me, in my jeans, turtleneck, and down vest, I'm rockin the keyboard and glad no one cares (or knows) what bloggers wear.

February 26, 2007

Cures for ennui

Ennui is one of those words that sounds like the concept it describes. Without hard consonants, it’s flabby and shapeless and has an indistinct beginning and end. It is the perfect word to describe the post-holiday, midwinter mental landscape.

I have a tendency to keep to myself and stay home, but last week I did everything I could to keep from sliding into a mood as dim as the Belgian skies. I started my mental health program with a long walk on Sunday morning to take advantage of a rare bout of sunny weather. I tipped my face up to the sky and prayed the UV radiation would get my serotonin levels up and not give me wrinkles. On Sunday afternoon I attended a stamping workshop to learn some new techniques. Masking, rolling, kissing—who knew paper crafts were so sexy? I ate loads of Kim’s fiery salsa because y’all know I can’t leave the hot stuff alone.

Monday I dedicated a good chunk of the day to cleaning, because the only thing more depressing than being stuck at home is being stuck in a dirty house. I didn’t get the whole house clean but I did get enough done to keep the too-much-clutter blues away.

Tuesday Di met me “under the elephant” at the African Museum. She took the train and tram over from Antwerp and we spent the day here at Chez V putting together a package for a friend, discussing books and movies, eating soup and sandwiches, talking business, and doing what expats do best in winter—complaining about the bloody weather. I introduced her to white chili, forgetting that unlike Americans, kiwis have delicate palates and digestion. That little bit of cayenne in the soup encouraged her stomach to join in our post-lunch conversation. Oops. Sorry Di.

Wednesday I spent the morning writing a piece for www.expatica.com, and then I dashed over to Jen’s house for lunch (Mexican food, of course) and another stamping workshop. We made Valentines and got far rowdier than you’d expect from a bunch of surburban Grrrls. We talked entirely too much about sex, train hopping, and shopping. Don’t tell our husbands. We’re only supposed to be trading recipes and discussing our perfect children at these get togethers. And those checks we wrote to Kim? We like to employ a “Don’t ask, don’t tell policy” regarding all purchases of paper, ink, and stamps.

Every Thursday I spend about an hour in the morning helping elementary students with their creative writing endeavors. My group of first and second graders is writing about mermaids, bears, and “if I were the President.” Kyle informed me he’d be a couch potato president and play Nintendo all day at the White House.

Friday I spent a big chunk of the day with the lovely Javacurls, a fellow expat and blogger here. It’s been about a year since she first sent me an e-mail regarding her impending move to Belgium, launching an online friendship. She arrived last August but because of all I had going on last fall with school, health, and family issues, we weren’t able to meet until now. Being crafty Grrrls, we visited an art supply store together, window shopped, and then enjoyed a very looooong lunch.

Our orders at the cafe were taken promptly and we received our drinks but then time seemed to stand still. After we’d been waiting on our soup and sandwiches for, hmmm, about an hour, Javacurls cornered the waiter and asked him as politely as possible, “Where is our food?”

He replied without a hint of sarcasm, “In the kitchen.”

Oh, of course, our food is in the kitchen! Silly us? Why didn’t we think of that?

Sigh. Living the multi-cultural life is not always easy.

At least we had lots of opportunity to laugh and eat fresh sourdough bread while we waited for our lunch to find its way from the kitchen to our table. By the time I got home and threw a load of laundry in, it was time to meet the school bus.

Friday night we attended our first ever Quiz Night, a fundraising event that involved playing something similar to Trivial Pursuit in a public forum with people we didn’t know very well. It was alternately fun and painful. During the World Geography round, I wanted to go hide in the bathroom. But hey, I rocked the movie trivia and wasn't so bad on current events. I surprised myself by tanking on the art and literature category.

The weekend? Well, considering I’d spent more time and money on art supplies this past week than I had on groceries, it made sense to pull everything out and make some cards as well as a big, honkin mess. Nothing like covering the dining room table and floor with boxes of stamps, papers, watercolors, and inks to drive away the ennui. And now I get to clean again on Monday!  It's the circle of life.

What do you do to beat the midwinter blues?

January 21, 2007

Cranky because...

...the very first week the kids are back to school after a two and a half week Christmas break, they have a three day weekend!  In the last month, they've gone to school for maybe five days, and my son was home sick two days last week. I am tired of nonstop eating, nonstop cleanup, and nonstop “Can so-and-so come over?” I made them go to bed at 8 p.m. tonight. Give. Me. Some. Space.

...I need a pair of black dress pants. The ones I have don’t fit anymore (grrrr!), and the ones I tried on on Saturday were too big in one size and too small in the next size down. Skinny, trim, or chunky—whatever shape I am, I am ALWAYS between standard sizes.

Did I mention how hard it was to face my reflection in the dressing room with the fluorescent lighting turning my skin a ghastly blue color and casting deep purple, cadaver shadows under my eyes? If I’m going to have to view myself as a Zombie Woman or some horrid Pod Creature, I should have at least been rewarded with a pair of nice trousers that fit. But nooooooooo. Instead the pants are sloppy around my waist and make my ass look like an overstuffed piece of carry-on luggage.  Whose idea was it to put those FLAPS on the rear pockets? Some skinny bitch designer--that's who!

...I chatted online with a customer service rep for Lands End, certain they would come through for me with a pair of black pants. I'm such a little fool! There was ONE pair of dress pants available in any style in my size—and they were navy. I don’t do navy, even when I’m desperate. Apparently Lands End is “between seasons” so the new line of pants isn’t available yet and the old line is picked over. Bottom line (pun intended):  there are no pants left.  I am forever V-Grrrl in the Middle—STUCK between sizes and now between seasons. But I have other reasons to be cranky, because...

...there was an art debacle at Chez V today, the second one in six weeks involving newly purchased artwork. I bought my husband framed prints by a Belgian artist for Christmas. We hadn’t hung them yet, and they were propped against the sofa in the living room this morning because I was cleaning the spot where they had been laying flat. My son and his friend were playing and knocked them down to the CERAMIC TILE floor and broke one frame in two and dinged the other. I was SO PISSED. 

...this is the same son who was told to stay in the car while I quickly walked his sister into a building for an extracurricular activity this afternoon. Did he stay in the car? NO. I caught him inside the building at a snack shop buying two big packs of candy. Did I mention he bought and ate an entire box of Girl Scout cookies on Saturday plus two regular size packages of other candy? And that he bought more sweets on Sunday at a bake sale? And that I just had to order him HUSKY SIZED pants for the first time EVER? I don’t forbid him sweets, but his consumption of them is out of control. Between the binge eating and sitting on his butt with his Game Boy, he’s going to turn into a mental and physical BLOB.

And then he’ll be just like me.

GAH!

See, I told y’all I was cranky.

January 15, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

Raising a glass to creative women!

Photo by Di Mackey

Last fall I hooked up with Di, a fellow blogger and expat, and became involved in helping her launch a photography business here in Belgium. It all started with a simple request: could she photograph my family to add to her portfolio? Would we mind?

Mind? Only if we were crazy! I’d seen Di’s work online and was thrilled she was willing to turn her camera our way.

Di is from New Zealand and had been working in Turkey when she developed a relationship with a Belgian guy and ended up leaving Istanbul for Antwerp. I knew she’d endured many low moments during the immigration process, quipping that falling in love with a Belgian was an offense punishable by death through paperwork. Her determination to build a new life in cloudy Belgium and to venture into business in a new country impressed me.

What started with a photo shoot grew into something more when I offered to use my professional experience in marketing and PR to help her get her venture off the ground. Midway through the process, I contacted Char, a Web designer in the U.S., to see if she could help Di get a photography site up and running. Before I moved to Belgium, Char and I had worked for the same agency and partnered together on many Web sites and print projects.

Di picked out a general template, I wrote copy, and Char took the framework, sharpened the design, and pulled it all together. Di and her husband put in many hours selecting and formatting photos for the galleries.

The end result is a personal and professional product I’m really pleased to have been part of, not just because it’s a great site but because of the relationships and process that brought three creative women together sharing their talents.

Check it out here. And while you’re at it, check out Char’s professional site (I wrote the copy).

Cheers to the Sisterhood of Creative Blog Grrrls!

January 12, 2007

Tonight they sleep with the fishes

To the Tupperware container with tomato stains: I can’t bear to look at you anymore. You’re nasty and I want you out of my kitchen. Maybe I’m shallow, but looks matter. Don’t tell me I’ll recognize how much I need you when you’re gone. I don’t want to hear it. You’re an overpriced piece of suburban luxury plastic, but tonight you'll be hanging out with the recyclables. Bye-bye-bye!

To the ten single socks that have been in the bottom of the laundry basket for at least a month: What’s up? Where the hell are your mates? Were they sucked into another dimension? Victims of amnesia? Living a secret life in a drawer on the wrong side of the dresser? Sent packing because of holes in the fabric of their lives? Guess what? I no longer care! I am so tired of trying to find your partners and encouraging you to stick with your mates that I’m sending you on a singles cruise. Wait here in the nice brown bag. Pick up is at the curb. Have a nice trip.

To the eight different shades of brown eyeshadow in my cosmetics drawer: You look like lovely neutral shades of café au lait, milk chocolate, bronze, cinnamon, maple, and honey—but I've seen your true colors. You’re all secretly shades of  orange and coral! Really! And you know what? You’re going on vacation with the socks. Y'all belong somewhere tropical.

To the five different shades of berry lipstick: I don’t know what brought us together, but things are just not working out. You can go ahead and tell your friends that I left you for a tube of cheap Chapstick but really, Hon, I’m serious about the irreconcilable differences. You suck the life out of my face and make me look like a vampire. We’re just wrong for each other.

To the Mary Kay shower gel, the Bath and Body Works lotion, the Infusium shampoo and conditioner, and the Avon hair mask: We’ve been sharing a bathroom forever, but somehow we never seem to really click. I keep thinking things will get better between us, that we’ll spend quality time together, but the truth is I ignore you day in and day out. Don’t be upset. It’s not you—it’s me. It's time we quit analyzing our relationship and move on.

January 11, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com

Hair

photo by Di Mackey

Growing up in the 70s, I longed to have a long dark shimmering sheet of hair like Cher, Katharine Ross, or Ali McGraw. My mother had my naturally curly auburn hair cut short with wonky little girl bangs. My mother’s friends and my older relatives all admired my hair, and my mom would reply with barely concealed pride, “The more you cut it, the more it curls.”

But I didn’t like having short, curly hair. I envied my straight-haired friends with their colored hair clips and pearly plastic ponytail beads and sleek head bands. My hair could not be accessorized! It wasn't in style, and I felt plagued by its unpredictable curves and angles. When I was about 12, I started growing my hair out, determined to part it in the middle and have it cover my back with awesome, silky sleekness. To expedite the process, I rarely, if ever had my hair cut.

The weight of my long thick hair relaxed the curls into waves. I was clueless about styling products and tools and had no idea how to manage my hair. One of my big mistakes was blow-drying and brushing it, which is a big no-no for curly girls. The brushing combined with Virginia’s humidity meant that more often than not I looked more like Gilda Radner’s  SNL character Rosanne Rosanna Rosannadanna than Cher, but at least my hair was long, which was the measuring stick of success in my teens.

When I was 20, I had my first professional hair cut and never had waist-length hair again. I experimented with a lot of styles, and looking back I have to say my long hair days were not my best. Eventually I learned how to work with my curls, not against them, and even started to occasionally use mousse or gel to calm the frizz and define its shape though my dislike of styling products lingers to this day.

My early love affair with long, straight hair and my reluctance to get my hair cut all came back to me this week because E-Grrrl has become obsessed with the length of her hair. She has baby fine, bone-straight silky blonde hair that we’ve always kept cut between chin and shoulder length. At that length, it has a beautiful shape and a sharp, neat edge that swings when she moves. Longer than that, and the ends start breaking, the volume disappears, and her hair becomes limp and lank, which is where we’ve been lately.

E-Grrrl seldom gets the brush all the way through her hair and it has a tendency to look unkempt and stringy. In the last few weeks, I’ve been telling her over and over that she’s overdue for a haircut but she’s been side-stepping the issue. Lately her hair has been so flat and listless that even her father has been nagging her to do something with it.

So today we ganged up on her and got her to the hairdresser’s. She only wanted a teeny, tiny trim, though I managed to convince her to go for at least an inch off. The stylist gave her hair a nice sharp edge, but even as I watched him work, I knew E-Grrrl remained unconvinced it was a huge improvement. Her mind is set on super long, straight hair and she resented every snippet that hit the floor. Just as my mother couldn’t get me to appreciate my curls when I was 9, I’m powerless to persuade my daughter that her baby fine tresses look best cut above her shoulders. What goes around, comes around.

Secrets from the V-Grrrl Historical Files

Char tagged me to share five things about myself that my readers don’t already know. This was a tough assignment. Geez, y’all, I’ve already told you all the good stuff. A Grrrrl needs a few secrets, a bit of mystery. That said, here’s an attempt to share something unexpected--I had to dig into my life history archives.

1. Six years into my marriage, I was determined to finish my bachelor’s degree. I went back to college in every sense of the word--I actually moved into a dorm and came home to see E on weekends. I was probably the only person living there that had a mortgage.  My roommate in the dorm was also married (with kids!) and working on a degree in sign language. She talked to herself all the time—silently, of course.

2. During that time frame, I bought a black, leather miniskirt in California when I was out visiting Low Maintenance Grrrl. Let me tell y’all, I rocked the mini! When I was feeling sexy, I wore it with black pantyhose that had a seam running up the back of each leg. Ah, the days when I bought lingerie off a rack at Victoria’s Secret and not in a plastic packet in a bin at Wal-Mart. It was a short interlude in my life but one full of great memories.

3. During my second year, I was dragged to a dance by a girlfriend who was desperate to go and had been stood up by her boyfriend. I wore the miniskirt and a pair of black croc heels. I was asked to dance by a freshman, who became visibly nervous when I told him I was a senior. I danced with him, but he was so young, I couldn’t bear to tell him, that not only was I a senior but I was SENIOR, as in ten years older than him and married.  After dancing with him, I told my very amused girlfriend it was time to leave. To commemorate our "date," we had our photo taken by the photographer. We made a cute couple—she was from Paris (France, not Texas) and had the best clothes. My freshman crush probably figured I was a lesbian after the photo shoot. Who knows, maybe he was gay and asked me to dance because he noticed my wedding ring? Now that could be a story. More likely, he was using me to get at my charming French pal who had gray-green eyes, ash blond hair, and a French accent. Her ooh-la-la factor was off the charts.

4. The black leather miniskirt also worked its magic in Florida when E and I went to a club to dance. A guy at a neighboring table gave me an appreciative nod and sent drinks to me all night--but never asked me to dance. Sigh. It was the perfect relationship.

5. I’m now a middle-aged dumpling who doesn’t own a single sexy item of clothing, but I still love to dance--when I'm home alone.

So who's ready to tell some secrets? Annie? Flubberwinkle? Nance? Di? Mignon?

December 10, 2006