Confessions of a Crybaby

I logged on to CNN this morning and burst into tears when I read the news. I quickly switched to what I thought would be lighter fare in the blogosphere,  and I cried over Amber’s post about body image, and Arabella’s post about her parents, and the trials Mama Tulip is facing right now. Oh sheesh. Clcking over to the daily comic pages looking for a laugh, I started sobbing over the story line in For Better or For Worse.

The mail brought a spiritual card from my big brother offering prayers and  encouragement as I face some health issues. It made me cry.

As I was preparing to make E-Grrrl’s birthday cake, my heart went out of rhythm, which upset me and, you guessed it, I cried again.

I’d forgotten I could be like this.

For most of the past two and a half years, I’ve taken a little blue pill each day that softened the raw edges of my emotions. During the summer, I scaled back to half a pill and with my doctor’s encouragement, tapered off that over the last month. No more blue pills.

This weekend the double whammy of being bitch-slapped by hormones and not enough sleep  has reduced me to a simpering mess. At this point,  I don't think I could survive a Disney movie or a Hallmark commercial.

All I can say is that it’s not easy being a natural woman.

September 30 2006

Crap I can do without....

Decorative throw pillows. A warning to the pretty pillows on the bed, pretty pillows on the sofa, pretty pillows in the chair—be useful or die. I’m tired of looking for a place to put you when I want to use the furniture. I’m over 40 and I’m so freakin over pretty, which brings me to…

Moisturizing lotions with glitter in them. Makers of Olay Quench and Jergens Natural Glow, this applies to you! I’m an adult woman with dry skin who knows it’s ludicrous for women over 21 to sparkle like a Disney character. Leave the pixie dust out of the lotion! If I wanted to glow, I’d live on Three Mile Island, which may be the origin of the…

Big honking brown slugs from hell that are everywhere these days. They’re as long and fat as my pinky and look like mobile turds with antennae. They leave more shiny snot trails than a preschooler with a cold.

Hmmm. Key words for this post: Useless. Nuclear. Sluggish. Snotty.

That’s the PMS muse talkin’.

September 8, 2006 

Show me the monkey!

Unlike many of the expats I know, I haven’t indulged in collecting Belgian items like tapestry and lace. Yes, they’re lovely, they’re traditional, but I have no use for delicate linens and textiles and refuse to buy anything that will languish in a drawer somewhere. Besides, lace and tapestry are not my style. Filling my house with it would make me feel like a granny, and I already feel old enough.

No, instead I’ve amassed a collection of Belgian products infinitely more practical, definitely more colorful, and famous not only in Belgium but around the world. Sometimes I think I should join a support group and confront my addiction. Yes, my name is V-Grrrl, and I have fallen under the spell of Kipling bags.

I bought my first Kipling handbag two weeks after we arrived. I was seduced by its light weight and body-crossing design, perfect now that I was walking everywhere and using public transit in the city. Soon I’d picked up a small khaki-colored backpack for longer day trips and sightseeing.

The combination of practicality and fashion-forward designs kept bringing me back for more. I couldn’t resist the burnt orange hobo handbag with its interesting variegated finish and handy compartments. I loved its shape and the way it sat solidly on my shoulder. Next I bought a Kipling wallet to accommodate the size of my new Belgian ID cards and folding change purses to hold my euro coins. For Christmas I received an oversized navy blue shoulder bag perfect for shopping trips and toting books and maps.

In the spring I fell for the fresh look of a green-striped shoulder bag, and I bought a weekend duffle bag for travel. When it got hot, I felt bright and summery with a bright orange, yellow, and baby blue bag, embroidered with flowers and sporting big happy tassels. My daughter, who is only 8-years-old, fell hard for a multi-colored striped shoulder bag from the same line, and we agreed to split the cost and share it. The best part? The furry orange monkey hanging from its hardware has my NAME on it. Clearly, we were meant to be together.

I share my love of Kipling bags with American friends looking for a taste of Belgian style. When Low Maintenance Grrrl was here on her birthday last summer, I gave her a blue-gray Kipling bag. Lynn received a black one for Christmas and carried it while she traveled with us in Belgium last month. Her daughter E has a beautiful orange and pink bag shaped like a flower that we gave her for her birthday, and my daughter E-Grrrl has a deep fuchsia monkey-faced backpack that she received for her birthday. I mailed Char, a former coworker, a lavender-colored bag, and Low Maintenance Grrrl liked the Kipling I gave her so much that she bought one for her girlfriend.

So let the tourists drink beer and collect lace, tapestry, chocolate, and statues of Mannekin Pis. Me, I’m carrying my memories of Belgium home in style—in an authentic Kipling bag.

August 24, 2006

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

The old gray Grrrl, she ain't what she used to be

E is in the States and on his list of things to buy are half a dozen boxes of L’Oreal Superior Preference Hair Color in medium amber copper brown. L’Oreal sells lots of hair color in Europe, but not Shade 5 ½ AM. MY color.

It’s funny how I’ve come to think of this shade as “my color.” True, it’s a close match to the hair I was born with —a coppery color between auburn and brown. But if I were honest with myself, I’d admit that “my color” is really the dull shade at the roots that disappears every four weeks under a fresh application of L’Oreal 5 ½ A.M.

I started coloring my hair when I was 39 and the hair framing my face started to be overtaken by gray. Throughout most of my 30s, I kidded myself that my gray hair wasn’t so band and looked like highlights. Later when I’d walk past a shop window and glance at my reflection or see photos of myself, I’d recognize the unmistakable skunk stripe that was working its way back from the front of my head toward the crown.

When I was a fresh-faced 20-year-old with waist length hair and pink cheeks, I told myself I’d never dye my hair, I’d age naturally and gracefully. This is only half true now. At 39, I was resigned to the lines on my face but not the streaks in my hair. When you’re 39, you want to believe only 50 year olds should have a lot of gray hair. (I’m betting when I’m 50, the acceptable age for gray hair will bump up to 60. Ha!)

And so, much to my surprise I started perusing the hair color aisles before my 40^th birthday, looking for the perfect color. Medium golden brown was good, but medium amber copper brown turned out to be the Holy Grail of Hair Color. It was ME, only better.

Now as my roots catch the light and wink at me from the bathroom mirror, the truth bitch-slaps me in the face. Like it or not, the mirror reports, the REAL me, has a ton of gunmetal gray hair. Not a striking salt-and-pepper mix, not a glamorous silver grey, and not the rich copper color that’s been my trademark since childhood.

Without the L’Oreal, my hair would tell the world that I’m old enough to be a grandmother. A grandmother! It hurts to even TYPE that, but if I’d had children when I was first married, and they’d had children at the same age, I’d be some toddler’s Nana. Good lord, why did I mentally go there?

Lately, I’ve been envisioning liberating my inner Gray-Haired Grrrl. I tell myself that hair dye can’t alter the truth and that my face and disappearing waist declare my age anyway. Why not GET REAL? Why not GET GRAY?

A part of me is clamoring for authenticity and demanding I claim my age and accept how it really looks. My inner FemiNazi has some issues with hair color. But the other part of me is still sliding her legs into Levis, letting her eyes linger too long on those photos of Becks and Luca Tony, and wishing she could go out with the girls and kick back. My mental image of myself is frozen somewhere around age 30, before motherhood and gray hair entered the picture. Those were the days when I had the lithe figure of a runner, hot pink accessories on my little white car, the latest music in my CD player, and the ability to make a miniskirt sing.

Those days are over. That Grrrl is long gone. But I’m attached to her. No, I won’t humiliate myself with short skirts, motorcycle jackets, or silly car accessories, but the L’Oreal 5 ½ AM? It’s all I’ve got left of the Grrrl I left behind. I’m not ready to trade bronze for silver. At least not yet. Maybe when I’m 50. Better yet, make that 60.

August 21, 2006

About the purple nail polish

The heat wave has encouraged me to loiter  shop for a very long time in the only air-conditioned space in my community--the grocery store.

Because even a purchase of two bags of produce and a bottle of milk causes my small European refrigerator to reach capacity, I've had to resort to buying vastly overpriced non-food items to kill time and pay for the store's air conditioning.  Buying light bulbs, cat food, and laundry detergent is a no-brainer and doesn't provides a legitimate reason to indecisively linger in front of displays. This is why  I've devoted myself to the cosmetics aisle, the only place it's socially acceptable to spend an improbably long amount of time debating a purchase. 

This would explain why I bought PURPLE nail polish. Surely no one just waltzes into a store and pulls a bottle of purple polish off the shelf and checks out. Whether or not to buy purple nail polish is a big decision requiring some serious consideration and internal debate.

You can savor a lot of air conditioning while considering the following: Is this the right shade of purple or will it make me look like a cardiac patient needing oxygen? What is the right shade of purple? Will dark purple make me look like a vampire or an artist? Will light purple make me look like an aging sugar plum fairy or a well groomed woman with a whimsical sense of style? Am I too old to wear purple nail polish in the first place?  Do women who dress head to toe in Eddie Bauer clothing have a right to even consider purple nail polish? Am I being bold or am I being stupid?

Well let me just say  I'm both bold and stupid. My son would add "tacky" to the list--his reaction to my color selection.

After I spent 45 minutes or so at home doing my nails and waiting for them to dry, I'd have to agree. This nail polish is way too Miami for me. It almost glows in the dark, a luminous cross between lavender and orchid. Barefoot and overweight, I could pass for Britney Spear's best friend with one glance at my atomic colored nails. What's a woman who lives in earthtones doing with nails like this?  Enquiring minds want to know.

The good news is that because this color is SO WRONG, I have a valid reason to go back to that nice cool store and debate my next nail polish purchase for at least a half hour. See how this works? Yeah. Maybe next time I'll talk myself into a mint green pearl polish and continue my trend of poor choices masquerading as wise choices masquerading as poor  choices. Or something like that.

Has the heat wave driven you to stupid purchases--either online or at the mall? Are you going to bad movies just to get a two-hour reprieve from being hot and sticky? Have you loaded your grocery cart entirely with selections from the popsicle freezer and soft drink aisle?

Do tell. Don't leave me out here looking foolish by myself. And BTW,  do you think I'm too old for baby blue polish?

July 25, 2005

Lipstick Saves

It's one of those days.

I rolled out of bed in baggy gray shorts and a stretched out t-shirt with sticky hair I should have washed before going to bed last night. I made a cup of tea, put sunscreen on the kids, sent them out with E to be dropped off at camp, and faced another day alone.

This should not be a big deal. This should be a good thing, even, because most of the time I am not intimidated by a quiet house or a big block of empty time, but today is different.   Maybe it's the date on the Female Calendar of Doom, maybe it's the homesickness I can't seem to shake, maybe it's just July, which for reasons I can't explain is the month (along with January) when I am most likely to require antidepressants, but today all the quiet and all the time was all too much.

I landed on the sofa while it was still early in the day and slept. And when I woke up, I rolled over and slept some more. I shouldn't be this tired. I should have gone for a walk. I should have tackled cleaning the bathrooms. I should have read my library book. I shouldn't have parked at the computer and blown off two hours. But that's exactly what I did.

And then I ate lunch. And then, because in my mental fog I'd forgotten to take my heart medication, my heart went out of rhythm for a while, I thought I might land back on the couch. But I didn't.

Early afternoon. I marched upstairs still in the clothes I'd slept in and vowed to wipe the depressed look off my face. A bit of Bobbi Brown pot rouge. A sweep of Cargo bronzer. A touch of peach lipstick. Neutrogena eye tint in honey. Cover Girl mascara for a woman who  never was and never will be a cover girl. A spritz of Lancome's So Magic, hoping it will indeed be So Magic--a Lancome Miracle.

Not quite, but at least now I have the will to put on real clothes. But not real nice clothes.

Face looks sunny. Mood still mostly cloudy.

Because Wordgirl wrote an eloquent post about the Gilmore Girls (which I'm too lazy to look up and link to), I had ordered the first season on DVD from Amazon.  It came in yesterday. I never watch TV during the day. I don't watch TV much at all. But seeing as I've lost my will to do anything else, watching TV seems like a great idea.

I  check out the first episode and I'm not sure what I think--I like the daughter but I think the mom needs to grow up. I wonder about this town where they live, which is so sitcom-esque. But this is a sitcom after all. What do I expect? It's the first season, first episodes, it will take a while for the show to find its rhythm.

Before I watch the second episode, I dig around in Grrl Wrrld for a bottle of nail polish. Haven't polished my nails in at least a year. I paint my nails. I watch the second episode of the Gilmore Girls. I hate Chad Michael Murray. I hate the way Loralei dresses. I wish I had her legs. I like Rory. The clock ticks more of the afternoon away. I think a lot about pizza. I wonder what I'll say to E when he says, "How was your day?" I wonder if I can talk him into going out for pizza.

I just realized my nail polish matches my lipgloss. I will pretend I care. I will pretend this makes me a really polished and together person. I will pretend I feel as good as I look. I will wish for a bumpersticker for the car I don't own that says "Lipstick Saves." Believe hard enough and it will.

Fashion Hall of Fame

While most of the clothes I buy only stay in circulation for three to five years, a few stalwarts have earned a spot in the V-Grrrl Fashion Hall of Fame.

My Naturalizer pumps fall into this category. I bought them in 1992 to wear to a trade show—I needed something that would match all my suits and that I could stand in all day. These black leather pumps with a low tapering heel and moderately pointy toe still look fine and fit lo these many years (and pounds) later.

Ditto my charcoal gray wool rollneck sweater that I bought from J.Crew. I think I paid about $80 for it, a big splurge in the early 90s. It was more than worth the investment. Winter after winter, I’ve reached for this sweater and still absolutely love it. It’s really warm, it’s neither oversized nor tight, it hits at mid hip, and it always looks and feels perfect with a pair of jeans.

Sweaters seem to be my best investments. They’re also my weakness, so knowing that I wear them forever helps me justify the ones I continue to add to my collection. I have a pair of soft and wooly LL Bean mohair v-neck cardigans (one grey, one red) that I’ve worn since the early 1990s. LL Bean was also the place I bought a burgundy wool-lined parka that has lots of pockets and is perfect for layering over bulky sweaters (ahem, which I have a lot of). I think I’ve had it for at least 12 years.

Pants seem to have a relatively short shelf life, but I have one pair of side-zip stretch chinos that has been the exception. I think I’ve had these for about 8 years and somehow they manage to fit and flatter no matter what the scale says. They’re all-purpose miracle workers—go with everything and look fab with my loafers in winter as well as the occasional strappy sandal in summer

The only item of clothing I own that I saved for sentimental reasons is in the bottom of my cedar trunk. It’s a stretchy knit black miniskirt that I bought in 1988—cute, comfortable, and when paired with heels, sexy. I only wore it regularly for two years, but they were two GREAT years, a time when I was skinny, fit and taking charge of my life. That skirt represents the confidence that blossomed in me when I was finally finishing up college, coming into my own as writer, and planning my great escape from the Midwestl town where I'd been trapped while E launched his career.

So what fashion truths are hiding in your closet? What items are still on your play list and what do you keep to remember good times? Tell me about what’s in your Fashion Hall of Fame.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

May 31, 2006

It's spring--the world is young, but me, I'm feeling OLD

Younger than springtime--I'm not. A few observations noted in the harsh light of day.

All winter while I was tucked into turtlenecks and wrapped in scarves, the skin on my chest was quietly adopting that thin tissue paper look. I’m on my way to looking like a poorly wrapped package.

Looking at my neck, face, upper arms, I realize my flesh is steadily loosening its grip from my body. Collagen-wrecking gremlins are haunting my days and nights. Really, I try not to think that aging is dying in slow motion but it is. This is like Pirates of the Caribbean. I have this sense that my flesh is moving farther and farther from my bones! I fear I'll one day have to wrap myself in duct tape to keep everything where it belongs. 

When I cross my legs and my pants’ leg rides up, I get a glimpse of calves that look like frozen chicken parts—pale, plucked, purplish. Noooooo! I don’t want to look like a Perdue pinup. Where’s the smooth, poreless skin of yesterday? If I’m going to morph into an “old bag,” I’d prefer my aging skin have the lovely warm patina of a classic Coach purse.

All these changes are clearly visible to me because I’ve become a person with reading glasses perpetually perched halfway down my nose. I have multiple pairs scattered around the house, even a pair attached to a dorky neck chain. I have some with wire frames and some with plastic frames, including a pair with a square shape and Burberry plaid design. The former make me feel like a granny, the latter, chosen to be fun and hip, make me look like Woody Allen—a dirty old man. What was I thinking! GAH!

Maybe I should abandon my glasses and enjoy a softer, kinder view, a new outlook. Blur the edges a bit. Hide the imperfections by losing the details. Focus on the big picture and age (gulp) gracefully.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

May 23, 2006

Reality Check

It took me months to muster the courage to pick up the phone and make an appointment for my annual mammogram. Every Sunday I’d make my weekly “to do” list, and every day I’d procrastinate on making the call. I felt like a huge burden had been lifted when I finally dialed my doctor’s number, got my Pap smear last week, and had her arrange for the mammogram—today.

But relief has quickly been replaced by dread.

My mother died of breast cancer 14 years ago. Normally, I simply don’t think about it, but every year when it’s time for my mammogram, I get a reality check. I come face to face not only with the prospect of cancer but the memories of my mother’s suffering and my loss.

It makes me squirm. My stomach churns. When I woke up to gray clouds and rain today and the prospect of catching two buses to get to the clinic, I didn’t feel any better. Not only do I bring personal baggage to this appointment, but every medical first here is a mild source of anxiety because I don’t know quite what to expect.

Never underestimate the comfort of a familiar face and a friendly nurse at the doctor’s office, the confidence you place in the people who have been with you over the long haul.

The technician who did my mammograms in Virginia was an older woman and a Christian. She was professional and didn’t talk about her faith, but her office space had a bulletin board with all sorts of notes and cartoons tacked to it, including Scriptures she found inspirational or meaningful and words and facts meant to comfort her patients. Once when I was preparing for my exam in that room, I noticed she had a Post-it note on her desk calendar with a reminder to “Pray for every patient!”

Maybe some people would be uncomfortable with the idea of someone’s spiritual life and professional life intersecting that way, but I loved that she was committed to taking a moment to meditate, focus, and pray for me before doing my exam. To me, it represented the ultimate standard of care, evidence of a personal and professional commitment to my well being, a sign I wasn't just a "task" but a person.

Undressed and feeling vulnerable in a room with all my fears and memories and the cold glass plates that will compress my breasts until they ache, I can use all the comfort and care that's offered.

May 9, 2006

Helpless, not hopeless

Arabella is having surgery today to improve her chances of getting pregnant. Teebs has spent a remarkable amount of time with her feet in the stirrups trying to get to the bottom of her infertility. Brooke has suffered four gut-wrenching miscarriages and is trying to line up financing for IVF. Untitled has been trying to conceive baby number 2 and despite shots in the ass and sex on a schedule, she’s let down each month. I have close friends and family who have lived through these cycles of heartache, including a sister-in-law who had a viable pregnancy and lost it unexpectedly when she was about five months along. She almost died in the process. Her only child died in her arms.

For all my whining about back pain, heart medication, PMS, and life in the slow lane, when it comes to reproduction, my body has pretty much done the right thing. I was ambivalent about having kids for 12 years, but when we finally decided to give it a try, everything went smoothly, more or less. Mr. A decided to be born on Labor Day weekend instead of close to Halloween, when he was due. Yeah, delivering a premature baby was traumatic in its own way, but I thank God his life was never in danger and he was spared major complications.

I had a miscarriage and D & C with baby number 2. My doctor gave me Valium because I couldn’t stop crying. And while there was sorrow and questions associated with that whole sad experience, I quickly became pregnant again and had a healthy pregnancy and birth that brought me my darling E-Grrrl.

I have no comforting words for those of you who have been beat up and broken in a hundred private ways by infertility. I have no advice on getting pregnant, no clue how or if your situations can ever be bearable, no idea if you’ll ever have peace or the babies you desperately want. In short I have absolutely nothing to offer—and that helpless feeling as an observer of your dilemmas gives me the tiniest glimpse of how enormously frustrating and disappointing it is for all of you to live with a sense of powerlessness in the face of infertility.

So today’s blog is for Arabella, Teebs, Brooke, Untitled, KK, V, and L and all those who have been put through the wringer of infertility. A portion of sympathy. A large dose of prayer. Hope that things will get better.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved

May 3, 2006