Invasion of the Body Snatchers

The Christmas tree had not even been taken down when the first spring/summer catalogs appeared in my mailbox last week. With temps in the 30s, the work day starting and ending in the dark, and snow drifting in and out of the weekly forecasts, the last thing I wanted to see was gauzy skirts and camisoles and t-shirts with palm trees on them. They made me shiver and shrink in my skin. And after weeks of overeating and under-exercising, I sure didn’t appreciate the allure of bathing suits.

I’m sure some marketing genius believes that in the coldest days of winter, I’ll want to escape to the sunny pages of their catalog and be seduced by their bright colors and carefree vibe. They are SO wrong. Forget hot, sexy, and tan. My mind and my reality are a thousand miles away from that. I don’t’ want to buy shorts and tank tops--I want to bury my dietary and fitness indiscretions in my winter clothes, which are so tactile and so forgiving.

I love winter clothes and hate to give them up in the spring. I can’t resist the instant warmth of fleece, the coziness of a wool cardigan, the buttery nap of corduroy pants, the luxury of a camel hair coat, the sophisticated style of a tweed hat, and the down home comfort of an oversized sweatshirt.

Of course, my issues with summer clothes go beyond comfort and are compounded by my age. Sad to say, I am no longer a sweet young thing basking in all a sultry Southern summer has to offer. Gone are the good old days of bikinis and miniskirts, sundresses and tan lines.

Now I’m over 40 and a skin cancer “survivor” who avoids the harsh light of day like a vampire and ends up dressing like an orthodox nun, trying to keep everything under wrap. Freckles aren’t cute on me anymore, I live in terror of liver spots (!), and no one is going to see the spider veins on my legs.

Last August when many people were complaining about how the whole summer had been unseasonably cool and rainy, I was secretly happy. I got to wear my jeans, fleece, and jackets all summer long—it was perfect weather for V-Grrrl in the Middle of midlife.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 10, 2006

Me and Eddie Go All the Way

Things got pretty hot and heavy with Eddie over the summer. We spent hours online together, I kept getting packages from him, and he always seemed to know just what a Grrrl wants—soft hoodies, linen dresses, cute wrap tops with modern prints, t-shirts in my favorite earth-tone colors. When the weather cooled down, Eddie and I weren’t in touch as often, though I’ve lived in his turtleneck sweaters and fabulous down vest with the fur collar.

Those of you have been following my love affair with Eddie know that he never disappoints me. We have a long term relationship that goes back at least 15 years and has only deepened over time. Sigh. Eddie’s in my heart, he’s in my head. Let’s face it--he’s all over me. It’s true--Eddie Bauer has got me covered from head to toe with the kind of quality clothing and gear I adore (www.eddiebauer.com).

Today I received the best after-Christmas present ever—pants that fit! Yes, we all know that finding pants that fit is heavenly under any circumstances, but finding pants that fit online is an absolute miracle. I’ve been living in jeans and sweats for months. After ordering--and returning--some pants from a big-box mall retailer online, I tried some on in local stores, but they never fit right or flattered me.

Catalog stalwart Lands End always rubs me the wrong way. And L.L. Bean doesn’t fully appreciate my long legs. Let’s face it, both LE and LL make me feel a little dowdy, a little old. Still I wasn’t ready to let other catalogers into my pants. I mean, sure we’ve shared a sweater or two, maybe some outerwear, but pants are different. I mean, I didn’t even feel comfortable letting my faithful love Eddie in my pants after an awkward incident in a dressing room years ago.

But Eddie Bauer has changed since then. Grown up. Matured. Now he’s more experienced. He completely revamped his pants sizing and fit categories this year,  just as I was getting a little desperate.  Timing is everything. Finally,  just before Christmas,  he propositioned me with a 20 percent off discount and free shipping offer. Clearly it was now or never.

It was time for Eddie and I to take our relationship to the next level. I spent hours online, studying the fit diagrams and descriptions, reading the Web catalog copy, and making a wish list. And then I JUST DID IT—I ordered SIX pairs of pants from Eddie in different fits, styles, and colors praying ONE of them would work and I’d be freed from my slovenly existence of all jeans, all the time. I was filled with both anticipation and dread—how would things work out?

Today Eddie finally showed up on my doorstep, and I couldn’t wait to get at that package. Fifteen minutes later, all I could say was “Oh Eddie! Oh Eddie!” ALL the pants fit. ALL the pants flattered. How could I ever have doubted him?

But now that the afterglow has faded, it’s time for reflection and a bit of remorse. I shouldn’t have! Six times! What was I thinking? How am I going to explain all this to my husband E? Will he understand? Will he forgive me? Will it all blow over in a month when the credit card bill is paid?

One thing I know for sure: I need both E’s in my life. I would hate to have to choose between them. One dresses me, one undresses me—it’s an ideal arrangement. Every woman should be so lucky.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 28, 2005

Ten Cheap Thrills for My Grrrl Friends

Hey Grrrl Friends! Looking for cheap thrills and winter pick me ups?  Here are a few of my favorite things, most of them available at your local discount store for way less than $10, the rest from Sephora:

1) Covergirl TruBlend Makeup. I’ve bought at least three different types of foundation in the last year, the most expensive leaving a $38 hole in my wallet. I was searching for that perfect combination of natural color, light coverage, sunscreen, and ease of application. I found it for less than $10 when I picked up some TruBlend powder foundation. Finally—the 2-minute all-in-one solution. The first foundation that seamlessly blends with my skin so I can spot apply it without fuss.

2) Cargo Bronzer. Being the fairest of them all and one who has had surgery for skin cancer, I avoid the sun and wear sunscreen year round. My life without tan lines means my face can get positively pasty looking, giving new meaning to the phrase “dead of winter.” Cargo bronzer is the gift of life for the sun deprived. It doesn’t have orange or yellow undertones, it won’t put glitter on your face or leave it shiny, nor will it make you look like you’ve been working in the mines. It imparts that rarest of all things—a perfect healthy wash of color, as if you’ve just dashed into a building through the rain, shared a good laugh with a friend, or spent a few moments remembering the great sex you had last night. Apply with a big, soft fluffy brush and feel the love, grrrl friends

3) Neutrogena Advanced Solutions Facial Peel. I’m a big fan of Neutrogena skin care products and this one is amazing. Twice a week you apply this to your face, let it sit for about five minutes, then gently massage your face with a light touch, and rinse everything off. The mild exfoliating AHAs and BHAs dissolve the dull outer layer of dead skin cells and let your best self shine through. Hey, I still have wrinkles but my skin has more of that peaches and cream look that ruled in my 20s.

4) L’Oreal Colour Juice Lip Gloss. I’ve always been a fan of lip gloss. It’s quick and easy and it adds a touch of color and shine with lots of moisture. I’ve used the type that comes with wand applicators and the stuff in pots you stick your finger into. Some are sticky, some are oily, some are gloppy, some taste or smell gross, but L’Oreal’s are just right. Perfect texture, sheer color, a bit of shine, and comes in an applicator tube—no need to use a mirror or your fingertips to blend. Go ahead and smile, Sweet Lips.

5) St. Ives Invigorating Apricot Scrub. I’m a big fan of exfoliation. Some body scrubs are too tender to get the job done, and some are too rough. Others are just a hassle to use or leave my skin feeling oily, not moisturized. This is the perfect body scrub. Comes in a handy tube, costs less than $3. Even if you’re not a body scrubber this is great for winter weary hands and rough feet.

6) Jergens Natural Glow Moisturizer. Most self-tanners are awful. The irony is that the people who need self-tanners the most (the whitey whites) are the people that have the most problems with them. Most formulas develop tans that are too dark, dramatic, or orange and many formulas are tough to apply evenly. I don’t want to look like JLo, I just don’t want to look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Jergens Natural Glow doesn’t deliver an instant tan, it delivers a subtle bit of color in an emollient base that is easy to apply and spread evenly. Use it every day and you’ll gradually develop natural looking color a few shades darker than your own. Follow the directions on the label.

7) Tommy Girl Summer Cologne. I know it’s the middle of winter. You won’t be able to find this in stores, but as soon as it appears, give it a spritz and let it transport you to your teenage beach days. It’s light, fresh, summery and has a hint of that irresistible Coppertone lotion smell. I love the bottle too. So pretty.

8) Johnson’s Bedtime Lotion (for babies and those that need to be babied). The smell, the texture, the way it softens your skin—everything about this lotion is comforting. I even use it on my face sometimes.

9) Sally Hansen Cuticle Massage Cream with Apricot Extract. Ideal for those of us with natural nails, short or long, unpolished. This is a solid moisturizer that comes in a little pot, easy to keep in your handbag. Smells wonderful, leaves a subtle shine on your nails, no oily residue and keeps cuticles and nails from getting ragged.

10) Blistex Fruit Smoothie Lip Balm in Mango. The last thing I put on at night, the first thing I put on in the morning. Ah!

OK, enough about me--what’s your favorite cheap thrill?

Gifts that Keep on Giving

One of my favorite gifts ever arrived when I was in second grade. It was a Crissy doll, a toy I’d seen advertised during Saturday morning cartoons. Crissy was all about her hair, “It grows and grows, right down to her toes!” the ads exclaimed breathlessly.

Well, not quite. Crissy had a big hank of supplementary hair that emerged from an opening at the crown of her head. You could use a knob on her back to reel it into her head and shorten her do, or you could push in her “belly button” and give the hank of hair a gentle tug and it would go all the way down to her waist (not her toes, thank you very much!). It could then be blended into the rest of her hair and styled—the original hair extension concept!

She had auburn hair and big brown eyes, just like me. She wore a blue satin minidress and came with a big carrying case. I made her clothes, sewing simple things from my mom’s fabric scraps and crocheting her shawls and hats.

I kept Crissy forever. When my little girl got to be about five, I let her play with Crissy from time to time, hauling her out of the closet with great ceremony. Then last winter, I picked Crissy up and saw in horror that E-Grrrl had gotten a bit too enthusiastic cranking that knob on Crissy’s back and had sucked the big hank of hair all the way into Crissy’s body—never to be seen again. Damn. What was I to do? I had to send to Crissy to the Land of Forgotten Toys because I could not have her accompany us to Europe with bad hair and a gaping head wound.

Malibu Barbie, another favorite Christmas present from childhood, is enjoying her European vacation. She’s thinking of changing her name to Riviera Barbie. She arrived under the tree when I was about 9, wearing a powder blue swimsuit, big pink sunglasses, and carrying a yellow towel. Perfectly tanned, with long flowing blonde hair, she looks just as fabulous now as she did fresh out of the box.

Once in a while, I’ll pull her and Skipper out and E-Grrrl and I will dress them in the many outfits I’d collected for them when I was little. Cross-legged on the floor of the attic playroom, the past meets the present and I see my childhood self in the daughter who doesn’t physically resemble me in the least.

I hope she still remembers our play dates with Crissy and Barbie when she has crows’ feet, and perhaps children, of her own.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 21, 2005

The Grrrl I Used to Be

On Thursday, the E-Man is getting an award at work, a happy occasion calling for an appearance by the Family Unit and a reception with champagne. Why am I ambivalent? Because I am experiencing a major wardrobe malfunction.

All the appropriate office-style clothes I own don’t fit. Oh sure, everything buttons and zips but then the fabrics start to grab me in all the wrong places, like a perverted fashion molester. Botticelli may love my belly but my black dress pants and my basic black skirt do not. And with my black pants and skirt mourning the Grrrl I used to be, I have nothing to pair with my various professional shirts and jackets.

So with my tailored business clothes out of the running, I pull out a black velour dress I bought last year at the end of the season from Isabella Bird. It has a basic A-line shape, a subtle hippie vibe, a keyhole neckline trimmed all around with black embroidery which is echoed at the hem. I’m thinking a bold pair of earrings and my favorite black boots and I’ll be good.

I try the outfit on and it looks all right--a little funky and artistic. I add a black suede belt and I think it looks even better, a bit more pulled together and flattering. Then I poll other members of the Family Unit for their opinions.

E-Grrrl doesn’t like the belt; she thinks the dress looks better without it. My 10-year-old son thinks the outfit is just OK. But E-Man, the guy about to be honored by his superiors and peers, doesn’t like any of it, especially the boots, which he hates.

“Maybe you need to go shopping,” he suggests.

This is code for “Please don’t wear that outfit to my office.”

I’m torn. The E-Man never comments on my clothes—he doesn’t feel it’s his place to tell me what to wear or how to dress. He’ll only give his opinion if asked, and most of the time he’s fine with whatever comes out of the closet.

Sure, I want to represent him well, and I could go shopping, but I do not want to buy new clothes while I’m channeling my inner Botticelli. I’m superstitious that if I cave in and dress my new figure, I’ll never again be the trim Grrrl I was a year ago (before I discovered Belgian chocolates).

And while I probably could have made quick work of finding a dress in the U.S. , it would be an ordeal here. I don’t know the stores, where to find what I like, the sizing, or what to expect price-wise. It could take forever and cost a fortune, and I’m not motivated to take the “shopping in a country where I don’t speak the language” challenge.

I know E prefers a tailored, traditional look, and I dress like that sometimes. I came of age in the preppie era and I’m still mighty fond of khakis and loafers and even own a sweater set (how white bread is that!). This is an important occasion for him, and if I were a Good Wife, I’d be channeling Martha Stewart and not my inner bohemian.

But you know, I exiled my inner Martha a long time ago and unapologetically suspended all claims to being a domestic goddess or a career woman. I’m not a Perfect Wife or a Perfect Mother and the perfect GPA I earned years ago means little to me now. Today I see myself as a (mostly) Good Grrrl and a Mighty Fine Writer. I may not be a Martha, but I trust my fashion sense. I’m going to wear the artsy dress.

E has been with me since I was 17 and witnessed my evolution. He’s seen me through all my permutations and tribulations. I love him for hanging with me for better and for worse. I’m sure he won’t abandon his Good Grrrl in her Bad Boots, especially when she and the smallest members of the Family Unit are beaming, channeling how proud they are of him.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 7, 2005

My Glamorous Virtual Life

I got an e-mail linking me to the Neiman Marcus holiday catalog online and with the click of a mouse, I’m one of the Beautiful People. I’m rubbing shoulders with perfectly coiffed blondes and chiseled-chin men, and we’re all at a fabulous party in a place where everything speaks of wealth and elegance.

I see myself in the 18-karat white-gold diamond circle necklace with matching earrings, the black Vera Wang dress with the hand-beaded hem, the Manolo Blahnik sandals that cost more than a month of groceries, and that Tory Burch velvet clutch bag that is a “bargain” at only $378. A bargain, that is, compared to the horrific Fendi fox-fur bag that is ugly, tacky, and a crime against nature. It costs a whopping $2,100.

This a world where the food is fine and the wine is better. The laughter bubbles merrily and everyone is smart and somewhat famous. The 3-inch heels never hurt your feet, your date never acts like a jerk, your stomach never pooches out and ruins the line of your dress. You have just the right amount of cleavage to channel sexy but tasteful. Your arms and shoulders are defined and tanned, even though it’s the dead of winter. The dark lipstick you’re wearing makes you look like a model, not a vampire. Your hair is not frizzy, your roots are not showing, and your face glows with happiness, not oily shine. It’s the first of many parties and you don’t think of the kids for a moment because they’re home with the nanny. Life is good.

Ah, there’s the good life, and then there’s the real life, where I doubt I’ll be invited to any holiday parties, let alone any that require evening attire. There is no slinky dress, sequined clutch, strappy sandals, or diamond jewelry in my short-term forecast. No sleek and sinewy body, no perfectly styled hair, no dark lipstick, no bright white teeth. No people sipping champagne and gazing into a starry night as the moon rises over the water. No enormous chandeliers, marble floors, or gilded mirrors. No endless sparkling conversation.

And that’s OK. Give me a fire and Irish coffee. The company of friends. A Christmas tree with ornaments made by the kids. A plate of dark chocolate truffles. Laughter that makes my mascara run and my stomach hurt. Big hugs at the door coming and going. And a starry, starry night to remind me of the blessings that sparkle in my corner of the world.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 16, 2005

V-Grrrl Gets Crafty

When it comes to crafts and the domestic arts, I’m a loser. I would not even earn a medal in the Special Olympics of Crafting because I don’t even make it to the starting line. I’m the type of woman they would have burned at the stake  hundreds of years ago, the towns’ people convinced I must be a witch devoted to the black arts seeing as I am clearly not devoted to domestic arts.

I’m an average cook and I’m good at laundry—the essential home processes. That’s it. I don’t sew, I don’t knit, I don’t stitch. I don’t scrapbook, I don’t paint ceramics, I can’t throw a pot. I don’t quilt, I don’t arrange flowers, I don’t make holiday decorations. I don’t garden, I don’t sketch, I don’t paint. I don’t make preserves, I don’t make Halloween costumes, and hell I don’t even bake cookies.

But I admire those who do.

I took three art classes my last year in college and was hooked. Back home in the States, I went to galleries nearly every week to see what was new in the art world. I have a weakness for watercolors, rustic pottery, and handmade jewelry. I longed to win the Lotto so I could afford some of the paintings I so admired. I loved to attend church bazaars to buy handmade hats and scarves, cross-stitched Christmas ornaments, embroidered linens, decorative wreaths, and chances to win a quilt. Yeah, I’m one of those people who fakes domestic talent with the help of my checkbook.

My sister-in-law G, however, is the real deal. She makes award-winning quilts. She can knit a traditional Icelandic sweater or a hip and cozy poncho. She can upholster a chair and make window treatments to match. She decorates cakes like a professional. She creates beautiful shadow-box collages. She gives handmade gifts, including crocheted baby blankets, American Girl doll clothes, and custom quilts. When her daughter was small, she made her a long Victorian-style coat, dark red with black satin braided trim and enough flare to make it a joy to twirl in. My daughter wears it now and loves it so much we had her professionally photographed in it. She worships her Aunt G.

You probably envision G as some quiet, meek homebody in a Super Mom sweatshirt who vacuums every day and watches Leave It to Beaver reruns on some obscure cable channel while her knitting needles click away and the meatloaf browns in the oven. You would be so wrong. G, my friends, is a prosecuting attorney for the U.S. Department of Justice. G specializes in white-collar crime and money-laundering schemes and reduces people to shadows of their former selves in the courtroom. She’s taken on high-profile cases and had FBI protection when things got hot. She has a degree in Russian and psychology and is every bit as smart as she is talented and ambitious.

I am never going to be like G. I’m just proud to be related to her.

But I’m taking baby steps toward a more crafty existence because Shirl Grrrl, my pal since middle school, has inspired me to flex my creative muscles on something other than the computer. A few years ago, Shirl Grrrl took up rubber stamping, a hobby that has burgeoned in the era of scrapbooking and paper crafts. She makes incredible cards layering paper and stamped images, using a variety of inks, coloring with pastels or watercolors, and adding other embellishments. Each one is a mini-work of art in an envelope, and Shirl holds workshops on how to make cards and do other forms of decorative stamping. She also sells all the materials. I thought this would be a hobby my artistic daughter would love. She admires Shirl’s cards as much as I do, so I requested a catalog from Shirl and soon it was tagged with Post-it notes. Wow, so many cool things—and not just for my daughter. Maybe I could do this too!

I sent Shirl a preliminary list of the stamps I liked and asked what else I would need to get started with stamping. Well, let me just say it’s not as simple a process as it looks, so my initial list (and my investment) grew. Quite a lot.

But in the coming weeks, a big brown box filled with stamping supplies and card stock and pastels and a paper cutter will arrive on my doorstep, along with instructions from Shirl on how to use all this stuff. I’m sure I’ll be getting online “tech support” as well as I venture into the world of domestic art.

I’m heady with the idea that I may be on my way to becoming a stamping artist and a craft goddess. With the help of Shirl Grrrl, Queen of the Stamping Wrrrld, I can finally BE SOMEONE and wipe the big L off my forehead. ; )

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 15, 2005

Unseen Forces in the Universe

OK, there are all sorts of TV programs dealing with the paranormal, but one subject is never explored that affects thousands of women every day. I’m talking about the mysterious forces that tangle and mangle bracelets and necklaces while we sleep and our jewelry is supposedly secure and at rest in our jewelry boxes.

This topic is high on my list of unexplained acts of nature because today I stopped in at the spa at the Embassy to see if I could get my daughter a haircut. Our stylist was booked, but I noticed the massage therapist wasn’t busy and so on the spur of the moment, I decided to get a massage. I have never gotten a professional massage before, but since I’ve been a little depressed, the E-Man is out of town, and my chiropractor is on holiday, it seemed like a better than excellent idea. I needed it mentally and physically.

So I undress and remove my jewelry, which includes a 24-inch gold chain with a diamond heart pendant. The E-Man gave this to me in college for surviving a brutal session of summer school, and it has a lot of sentimental value. Because of this, I’m extra careful with it as I take it off and refasten the ends of the chain together before laying the necklace in the little ceramic tray in the room.

Before long I’m face down on the table, oiled like a body builder, and loving life. The massage therapist spends 45 minutes untying the knots in my muscles, loosening my joints, and revving up my circulation. When the massage is over and I’m getting back into my clothes, I lift up my diamond necklace and notice immediately it has a knot in the chain. How is it possible that while the therapist was working out my kinks the necklace was getting kinky?

I try to unravel the mess in the chain and can’t do it. I blame it on the dim lighting and my lack of glasses and just put it in my pocket to work on later. When I get home, I pick at the links only to reach a point where I’m down to the end and it looks like a Chinese puzzle—one piece apparently having slid through another but refusing to reverse itself.

How is that possible? Why does this happen? And who’s going to get to the bottom of this mystery (and untangle my chain)? Are there pissed-off pixies at work in the world? Grouchy gremlins? Evil elves? Aliens seeking accessories? Bad-ass borrowers? Mind-bending magnetic forces? Part-time poltergeists? Sinister spirits?

Enquiring minds want to know. 

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

November 9, 2005

V-Grrrl Gets Personal

Reading about Katie Cowhorns’ and Granola Grrrl’s experiences with Internet dating and the hidden messages in personal profiles made me wonder what I’d say about myself and what I value in a partner if I were posting a personal ad at this stage in my life. This proved to be my toughest writing assignment in weeks. The results of my exercise:

Very white female without tan lines seeking single man, with or without tan lines.  Need not like kids but must like mine. Sense of humor critical, hair optional but preferred. Must be into fitness but not sports, spiritual but not a scripture-quoter, clean but not too neat, responsible but not uptight, empathetic but not wimpy, kind of traditional but not patriarchal, smart but not a smart ass, a thinker who takes life but not himself seriously. Must be familiar with the over-40 female psyche and able to navigate amid fluctuating estrogen levels. Must know when to advance, retreat and surrender. Ability to discuss books, movies, and politics necessary. Ability to make me laugh richly rewarded. No whiners or TV junkies allowed. Those who can’t/won’t do housework should not reply.

As for me, I’m a tea-drinking, Web-writing, mid-sized, middle-aged chick, who can be smart, funny, and a little lazy. Not a morning person. Not exactly a night person either. I haven’t figured out what kind of person I am. Idealistic and cynical, sometimes in the same sentence. Cheerful and moody, often in the same minute. Theoretically committed to embracing change but finding it hard to make change happen. Spiritual and religious in fits and starts. In shape from the waist down and flabby from the waist up. Brown eyes, thick curly hair. I shed like a Lab but I’m not a dog. Done with having babies, into raising kids. Bored with sports but interested in health and fitness. Trying to age gracefully but still covering my gray. Into all things cozy. Unimpressed by most things shiny. Practical.  I'm amused by pop culture, treasure my friendships,  and have a weakness for sweaters and books. OK, OK--I admit it--I also have a lot of purses.

(Yeah, I know. Who would answer this? I think I have the only interested party on long-term lease...Better not let the E-Man read this. He may decide I'm not his type.)

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 2, 2005

Family Secrets

Granola Grrrl recently confessed that despite her affinity for all things natural, holistic, and simple, she’d have plastic surgery in a second to tidy up the mess left behind by having twins and a 10-pound baby. She feels a bit marsupial now, with a pouch on her midsection and her boobs pointing down. And being newly single, she’s more than a little put out by this.

I generously offered to donate some stomach fat to fill her pouch with. This would make it nice and smooth and create a cozy gut for her boobs to rest on—no sagging! We’re blood relatives—I’m sure we’re fat compatible! (Surprisingly, she hasn’t e-mailed me back concerning my innovative solution to our respective tummy troubles.)

While Granola Grrl has been pondering the mental hypocrisy of  loving all things natural and yet reviling her saggy skin, stretchmarks, and pendulous boobs, I’ve reassured her that she isn’t as screwed up as she thinks. Our family has a proud history of pairing organic values with materialism and vanity. She's just another gnarly branch on our naturally weird family tree.

Consider my sister, a sales rep for various lines of health foods and supplements. She’s been eating sprouts and beans for as long as I can remember and washing supplements down with various green drinks. She hasn’t been to a medical doctor in years because modern medicine is a sham, except for the dermatologists who can prescribe those chemical cocktails to remove her wrinkles and sun damage. Now those are REAL doctors.

My sister spends her days talking to people about their diet and health woes, expounding on the benefits of the products she sells, and advising customers with medical problems on alternative medical treatments. You’d imagine her to be natural and wholesome, living close to the earth, growing her own herbs and vegetables, and gathering her family around a big pine table every night for vegetarian meals. You would be SO WRONG.

My sister is perfectly coiffed, thoroughly made up with dramatic dark eyeliner and red lipstick, designer clothes, and professionally manicured nails. She’s been on QVC. She drives a Cadillac and lives in a million dollar home. She doesn’t have a laid back bone in her body. She works non-stop, her cell phone glued to her ear 24/7. She doesn’t own a pair of jeans, never takes vacations, drinks a lot of coffee, and eats standing up. She’s a remarkable business woman--and a vain granola.

And then there’s my other sister, who also works in alternative medicine. She has one of those geriatric days-of-the-week pill sorters to keep all her vitamins and supplements straight. She assists in the office of a leading health guru who helped pioneer the concept of eating a restricted diet based on your blood type. All day, every day, my sister inserts hoses into people’s butts to irrigate and cleanse their toxic colons. Ooh yeah. Don’t you think she loves her work! And this same sister, who eats organic food and has a squeaky clean large intestine, has had a nose job, a tummy tuck, and liposuction.

So as you can see, our family motto is not "You can't fool Mother Nature."

We recognize that sometimes the family DNA arrives in a brown paper package, and DAMN, we are not going to sign for it. Hon, we want that DNA tastefully gift-wrapped and tied with a perfect bow—we deserve the best! Sure, we may eat hormone-free yogurt and malformed pesticide-free apples with spots, but personally WE will not be blemished, wrinkled, hormone-free hags! No way. That’s just not RIGHT. It’s not part of OUR natural order.

I’ll freely admit I’m less organic than the rest of them. I actually serve vile boxed macaroni and cheese to my children once in a while and even eat a hot dog or two in the summer time. I don’t take vitamins regularly. I’d never want a surgeon to reshape my Italian nose, boost my toy breasts (they can’t sag!), or suction down the stomach that tends to rise like bread dough over the top of my low-rise jeans.

But I’m not without vanity. I know that sooner or later I’m going to be writing a check to a medical professional and getting rid of the spider veins that have been crawling across my legs since I was a teen.

 "ZAP! WHACK! Wither and die, suckers! That doctor has got a laser and a hypodermic needle of saline solution—your days of spinning ugly purple webs on my legs are over!"

And when it's all done and the enemy veins have been eradicated, I’m going to sit outside in a sweet pair of organic cotton shorts, have a mixed green salad, and feel like a natural woman. Maybe my sisters will join me at the table.  We'll be looking so fine, we'll call a photographer for a family portrait.

 "Everyone say cheese!"

 (Lowfat, organic, and hormone-free, of course.)

© 2005 by Veronica McCabe Deschambault

October 21, 2005