V-Grrrl in Black Leather

With the cool days of fall upon us, I’ve been able to unearth my favorite boots from the back of the closet. Sleek and black, with impossibly long pointy toes and short pointy heels, these boots walk the fine line between evil and elegant, silly and sexy. The E-Man calls them Grinch shoes. The children think they were made by elves. I rather like to think they’re what the Wicked Witch of the West would wear on a hot date. Love them or hate them, these boots demand an opinion.

They’re Isaac Mizrahi’s and sport a lovely long seam down the center of the vamps, highlighting all their slender, sharp-toed glory. The impossible tips invite admiration and fear. Ooh baby, they’re sexy—but make a wrong move and they’ll land in a spot of the anatomy that can readily receive them. Likewise the spike heels are low enough to keep me steady on my feet and narrow enough to elicit a gasp. Stopping just above my  ankle, my boots are topped with a line of fine decorative stitching and an improbably small and sweet bow, like a coy smile that can be interpreted a dozen different ways.

Having these boots in my closet is like having a race car parked in the garage. When I slide these boots on, I think two things: fast and sharp. Most of my shoes are station wagons—sturdy, practical, and oh so to the right. But not my Isaac’s. No, no, no. When I pull them out of their hot pink and orange box and slide their zippers up, my heart hits the accelerator, and pulls into the passing lane. Out of my way, world. These boots are made for V-Grrrl. 

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 12, 2005

Sunday Breakfast

The E-Man has many excellent qualities, but high on the list of things I love is his ability to make kick-ass eggs. His scrambled eggs are fluffy and not dry. His omelets are lightly browned and oozing cheddar cheese, his fried eggs have viscous yolks and tender whites. If he could make biscuits too, I’d be pointing my feet and curling my toes like Meg Ryan in the diner scene of “When Harry Met Sally.”

But then again, if he could make golden brown biscuits with a slightly salty buttery crust and soft but not doughy middle, he’d probably be Martha Stewart’s Boy-Toy instead of my Main Squeeze. Then I’d be left alone with a cold bowl of cereal while he lived a tidy and tasteful existence somewhere in Connecticut or New York , tending tulips, pruning hedges, mowing grass, feeding apples to the horses, sleeping on clean, pressed sheets.

Women like me (the Oscars of the world) fear the Marthas of the world—that devastating combination of brains, looks, and domestic prowess. Lock her up and she only gets stronger. Like a Superhero in a comic book, Martha is larger than life. If she absconded with my husband, I guess I could accept it as long as he sent generous checks drawn from Martha’s account and cooked the kids and I breakfast on weekends.

Martha may be a billionaire tycoon, but I can negotiate a fair deal. In Grrrrl World, Sunday breakfast trumps all, and surely Martha would see a 6-1 split on the E-Man working in her favor. I’m a (mostly) good Grrrl and generous as well. As long as I get my eggs, I’ll let HER iron his shirts and sheets and sprinkle them with lavender water. She couldn’t resist an offer like that. I know what makes a Martha point her toes and say “Ah!”

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 11, 2005

Sins of the Flesh

Yesterday Shirl Grrrl shared the painful truth of her descent into Mary Kay’s world. Shirl’s cousin Amy, a hardcore Mary Kay pusher, seduced the innocent and wholesome Shirl by providing her free samples of the devil’s own anti-aging regimen. Shirl is now proof that Mama was right—even just a taste of the devil’s sweet fruit can lead you down the road to ruin. Shirl’s one night stand with the Mary Kay samples has led to her enslavement to the desires of the flesh, a full blown addiction.

No longer a low-maintenance woman, Shirl now needs a flow chart to get ready for bed each night. As she stands before her altar of Mary Kay products, she must make sure she applies them all in the correct order. Should she fail to properly perform the sacred anti-aging ritual, she will be turned into an old crone as she sleeps, her fine lines replaced by crevices so deep her son will be able to push Hot Wheels through them. Everyone knows you can’t screw around with Mary Kay—or Mother Nature.

V-Grrrl is proud to say she has resisted the temptations offered by the Mary Kay vipers. She refuses to worship with the pushers of potions and promises. Instead, she’s a drugstore cowboy, using no-nonsense Neutrogena products and pledging her undying love only to sunscreen, which she’s been slathering on her face nearly every day since she was 19. She’s never had a manicure or a pedicure. She refuses to be enthralled by hair products or pricey salon services. She does her own color, and while every product for curly hair promises not to leave it greasy, stiff, or sticky, every freakin product for curly hair leaves it greasy, stiff, or sticky. V-Grrrl has seen the light and she’s not buying those ugly bottles of lies anymore. Her hair may be wild, but at least it’s soft.

But brothers and sisters, pride doth goeth before the fall. While V-Grrrl can claim the righteousness of pared down skin and hair care, her vanity has made her a fool for makeup. God save the Grrrls! Y’all have heard of Sodom and Gomorrah , well V-Grrrl was undone by Ulta and Sephora—the beauty temples that stock cosmetics of every imaginable category at every price point. Sucked into the evil Ulta cult by $10 off coupons and buy one, get one free deals, V-Grrrl accumulated a massive stash of eye shadow, pencils, blushes, foundations, and lipstick. She has a mini chest of drawers where all her eye products are sorted by color, and several metal baskets hold her blushes, bronzers, brushes, foundations and concealers.

If Ulta led V-Grrrl astray, Sephora wants her soul. Thanks to Sephora.com, V-Grrrl has been known to lose an hour in the afternoon, putting together wish lists online. She is counting down the days until she goes to Paris in November, not because of the wonder of the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower, no, her mind is possessed by the luscious delights that await her in the Sephora store on the Champs Elysee.

There’s something sacred about those moments in front of the mirror, when we cast off our old selves and witness a miraculous transformation—a new face for our shriveled little souls! Every morning when V-Grrrl baptizes her face with sunscreen and grabs her big fluffy makeup brush and applies her Cargo bronzer, she feels as if God has reached down from Heaven, touched her cheek, and said “Receive the look of life!” Immediately her pallor retreats and her color is restored. We’re sure Tammy Fay felt the same way about her mascara wand opening up the windows to her soul.

What can I say in closing except Peace, Love, and Lip Gloss y’all. See ya at the makeup counter—hope it’s in Paris.

September 29, 2005

What's a Girl to Do?

My daughter is almost eight and is blossoming into such a girly girl. I’m both happy and dismayed. The ambiguity I feel about her love of all things pink, her fondness for styling hair, and her interest in fashion pulls to the surface all the conflicting messages we send and receive about women.

The public and private debate rages on. Is it nature or nurture that makes a girl get girly? And when does being girly become a problem?

Unlike her brother, E-Grrrl has had a strong sense of gender from the time she was a little over a year old. She recognized her own femininity and gravitated to her own sex early on. She has always been an alpha female. She started nurturing baby dolls and bossing her brother around before she could walk. Unlike me, she loves to cook and is eager to learn to sew. She thinks shopping is a great way to spend a day and trying on shoes is a vacation. She saw a “spa kit” in a toy catalog and put it on her birthday list. I shake my head and wonder where all this came from—but I have to admit, the nut doesn’t fall too far from the tree. (I’ve got the shoe boxes and spa products to prove it.)

In my own life I try to walk that delicate line between being concerned about my appearance but not getting obsessed with it, enjoying good clothes but not blindly following fashion, wearing makeup and not letting it wear me. In my 40s, I’m getting better at being comfortable in my own skin—even if it’s sagging. I guess if I’m still figuring out how far to nurture my own feminine instincts, it makes sense I’d struggle to guide my daughter as she does the same.

As a preschooler, I banned the kiddie makeup kits and lip gloss and said no to letting anyone paint her nails. I never fought with her over her hair or insisted she wear it a certain way. We had no little hip hugger jeans, miniskirts, shirts that showed her stomach, satin pajamas, or bikini underwear in her dresser drawers. She had cute clothes but I allowed (even encouraged) her to get dirty and be active and have fun.

And even if I was privately trying to drop a few pounds, I never talked about my weight (or anyone else’s) in her presence. The word “diet” is taboo at our house. I try not to pass my neuroses to her, though God knows, I’m a mother and so I MUST be passing on my neuroses to her, even if I think I’m not. I took her to a girl’s basketball game so she could see women athletes in action and instead her admiring eyes were glued to the cheerleaders on the sidelines and their perfect ponytails. I let her dress as a cheerleader for Halloween but refused to sign her up for a cheerleading camp for six-year-olds.

For the most part in those early years, there seemed to be a good balance between being a girl and being a girly girl. We even managed to live a mostly Barbie-free existence until this year when she discovered the Web and Barbie.com. There the unseen forces behind the Disney princesses unleashed a powder puff assault of pink estrogen on my vulnerable little girl. At Barbie.com, E-Grrrl discovered she could dress and undress virtual Barbies, apply makeup to faces online, and choreograph ice skating routines for Figure Skater Barbie. It was here she was introduced to Hillary Duff, ‘tween queen, for the first time and started playing her videos over and over again. Now she’s like a junkie who needs a fix and is looking for a new drug.

I’ve caught her poring over In Style magazine and reading Bridget Jones’ Diary—at the tender age of 7. “This is so funny, Mama!” she said about Bridget, and I wondered what parts she’d read. Suddenly I’m concerned play time will never be the same. Barbie will be shagging G.I. Joe, who will be seeing one of the Bratz girls on the side. Who knows what’s going on in the toy tent at night?

From In Style she gleaned helpful fashion tips. She tells me with great authority, “Denim is ALWAYS in style” (though E-Grrrl personally hates denim and won’t wear it no matter what anyone says.) She pages through the designer’s new collections and critiques the dresses and hairdos on the models. At one point she says something catty about the woman in a photo spread. I immediately call her out on it—I’ll take a girly girl but not a MEAN GIRL (loved that movie—have you seen it?). In my best Southern Goddess voice I tell her: “Darlin’, the Roberto Cavalli dress may be TRASHY but that doesn’t mean the model is! Remember, she’s getting PAID to wear that dress—we’re sure she’d never wear something so TACKY in real life!”

(My mom would be proud of me. Her message to us whenever we’d say something mean was, “Let’s be charitable!” I’m sure she’d find something nice to say about that Roberto Cavalli dress. “You could use it to dust with. The ruffles will trap the dirt!”)

What can I do with E-Grrrl but sit back and enjoy the ride and tap the brakes when things go too fast or too far? For now, I’m going to admire her good fashion sense, accept that at this stage she may think Hillary Duff is cooler that the Dixie Chicks and Sheryl Crow, buy the Barbies AND the baby dolls, and let her revel in all things pastel. I will, however, hide Bridget Jones and the Chick Lit.

(“Darlin’, I’m not ready to go there with you yet; let’s go check out shoes instead.”)

September 15, 2005

Wild-Haired Women Wake Up With the Blues

In a world of silky-haired models with bone straight hair, I stand out from the crowd. Or I should say, my hair stands out—literally. An erratic halo of dark frizzy curls frames my face and tops my shoulders. While other women’s hair lies down and behaves and announces to the world that they are smooth and firmly in control of their lives, my hair likes to stand out and shout that I’m a bit of a mess--inside and out.

My hair tells the world that I lack discipline, and I’m lazy. It confesses that I refuse to get up early and gather my resources to deal with the natural disaster I’ll see in the mirror. Which force of nature will it be--a volcanic explosion of curls hurled straight up into the air or a tidal wave of frizz cresting in fury over my forehead? I could be a National Geographic cover girl. I look like a species that has yet to be discovered, except perhaps by Dr. Seuss.

I sometimes think the reason I wake up depleted is that all night as I sleep, my hair is siphoning energy out of my body. When the alarm goes off, my body is as limp and wrinkled as the sheets, but my curls are a fabulous example of potential AND kinetic energy, tightly wound springs that dodge and bob my feeble attempts to order them.

Other women use chemical weapons (mousse, gel, hairspray) and power tools (hair dryers, straightening irons, hot rollers) to create order and control in the morning. I’m a hapless leader who is ill-equipped for battle. I have a small bottle of John Frieda “Dream Curls” that I spritz hopelessly over my head in the morning. It’s like trying to end a mass uprising with a purse-size bottle of pepper spray.

What can I say? I’m weak. I have no pride. I just surrender to my inner wild child and let my unruly hair go its own way. I put down the brush and reach for the lip gloss. Screw my hair. I’m going to decorate my pie hole instead.

September 12, 2005

You Can't Fight Mother Nature

A few weeks ago, in a motivated moment, I decided I needed to exercise more and do some resistance training—so my muscles will burn more calories while I’m at rest or as I prefer to say, "getting in touch with my horizontal axis." Muscle mass, I’ve heard, is the key to beating middle-age weight gain.

Traveling the four sets of stairs spanning my house from basement to attic and my brisk walks to bus stops, Metro stations, and the parks near my home was not enough. I was getting only half the job done. You see, from the waist down I‘m Denise Austin (add a bit of cellulite, lose the tan), and from the waist up, I’m Olive Oyl. It was time for a change. My caboose was overtaking my train.

This is a conversation I’ve been having with myself all my adult life—because my long arms and bony shoulders have NEVER kept pace with my legs. As a distance runner in high school, my legs did all the work while my arms major task was to help my hands wipe sweat off my brow and push my hair out of my eyes. In my 20s, I joined a fitness class and never graduated past the five-pound hand weights. In my 30s, my back and shoulders bulked up a bit as I hauled babies, car seats, and toddlers, but as the kids grew up and I grew older, my upper body atrophied again and I started to look like E.T.

So in an effort improve my life, wear tank tops with confidence, and be able to haul even heavier groceries home from the bus stop (a GALLON of milk!), I embarked on a home exercise plan. I rolled my weights out from under the futon—everything from the puny 2 pounders I’m embarrassed to own to the 10 pounders I bought years ago in a rush of confidence (and never used). I warmed up a bit with yoga, stretched out, and then decided to do some pushups.

Not military pushups, mind you, GIRLY pushups, the ones designed for those whose weight and strength is centered in the rear, not the shoulders (C’est moi!). I carefully got down on my hands and knees, straightened my back, sucked in my stomach, snuck a peek down my shirt to see if I had great cleavage in this position (sadly, NOT), and then carefully bent my elbows to lower my chin to the floor. THUD! That’s the sound of my perfect form collapsing onto the rug, crushing my ego in the process. (OMG, is that a carpet burn on my chin! My humiliation is complete!)

I scrape myself off the floor, drag myself over to my computer and exercise my very strong mouse-pushing hand and double-clicking finger to see if there have been any studies on gravitational pull in Belgium . I’m convinced it’s stronger here, closer to the North Pole. This explains why my face is sagging, my rear end settles so snugly in the chair and my arms can’t do pushups anymore…..It would also explain the powerful, invisible forces pulling me into a horizontal position. We all know, you can’t fight Mother Nature—especially if you can’t do even one pushup.

September 10, 2005

My Life with Eddie

Eddie and I go way back. I may be married to Eric, but Eddie is my secret passion, the one who knows what I like and delivers it without question. When I’m exhausted, Eddie joins me in bed. When I open my dresser drawer or peer into my closet, I think only of Eddie. He rarely disappoints me, he carries my camera and gear without complaining, and he keeps me comfortable. Best of all, he’s available 24/7. Time and time again, in all kinds of weather and circumstances, Eddie is the one I reach for. Eddie Bauer, that is.

I buy the classic V-neck t-shirts in bulk: four white, one sprig green, one celadon, one shell pink, one pumpkin, one black. I love the zip-neck polos with their Jetson’s vibe. Not too tight, not too loose, Eddie’s embrace is always just right. I have linen and wool blazers, stacks of cardigans, long sleeve shirts, even hats and bags—all bearing Eddie’s signature.

Check out the Stine leather jacket with its totally cool buckles nipping in the waist--it makes me feel like Sheryl Crow in leather. When it rains, my yellow windbreaker mocks the gray skies and drizzle and feels silky, not stiff. When the first frost nips at my cheeks, I layer my corduroy field jacket over a wool sweater and feel oh so cozy. In winter when the snow starts to fall, my gray charcoal mittens and Sorel boots come out to play.

A recent Eddie Bauer order arrived with a shipping bill that read like a virtual feast. Clothing colors have sumptuous names, like plum wine, banana, cantaloupe, apple, orange. It only seems right that I unpack the box on the dining room table. The breezy linen dress with the modern print is sidewalk café perfect. And the two new hoodies will be my blogger uniform. And yes--another zip neck polo! I want to do a happy dance.

So today my blog is dedicated to my long-time companion, Eddie. Check out all he has to offer at eddiebauer.com.

September 9, 2005

PMS, Eve's Mistake, and the Second Coming

There's a big bowl of pistachio shells on my desk. I love pistachios. There’s something so satisfying about snapping them open and seeing a GREEN nut. And they’re salty, which makes them irresistible, especially at certain times of the month.

Of course, read any article on PMS and it will tell you to avoid salt, sugar, and caffeine in order to minimize symptoms like bloating, headaches and moodiness. In other words, just as every cell in your body is calling for the dark chocolate or the bag of Doritos (or both, God forbid), you’re supposed to deny yourself all that and expect to FEEL BETTER.

Oh yeah. Medical science fails women again. If you have a PMS Bitch and take away her morning coffee, afternoon chocolate, and one-night-stand with the Doritos bag, in the end you’re not going to have a NICE woman, you’re going to have a freakin’ psychopath.

Trust me: an ordinary bitchy woman is less of a threat to world peace, human health, and the people she loves if you just GIVE HER WHAT SHE WANTS. So I say, “Girlfriends, when your inner bitch rears her ugly head, break out a big bar of dark chocolate and don’t let anyone make you feel guilty about devouring it. Honey, you are SAVING civilization with every bite. You go girl! Everybody say ‘Amen!’”

Bibical history has it that menstruation was the curse Eve pulled down on womankind after she led Adam into sin. Sisters we ALL know that Adam went into sin all by his sorry little self, and Eve, establishing a pattern that would dog women for the rest of recorded history, covered for him.

“Oh yeah, God, it was ME, it was ALL MY FAULT he screwed up. Don’t be mad at Adam, he couldn’t help himself—I served him forbidden fruit! I’m such a jerk. He was just trying to be nice, joining me for a romantic little picnic out here in the garden!”

Uh-huh, uh-huh. I’m not buying that line for a minute! That story in Genesis is so lame—I mean c’mon, what kind of woman takes advice from a viper that LOOKS like a viper. None! We know better! But give us a viper in the shape of a man with six-pack abs, dark curly hair, deep blue eyes, and a sheepish smile, and DAMN, we’ll do ANYTHING for him—even disobey the Creator of the Universe. DUH! I'm convinced the children's bible pictures got it right: Eve was a blond.

Hang on a sec while I get some more pistachios and crack open another Coke. There now--all better--now where was I? Oh yeah, the first dumb blond who gave all subsequent blonds a bad name. Another curse on our heads (pun intended, y’all).

While medical scientists have never been able to figure out exactly WHY women menstruate, it’s been pretty easy for me to figure out why we have PMS. There’s been research done that shows women are perceived as more attractive when they’re fertile. When the egg drops, we all send out “a love me glow,” and through some metaphysical mystery, for a few days we attract men as easily as Jessica Simpson.

PMS, of course, follows this happy interlude and has the opposite effect. PMS shouts to the world—“Back away from this woman! Not suitable for breeding! We repeat, she is not suitable for breeding” PMS does this by adding five ugly pounds of water weight to our middles, making our pants grab us in all the wrong places, which in turn drives us to wear floppy gray sweatpants that are oh-so-flattering (NOT!). In case that doesn’t turn off the males of the species, our faces break out in angry red zits that make us look like we’re carrying an infectious plague. But if there are wonderful, rational men out there who still love us anyway, all we have to do is open our big moody mouths and snap their sweet little heads off. As heads roll across the floor, the message becomes perfectly clear: “Back off! Not suitable for breeding! Do not attempt to reproduce her DNA!”

The bad thing is that as I cruise through my 40s, PMS dominates my monthly calendar. This is because in mid-life, PMS not only stands for “pre-menstrual syndrome,” it also stands for “pre-menopause syndrome.” This is why I’m becoming a little BATTY (Bitchy All The Time Y’all). I’m caught in a riptide of fluctuating estrogen, and it’s making me crazy.

There is however, a cure for this, if only I could find it on a store shelf. What we need, Sisters, are Premarin M & Ms—pretty little pieces of dark chocolate laced with estrogen. Have you ever wondered if M & M really stands for Menstruation and Menopause? Are those bright little discs The Cure for The Curse? I have seen an awful lot of middle-aged women under their spell. They could be our salvation.

I’m convinced that when Jesus arrives in the Second Coming, he’s going to be passing out the estrogen M & Ms to all the women--even the blonds! And with divine M & Ms melting in our mouths, world peace will come again and men and women will all live happily ever after. Now that’s something to look forward to—that and some more pistachios.

September 2, 2005

Sex and the 40something-Year-Old Woman

My friend Mike said that V-Grrrl in the Middle sounds like a heading for a kinky sex Web site. Mike—I’m so surprised you would say that. (NOT!). Raise your hand if you share Mike’s ménage á trois fantasy—y’all can hook up on some other Web site later, all right. Leave me alone.

My idea of a threesome in bed is me and two oversized pillows (one between my thighs! Ooh la la!) My favorite bedroom fantasy involves sleeping for ten hours straight and waking up without wrinkles. Sorry to disappoint--I don’t see my virtual alter ego literally wedged between “The Graduate” and the Medicare patient in a room with mirrors on the ceiling and a Web cam in the corner (All together now: EWWW!), but hey, we CAN talk about sex if you really want to (laugh). So here’s today’s hot topic:

Why Moms are So Sexy, or Tabitha Hotlips Opens the Door

Tabitha Hotlips answered the door in a wet white t-shirt. The baby had slept through another feeding and her cups runneth over. She greets the UPS man with a coy smile and a husky “Hello there! Have you got something for me?” (Her voice is raspy from yelling at the kids all morning.)

“Ooh! A big package! I haven’t seen a man with a big package at my door in too long,” she exclaims.

Just then her three-year-old breaks away and steps in a pile of dog poop in his dash to the street.

Tabitha follows, her damp bosom heaving as she sprints with a 15-pound baby on her hip, her powerful loins leaping over the dog doo in a single bound. She grabs her son, looks into the UPS man’s eyes and says breathlessly, “Men! I just want to tie them up! They’re so dirty, so naughty.”

Her cheeks flushed with excitement, she signs the clipboard as the UPS man mops the sweat from his upper lip. She grabs his package and says, “Come back any time.”

September 1, 2005