Just wondering...

Does anyone else think Uma Thurman looks like a praying mantis?

Or that in certain photos Brooke Shields looks like a man dressed as a woman?

Do you ever wonder why there are blush sticks that say on the label that they can be used for "cheeks, lips, eyes?" Who wants to put any shade of pink or red on their EYES? That's just icky, people. You'd look like a white rabbit--or like you have the flu, an eye infection, or stayed up all night crying. With pink eyes you become the person no one wants to get in an elevator with. Strangers hand you a kleenex.  Co-workers hope you won't use their phone. If you're lucky, someone will make you chicken soup.

What's your favorite fragrance?

Since Lynn and I's visit to the perfume factory in Namur, I've been obsessed with teasing out the various scents that make up the complex oriental fragrance we both purchased. Orange blossoms? Musk? Amber? White lily? The perfume guy told us this unisex formula called Passion  includes many elements and has notes of chocolate and coffee in it. No wonder I love it. It's so rich and mysterious and the scent lasts  forever on the skin, and while the coffee scent escapes me, I CAN smell the chocolate. Thankfully, I haven't done anything freaky like lick my wrists when I'm wearing Passion, but I do sniff them a lot, which I suppose looks just as freaky.

Other fragrances I like:   Red by Giorgio, Romance by Ralph Lauren, So Magic by Lancome, Noa Fleur by Cacharel, Tommy Girl Summer Cologne 2005, Bobbi Brown's  Beach, Clinique Happy  and assorted cheap but fabulous Avon colognes: Skin to Skin, Individual Blue, Rare Ruby.

Are you bored yet? Yeah, me too. Let's wrap this up--but don't forget to tell me your favorite fragrance--it doesn't have to be one you wear, just one you love to encounter.

August 4, 2006

Conversation with the Keyboard

Keyboard: So, what are we going to write about today?

V-Grrrl: Beats me. I’ve exhausted all the hot topics: the weather, the price of watermelons, acceptable colors of nail polish, and what I did on my summer vacation. Yesterday I blogged on how tired I am. When you’ve explored all the really important issues—what’s left?

Keyboard: Um, maybe you could write about something dull—you know, sex, drugs, politics?

V-Grrrl: Ah, I don’t want to write about Bush or bush. The E-Man would freak out.

Keyboard: How about health and fitness?

V-Grrrl: Listen, if I give my expat fat another 15-minutes of fame, it will never ride off into the sunset. It already has a bloated self-image. I’m going to sit on that topic and hope it disappears.

Keyboard: You could blog on your kids….

V-Grrrl: True, if only I could remember all the funny things they say. I don’t want to immortalize their whining and bickering. Right now they’re painting and fighting over whose picture is best,  who’s wasting paint, and who just farted. It’s not a Kodak moment. It’s not a sitcom moment. It’s more a Planned Parenthood moment.

Keyboard: Maybe you should get out of your bathrobe, have another cup of tea, and see if the Muse comes calling.

V-Grrrl: Great idea. Why would the Muse speak to an over-40 chick in dorky glasses with bedhead and Ugg slippers? I need to improve my image and shed the bathrobe. Now where did I put my sweatpants?

August 2, 2006

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Afternoon

The sofa is calling my name and I’m resisting with every fiber of my weary being. Even my oak desktop looks like an appealing place to lay my head down. I’m so tired even my teeth hurt. I’m yawning until my eyes water behind my glasses.

I shouldn’t be this tired. Yes, I got to bed late, but I slept late. I got my eight hours but sometimes eight hours isn’t enough. I’m one of those people who should have the t-shirt that reads, “Damn right I’m good in bed—I can sleep for days.” So tacky. So true.

There’s a mass of dirty dishes in the kitchen, including the particularly icky things I procrastinate on washing forever—the macaroni and cheese pan, the oatmeal bowl, the stained coffee mugs.

The washing machine is tossing the sheets through a soapy bath. There’s a queue of laundry piles snaking across the basement floor waiting for me. There are clean clothes in a heap on the folding table, waiting to be taken upstairs. I’m out of underwear.

The plumber came yesterday and waltzed through a mobile of drying bras in the basement to reach the boiler. I guess that took our “relationship” to a new level of intimacy.

My wrists ache from typing and mousing. I’ve pulled on my wrist braces on and now look like some 19^th century Dickensian character toiling away in fingerless gloves.

The Dixie Chicks are singing—“How long do you want to be loved? Is forever enough, is forever enough?”

The song is called “Lullaby.”

“As you wander through this troubled world in search of all things beautiful, you can close your eyes when you’re miles away and hear my voice like a serenade.”

Give Peace-a Chance

This week Neil at Citizen of the Month organized Bloggers Across America, a homegrown attempt to heal America's wounds and unite a nation divided by politics, sex, race, and American Idol.  Bloggers of all types stepped forward to claim their States and create a virtual chain across the Internet. They didn't, however, have to sing Kumbaya, they just had to touch their monitors in unison.

My vision is even bigger. As an American living in Belgium, I'm caught between two continents, two cultures, multiple languages, and no agreement as to whether egg belongs on pizza. So in the interest of shamelessly stealing Neil's concept advancing the cause of cultural understanding,  I'm launching Bloggers Across the Globe. To participate, all you have to do is announce your presence and pizza preference on V-Grrrl in the Middle and join our diverse community of pizza and peace lovers.

 In the comments section, please tell us who you are, where you're from, and  your favorite pizza combo.  Please note, everyone is welcome here regardless of whether they crack raw eggs on top of  piping hot pizzas and call it edible.  Our motto is Give Peace-a Chance.

Finally, in the spirit of promoting lots of blog comments world peace together,  participants are asked to gather with friends on  Saturday night, order a pizza, and raise a glass and a pizza slice to the vast circle of V-Grrrl in the Middle  readers around the world,  sharing their piece of the global pie and changing the world one topping at a time.

July 28, 2006

Tell me how thrilled you're not

The other day mamatulip  asked her readers to list their favorite book, CD, TV show, and gorgeous celebrities.

I’m borrowing the idea but taking a different approach. I don’t want to know what wows you, I want to know what wows everyone else but leaves you feeling distinctly underwhelmed.

1. What book have you disliked but the public has raved about?

I’ve never been inclined to read The DaVinci Code, I hated Bridges of Madison County, and I thought the first chapter of The Corrections was brilliantly written but the rest was a disappointment. I couldn’t finish it, even though it won the National Book Award.

2. Which band do you think is most overrated (or which band/artist makes you want to change stations)?

Most teen love songs make me want to hurl. The more someone pines for someone else, the less I like it.  Bleah.

3. Everyone says these celebrities are “beautiful” but you say, “Huh? Ya gotta be kidding!”

Kate Moss has forever and always looked like a skanky, chain-smoking whore to me. There I’ve said it, and now I feel so much better.

4. Everyone’s talking about this show, but you’ve never seen it or don’t like it...

For me, this is every show since I don’t have cable or satellite and haven’t watched network TV in 25 years. Yeah, I’m a freak.

5. They’re supposed to be smart/funny but you think they’re stupid and/or insufferable. Who is it?

 Rush Limbaugh, Ann Coulter, Dr. Laura, Howard Stern and anyone who makes a living acting self-righteous and making caustic or crude comments about other people. Shut up and get real. Make the world a better place.

True confession: I like David Sedaris but often I find his essays more poignant than funny.  I don't really think of him as a humor writer.

Friday Fun

OK, no more blah-ging this week.

Here's a fun Friday pick-me-up. Go to Yahoo Music and check out Jessica Simpson's "fans only" video of her dance song, A Public Affair.

The song itself sounds very 80s and reminds me of a Janet Jackson dance mix. The reason to tune in  isn't the song but the video, which is comprised entirely of home video clips submitted by Jessica's fans, showing them dancing to her song. You never see Jessica but get a glimpse of both guys and girls (and one baby)  shaking their booties in backyards, bedrooms, and family rooms across America. It's a feel good and have fun three minute pause in your day.

So shake it like a Polaroid picture baby and have a good weekend.

V-Grrrl

Move over Sponge Bob

I had a revelation over the weekend: not only is my body spongy on the outside, but my psyche is spongy on the inside.

I read an article by sociologist Martha Beck on Sunday that describes people who are “emotionally spongy.” The term refers to a person’s ability to soak up the emotional energy around them. This can be a good thing: spongy people deeply enjoy and appreciate kind words, warm wishes, and good feelings from friends, coworkers, and others. The problem with being a spongy person is you also experience all the stress and negativity the people around you emit, even if you have no direct connection to the source of their bad vibes. Meaning even when people complain about events you’re not associated with, you feel stressed, as if they happened to you. It’s different from being empathetic to others problems, being spongy means you actually experience what the other person is feeling and are weakened by it.

That’s me.

In my first job out of college, I had a mercurial boss prone to outbursts. Sometimes he’d loudly chew someone out, other times he’d leave memos on your desk where you were verbally lacerated in silence. Most of the people in the office could listen to him spout off in a rage and then let that moment go and get on with their jobs.  Some could laugh about it. Me, whether I was the recipient of or the witness to his belittling comments, I felt sick, truly sick over them. I absorbed all his frustration and anger.

I’ve written about how I can’t watch emotional movies let alone full blown tear jerkers without paying a price. Long after the credits roll, I carry the character’s losses and grief with me. The more intense the movie, the longer and more acute my emotional hangover.

This is also why I’m not a regular at Web sites and blogs that focus on celebrity snark. Now I won’t pretend I’m not interested in celebrity gossip, but The Superficial, Perez Hilton and Go Fug Yourself can really bring me down. Sure, sometimes they make me laugh, but often I just feel the writers are just mean and not funny and their cruelty saps me.

While my husband isn’t an aggressive driver, he’s a verbal one. From the moment he gets behind the wheel, he’s prone to narrating all his gripes and grievances with other drivers. Not just dramatic incidents involving being cut off on the freeway or someone tailgating or running a light set him off, it’s smaller things too. Before we’re even out of the neighborhood, E will have complained about how people parked their cars, how so-and-so didn’t come to a complete stop back there, how cars veer to the outside on that curve, how people are driving too fast for a residential area, how the posted speed limits aren’t appropriate and on and on and on. For me, it’s unbearable.

All that complaining and negative energy fills me up and puts me in the worst mood. Sometimes I get physical symptoms, like a headache Most of the time, if I remind him, he makes a conscious effort to plug his word hole so I don’t get stressed out. I want him to let go of his narration, if not his opinions, on others’ driving. But sometimes he gets annoyed with me about it.

Because he’s not spongy, he doesn’t understand why he can’t talk about driving when he’s in the car. “What’s the big deal? he asks, “I’m just making some comments.” And to be fair, I want to make it clear he’s not yelling or cursing or shaking his fist. He’s just calling a crabby play-by-play of the driving scene. For me, all the irritability underlying the comments is contagious. When he starts his monologues, it’s like having someone sneeze in my face.

Years ago my daughter was on a soccer team. I didn’t know the other parents so I tended to set up my chair on the sidelines and flip through a magazine while E-Grrrl practiced. The first day I was there, the woman behind me aggressively castigated her daughter before the practice, and sighed for 15 minutes afterwards. Now everyone has rough days and rough moments, but I quickly learned this woman was ALWAYS mad at the world and tough on her daughter.

The irony—she was a Girl Scout leader and had been for years. Week after week after week she sat somewhere behind me and bitched non-stop about Girl Scouts, about the parents, about the kids, about the volunteers, and on and on and on. I left every practice exhausted by HER mood. E-Grrrl wasn’t even in scouting then, and I vowed she never would be as long as this person was involved. In my mind, this woman was like a smokestack that spewed soot over everything in her vicinity.

According to Beck, the sociologist who wrote the article I read, spongy people have to arm themselves against emotional assaults. She describes a long list of techniques that involve acknowledging and distancing yourself from the bad energy, visualizing happy moments or scenes when you’re under fire, and releasing tension and practicing peace through meditation.

What she makes clear is that spongy people are not neurotic, they don’t necessarily have unresolved issues, they’re not mentally ill—they’re just spongy. The key to dealing with it isn’t to see it as a fault but just as a trait. If you’re interested in reading the article and learning more about the research and treatments for spongy types, check out the June 2006 issue of O Magazine.

June 12, 2006

By popular request: The complete bride story

Once there was a woman professional in Northern Virginia who became engaged to be married. Sporting an impressive diamond on her left hand, the executive at a well-known international management consulting firm put all her professional skills and personal passion into planning The Perfect Wedding.

It would be elegant, traditional, and showcase her social standing, affluence, and good taste. Not a religious person, she nonetheless “shopped” for an impressive church to hold the wedding in—a church with WASP credentials, soaring cathedral ceilings, and proper stained glass windows. She booked a prominent hotel for the out-of-of-town guests and the reception.

She shopped endlessly for the perfect silk gown with a royal-looking cathedral train. She went to great lengths to ensure the bridesmaids’ gowns, invitations, and flowers were understated and expensive in a way that said “East Coast” and “old money,” even though she came from a middle-class family in the Midwest. She had vellum stationery and calling cards printed with her married name: Mrs. John Doe. It made some of her feminist friends want to gag.

Still, friends are friends, and they participated in her wedding fantasy. The ever anal retentive bride insisted on inspecting the undergarments her bridesmaids planned to wear under their gowns to ensure everyone had proper support, no visible panty lines, and any and all torso flab corseted into submission. She gathered the bridesmaids for a “makeup rehearsal,” to be sure all their makeup would be flattering, set the right tone, photograph well, and be neither too much nor too little. Nothing would ruin her perfect day in the ultimate American power city: Washington, D.C.

But the hyperventilating, social-climbing bride neglected one small detail: national politics. Washington, after all, belongs to the politicians, lobbyists, and protesters, not to Midwest girls with aspirations.

And so on the weekend of her wedding, the bride discovered D.C. was hosting the largest gay-rights rally of the entire year. Parades, demonstrations, conferences—it was one stop shopping for gay activists from across the nation.

So as Bridezilla’s mom, dad, grandma, siblings and relatives were flying in from their conservative Midwest towns, they had no idea they would be sharing D.C’s planes, taxis, restaurants, and yes, hotel, with tens of thousands of gay activists.

These were people who were descending on D.C. to make a point and to force people to confront the reality of gay lifestyles, and so their behavior was rather extreme. There were drag queens, flagrant public displays of affection, simulated sex acts, banners, placards, and exaggerated lisps and struts all over the city.

And so the bride, trying to impress her family and guests by celebrating with utmost taste a completely, thoroughly traditional ritual of heterosexual love, was upstaged by preening and prancing gay men, low-maintenance lesbians with spiked hair and motocycle boots, and hundreds of people leading so-called alternative life styles.

In the elevators, the restaurants, the taxis, the streets, and even at her fancy hotel, Bridezilla learned she was neither a Princess nor the center of God’s universe. She had to share the world (and her personal space) with people who didn’t prescribe to her circumscribed world view and ideas of success. In that sense, it turned out to be a perfect wedding after all.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

May 30, 2006

The one where I write a lot about nothing.....

All last week I was battling a cold. Over the weekend, the cold won.

I went to bed at my usual time and slept, oh, about 11 hours. Could have slept 13 but I dragged my tired ass out of the bed and tried to reclaim some dignity.

Washed face, fluffed hair, applied makeup, and…

Ended up looking like person who had died after visiting a Clinique counter. Not bad for a dead person, but um, a little pale and abnormal.

Every time E glances at me he says, “Are you OK?”

“Hmmm I think so. I just feel weird.”

Take Tylenol, all-purpose “weird reliever.”

Go shopping with E and kids to Belgium’s version of a Mega Discount Store.

Can’t wait to get out of said Mega Discount Store, which is not like me. Clearly I’m acting as weird as I’m feeling. And oh yeah, let’s not forget I look weird too.

My son, Mr. A, needs sandals. The Mega Discount Store didn’t have any in his size. I hand E a flyer that came in our mail from a chain shoe store. There are about ten locations in the Brussels area. Can Mappy, my amazing navigator, get us to one of them?

Sure, he says.

We take off. I’m breathing through my mouth, slathering on lip balm, thinking sleepy thoughts.

We stop at a light and E says very casually, “Oh look, there’s a mall? Want to go there?”

People, I haven’t been to a mall in 15 months.

Pause and consider this fact.

I’m an over 40 middle-age woman with money to spend who has not set foot in a mall in well over a YEAR. That includes Christmas, people. No, I’m not lying.

Even in my cold-induced stupor, I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to roam the retail landscape.

E swings the car into the totally cool high-tech parking garage, we find a space, and go inside.

E-Grrrl and I are in our element. We’ve been shopping online for a year now and real shopping is a big thrill.

Still, I’m not feeling so hot.

We stop at the Belgian version of McDonald’s, which is packed to the doors, and E gets us lunch.

I feel a little better.

I move through the mall like a person from a Communist Bloc country who has never witnessed such riches. I peer into the stores, treating the shiny bright-colored displays like art in a museum. I don’t touch. I don’t get too close. I observe, admire, and cruise on by.

Man, I must be really out of it.

E has recently resumed playing soccer and needs soccer socks to cover his shinguards. We go into a big sporting goods store. On our way to “soccer socks” we stumble across a big selection of sports sandals and finally get Mr. A and little E-Grrrl outfitted for summer.

Then we find rollerblades for E-Grrrl, something we’d been unsuccessfully searching for for months now.

And Mr. A, the aspiring playground four-square champion, gets a new ball since his old one literally bit the dust.

E-Man buys ONE soccer jersey and ONE pair of socks.

I sit on a bench in the shoe department and watch my family shop. I don’t try on shoes, yoga clothes, or sweatshirts.

We walk through the whole mall, and the sporting goods store is the only place we go into and make a purchase.

I don’t go into the Macy’s-like store near the entrance and check out the sales or the costume jewelry. I’m not tempted by the lingerie shops. I don’t salivate over summer sandals in the many shoe stores. I skip the cosmetic and perfume places. We don’t’ even stop and get ice cream in the food court.

We buy what we need and we go home.

How un-American is that? 

I come home, take a nap, and then take a shower so I can wake up, re-do hair and makeup, and present a social persona for a cherished dinner invitation from E’s cousin, a fabulous cook and gracious hostess.

I take more Tylenol because my head hurts, my throat is sore, I’m getting hoarse. Did I mention my period started? I know, I know--TMI. Sorry.

We chat happily over hors d'oureves. Dinner, as always is wonderful. There's gardening and holiday talk and stories of endurance sporting events. We whine about the cold, gray rainy weather. Will it never get warm?

After  dinner,  things unravel a bit.  I tell what is supposed to be a very funny story about a bride who is obsessive about planning the perfect wedding—but books a hotel that is also hosting an ENORMOUS gay pride event that same day so that her conservative Midwest relatives are put in close quarters with flaming gays activists trying to shock people. The point of the story is that God gets even with self-centered hyperventilating brides and their sheltered, bigoted relatives in amusing ways.

Um, no one laughs.

As soon as I finish telling the story, a nice Dutch man at the table tells me his brother is gay. Hmmm, is he telling me that because I’ve offended him with this story?  I’m still wondering if I’ve offended him when the French woman seated to my left launches into a passionate treatise on why she doesn’t think gays should be able to adopt children (it’s now legal in Belgium). Oh crap--I’m thinking we’ve painted ourselves into a corner as far as dinner conversation goes.

Lots of wine has been poured, but not into my glass. Seeing as I’m living on Tylenol, I don’t want to further torture my liver with alcohol. But my brain is going, “You’d have a much better time with a bit of a buzz.”

A little wine would help grease the wheels of my light and lively conversation engine so I can get us off of hot button topics like gay rights, immigration, and whether it’s safe to vacation in Egypt and Turkey before the conversation takes a nosedive into discussions of Bush and the war in Iraq.

Oy.

Inexplicably, the table’s conversation moves into Dutch and French. People are smiling again. I have no idea why. Maybe they’re talking about me. ; ) I resolve to keep my English-speaking word hole shut.

We get to bed late.

Sunday, I sleep late.

I get up, eat a granola bar, take Tylenol, cough up musty secretions from my beleaguered lungs, blow my snout, and lay down and sleep some more.

I get up and eat lunch.

I do one load of laundry, read the book Cindy gave me, and then, um, because of all the exertion, decide to sleep some more.

It’s 6 p.m. and I’m still in my pajamas, people.

I don’t think you’ll be reading anything new on this blog until Tuesday or Wednesday…..And well, considering the quality of this entry, that's a GOOD thing.

May 28, 2006

SHUT THAT KID UP

Pardon me while I rant about parents that don’t believe children are capable of mastering basic social skills, the ones that are oblivious to how disruptive their kids can be, the ones who smile indulgently when their kids speak loudly or out of turn, interrupt adults, or yell or holler indoors, the ones who think it’s fine for “kids to be kids,” regardless of the setting.

Sigh. People, there’s a time and place for everything.

Contrary to popular belief, it is quite OK to tell children to lower their voices, to use conversational tones, to stop shrieking or shouting, or to be completely quiet. Every thought that runs through their cute little heads does not need to come out their cute little mouths. If they master this concept early, they’ll grow up to be fully functioning members of society who can operate in a variety of settings. They’ll also have better marriages. : )

Knowing when and how to talk has to be taught EARLY and continually reinforced. If your home is a place where kids routinely bellow at the dinner table, interrupt conversations between you and your spouse, and refuse to let you talk on the phone or to another adult, they’re going to wind up having a very difficult time adjusting to school and other group settings where people will not be hanging on their every word. Sure kids have wise and funny things to say. Yes, they deserve to be listened to respectfully, but they also need to learn to speak respectfully.

No matter how cute, smart, spirited or precocious your child is, there are times when children should be SEEN and not HEARD. When an adult is talking, kids need to shut their word holes—regardless of whether that adult is a teacher, minister, Scout leader, coach, tour guide, or dinner guest. Same applies during weddings, graduations, school assemblies, movies, plays, concerts, and church services. And let’s lower the volume on trains, planes, and in automobiles.

Yes, I know, all kids have their own personalities and issues and different ages and stages dictate in part what’s reasonable to expect from them. I’m not ranting about kids with developmental problems or talking about round cheeked babies cooing occasionally, giving a little squawk of displeasure, or laughing happily. However, fussy or crying babies need to be removed from the scene of the crime, unless you’re on a plane, and then I send all my sympathy your way. If you think sitting near a crying baby on a plane is bad, try being the parent of a crying baby on a plane. No dirty looks allowed.

However, while I may grant Airplane Amnesty for parents, let me remind you that it’s stupid to take a hungry or tired infant or toddler out in public unless it’s absolutely necessary. We all know what happens next--MELTDOWNS. Hint: when you have kids, you have to put their needs before your own—and that means working around their sleeping and feeding schedules and accepting you’re going to miss some things in the process of doing that. Is it a pain in the ass? Do you have very limited time? Do you feel squashed by the limitations of life with an infant or toddler? Of couse you do. Hon, that’s PARENTING.

As for older kids, let me be blunt: if your kid can’t sit still or shut up, then don’t take them to places where it’s expected or required. If you have to take them, find a way to quietly channel their energy. If it’s a school play or awards assembly or something similar and you don’t want to miss the part where your other child gets to shine, then have a friend take your younger child out for a few minutes. Or take turns with your spouse outside. Just please don’t ruin the event for the rest of us by ignoring your child’s needs and limitations.

Acceptable ways to deal with a kid who can’t keep still or quiet do not include: letting kids play UNATTENDED in the back of the room or just outside it, letting them continually get in and out of their chairs, crawl under or over people, or wander endlessly up and down the aisles.

Thanks for letting me rant. I’m done now. Print this out and pass it on to people that need to read it so we can all enjoy the end-of-school-year events and activities and all those June weddings and graduations.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

May 22, 2006