Chaos theory

The key to success is organization - you can hear that from seminars on self-employment, articles on working freelance, even cooking shows and parental advice columns. But many of us are left-brain pegs trying to function in right-brain holes (or is that right brain vs. left brain? I'm not organized enough to remember which is which). So as a result I am looking at a highly cluttered desk which I thought I cleaned off a few days ago but which has returned to its natural chaotic state, I am trying to figure out how I have nothing in the house for dinner tonight even though I swore I did meal plans for the week, and I can't find anything to wear in my closet.

Scientists define momentum as the fact that an object in motion will stay in motion unless another force acts on it (or it runs into one of the piles on my desk). Diet experts describe the body's set-point, a weight to which it constantly returns, unless you change your metabolism through major exercise. I think creative chaos is analogous - no matter how many times I clean my desk, sort my files, draw up meal plans or re-organize my closet, my life wants to return to its natural state. (Sometimes I envision the papers on my desk coming to life when I'm not here, like the toys in Toy Story or the cows in a Gary Larson cartoon - "Whoops, she's coming, everyone back to lying around, but this time in messier piles!")

So no matter what we do, organization is destined to return to chaos - as a matter of fact, I think I have an article proving that scientifically, only I'm not sure where it is. I will continue to be an optimist, making to-do lists, sorting piles, doing that semi-annual, very satisfying, closet clean-out (THAT's where I put those cute capris that make me look skinny!). But it's nice to know that when my best-laid plans eventually fall apart, it isn't totally my fault.

The Power Of Vintage Women

20 floors above downtown San Francisco, a group of brilliant, articulate, professional women sipped Pinot Noir, sampled delectable gourmet appetizers, sighed over the spectacular view, and swapped stories. The members of VIP (Vintage Industry Professionals) had all, by definition, been in the meetings & events industry for at least 20 years, and the group had been started as an alternative to other networking associations where we'd been drowned out by men, or turned off by chipper young things who talked and texted too enthusiastically (while teetering in stilettos and tossing back tequila shooters). While the reception was ostensibly a networking event, and we all mentioned what we did, created, or sold, the evening was more a combination of sorority meeting, group therapy, and menopausal support session.

We shared about jobs we'd lost and jobs we'd just found, businesses that had flopped and new ventures we'd started, marriages, health crises, kids, friendships, the importance of taking time off, and discovering new passions for everything from standup comedy to growing heirloom lettuce. We laughed, commiserated about the economy, traded business cards, and reveled in knowing everyone could relate when someone began fanning herself, asking, "Is it hot in here or is it me?" - and no one was offended when my middle-aged bladder necessitated a quick bathroom break during someone's introduction. (Take that, Bohemian Club or all those other male-only secret societies - our group may not be as plugged in as the old-boy networks, but we're way more honest and much more fun!)

Something about the combination of humor, inspiration and estrogen made us all giddily intoxicated - I was so bubbly when I got home that my husband asked how much I'd had to drink (for the record, one glass of extremely good sparkling wine!) Of course, it was Cinderella-after-the-ball time, since I arrived to find a broken garbage disposal, a sink full of dirty dishes, a 16-year-old son with girl troubles, a 13-year-old with a dying pet rat, and a husband distraught over the San Jose Sharks' lousy defense. But as I consoled my boys (all 3 of them), washed dishes, and looked up plumbers, I was still glowing from the evening.

Networking with kindred souls, particularly women my age, is magic - I was even smiling while I wrote out the check to the plumber the next morning!

Guys Who Cheat on Gorgeous Celebs

The internet is buzzing with news of the latest celebrity marriage to be rocked by infidelity (prompting a ton of misspelled, grammatically challenged comments). The scandal is aising the usual questions: How could Jesse do that to Sandra? Didn't she see the red flags before she married him? And what's with the highly visible celebrities, celebrity husbands and politicians all thinking no one will notice (or give an exclusive interview to the Nat'l Enquirer) when they have affairs?

So then you start to wonder - If Sandra Bullock gets cheated on (or Christie Brinkley, or Halle Berry, etc., etc., etc.), how can the rest of us hope to escape? And incidentally, where are the female celebrities cheating on their significantly less attractive partners?) Why can't men in the public eye keep it in their pants? And why do they all tend to blame the media and public attention for blowing everything out of proportion?

For the answers, you can turn to the wisdom of two powerful, influential men who represent everything that is wrong about their gender. First, John Gray, who made a fortune stating the obvious (that men are different from women on a basic, biological level), but who got his start leading marriage counseling seminars while his own multiple marriages were falling apart. (I once met him when I performed at a party he threw for his 4th or 5th wife, and he told us, with a straight face, that when he saw her across the room, he walked up to her and told her, "God wanted us to be together." When I cracked, "That's one hell of a good pick up line", he wasn't amused . . . . )

Then there's John Edwards, who hit some new lows in cheating male behavior (at least Jesse James cheated while his wife's career was taking off, not while she was suffering a cancer recurrence). But Edwards did get more honest in his requisite press conference apology, and basically admitted that when a man is famous and powerful, he gets a sense of entitlement and feels like he's above mere mortal morality. (And it was a refreshing change from listening to other men tear up when they talk about hiking the Appalachian trail with their soulmates.)

Of course there are women who cheat, too - but publicly visible women tend to be too smart (and too busy with their careers) to fool around. You can see this basic behavioral difference all the way back in adolescence, when girls are daydreaming of having a boyfriend (or mooning over Taylor Lautner, Zac Efron, or, back in our day, David Cassidy). The boys are ogling posters of Farrah Fawcett and trading tips on how to unhook bras, not pining for romance. Our biology doesn't change as adults - men still want sex, women still want romance, only we're all too busy and too tired for much of either.

Which explains why stories about infidelity get such wide exposure - we're not prurient moralists delighting in the troubles of celebrities, we're just sex- and romance-starved busy people who get a little vicarious thrill reading about the sexual exploits of others. But we can learn a bit from these stories, too - mostly, A-list actresses should make sure their husbands are as busy as they are (so they won't have time to cheat), and the rest of us can console ourselves that we may not look like Halle Berry or Christie Brinkley, but we have somewhat better luck with men!

More 'Helpful Hints'? Oh, please!

Even at my advanced age, I still believe I have a lot to learn, so I'm always open to suggestions and advice on coping with my life/marriage/kids/etc.; which is why I subscribe to a wide variety of magazines and read informative web articles as often as possible. However, after awhile you realize that most of these articles can be boiled down to: “There is no problem with your kids’ behavior/time management/housekeeping/sex life/waistline/serenity that can’t be solved with a few helpful hints", implying that if you aren't blissfully organized, happy, and successful, it's your own darn fault.

Here's a sample of what you can read, if you want to feel thoroughly lousy about yourself . . .

Working Mother uses 'real moms' on its cover, which I find refreshing, except the accompanying profile, 'How She Does It', fawns about some annoying paragon who works long hours at an exciting job, yet still manages to pursue her painting hobby, work out regularly to keep her size 2 figure, and spend quality time with her 4 kids, serving them homemade pancakes and organic dinners, meanwhile looking fabulously pulled together. (She offers her own tips like "Don't be afraid to serve the same meal twice in one month" or "Even toddlers love helping prepare meals!", but she forgets to mention the fact that apparently she only needs two hours of sleep a night.)

This month's Redbook profiles Jennifer Lopez, who is 'just a regular mom like anyone else' who cherishes quiet time at home with her twin toddlers (since when have you heard of 'twin toddlers' and 'quiet' in the same sentence?), when she doesn't take them with her on photo shoots or concert tours, where they love amusing themselves quietly while she works. Somehow I suspect that there's a nanny (or major medication) helping them stay quiet - and I'd be willing to bet she has a bit more household/styling/working-out help, not to mention extra money, than the rest of us 'regular moms'.

Martha Stewart Kids has helpful hints like how to wean your kids off junk food by making 'Yummy Ice Pops' (just clean out an assortment of attractive small containers, purchase fruit at the produce market, cook & puree it with a little homemade simple syrup, and check every 5 minutes in the freezer until you attain the perfect consistency), or how to raise literate kids by installing an educational frieze of alphabet flash cards (it's as easy as nailing up two perfectly parallel strips of panel molding spaced 1/4 inch closer together than the height of a set of cards you make from posterboard). So now you can feel bad about your child-rearing as well as your homemaking skills - I for one still feel guilty that I've never served heirloom tomatoes on vintage etched-glass plates.

And of course, you now have the ultimate oxymoron, a whole magazine called Real Simple, where you can complicate your life even further by trying to organize their supposed time-saving tips ("Re-invigorate your blowout by teasing small sections on the crown", or "Create new accessories - make a necklace out of mismatched earrings!").

Where's the Imperfect Mom magazine?, with tips like why kitchens really don't need to be cleaned, how to disguise 'chicken again?' as something more exotic, and what to do when your kids bickering is driving you up the wall. (I recommend an iPod and a bedroom door that locks.) And I don't ever need to see another profile of a so-called normal celebrity mom until I read about one who either admits her life is ridiculously blessed, or one who really does it without a nanny, housecleaner, or any extra money, and whose house is as messy as mine. The thing is, if I weren't constantly reminded of impossibly perfect moms and size 2 women who do it all, I'd feel pretty good about my life - so until a more realistic women's magazine comes out, I'm going to stick to reading about international disasters in the New York Times - it's much less depressing!

To Do Lists

Like a lot of working moms, I rely on lists, everything from what I need at the store to phone messages to client requests, to what really bugs me about the unkempt family room that I can afford to take care of. And sometimes they can be a wonderful, helpful tool, not just in boosting my memory (which, I continue to claim, isn't fading, it's just that my 'hard drive' is too full), but in stress relief. (When I feel too agitated to go to sleep, I make a list of everything that I'm afraid I'll forget the next day, and it works!)
List-making is in my genes. My mother always had lists on the refrigerator, planning meals for the week and detailing what needed to be defrosted when. (It still amazes me that she worked full-time in the days before microwaves, and we always had a wholesome, Donna Reed-worthy dinner on the table by 6:30.) So I took to the habit as a child, itemizing my homework and even future goals. (I was way ahead of 'Diary of a Wimpy Kid', starting an autobiographical list in my diary at age 8 for the sake of future fans.)
But sometimes lists can create more problems than they solve, like overly ambitious New Year's resolutions (#1 - work at a soup kitchen, #2 - lose 25 lbs. this week, #3 - redecorate kitchen, organize closet and learn to weave). I thought I'd stopped, given that my only New Year's resolution for 2010 was to give myself permission to procrastinate. However, we just spent another a spring break at home, I was determined to make the most of it, and old habits die hard.
For whatever reason, many of our family friends were out of town on great trips - we're at the point where a trip to Fresno would seem exotic, so it was hard not to envy people going off to Florida or San Diego. So I made a list of all the ways in which I could take advantage of the free time - I was going to re-organize every room in the house, cook really nutritious meals and bake bread, record vocals for a children's musical, exercise for 2 hours a day, and have lots of meaningful bonding time with my kids.
Instead, the boys spent most of the vacation sleeping late, watching TV and being bored, and I didn't do much more - and it was lovely! I felt bad for a moment when I remembered the list, but on the other hand, the idle idyll must have done me good, because this morning was the first day back, which could have been really ugly (picture crabby, sleepy, slow-moving teenagers, crabby, sleepy, irritated parents, and a dog who kept barking because she wanted to play). But I made everyone breakfast, feeling very much like Donna Reed, and they both got out the door on time, without one fight all morning.
I still need occasional lists, for groceries and clients and such, but as far as 'what I hope to accomplish', I think those lists should be retroactive. So this past spring break, I caught up on sleep, loafed, watched a few old movies, played computer solitaire, spent some time with my kids, and ignored most of what I'd planned. That's a list I can be proud of!

A Jewish perspective on the Pope, pedophilia and Passover

This time of year always brings up a number of intersections between Judaism and Catholicism. For starters, there's the obvious Passover/Easter connection (despite all those Last Supper portraits with leavened bread - come on, Leonardo, you couldn't get the hang of painting matzoh?). And both holidays incorporate pagan fertility symbols, from roasted eggs to baby chicks made out of marshmallow.
But this past week we were treated to a less charming Jewish/Catholic link, when the pope's pastor gave a homily likening the media furor over molesting priests (and the Pope's involvement in transferring one) to anti-Semitism. It was a slap in the face to real victims of religious discrimination all over the world. Granted, my experience in that area is limited to crying when I read the Diary of Anne Frank, realizing that my dad's family could have been in danger if Hitler had invaded Baltimore, and, as the only Jewish kid in 4th grade, explaining to clueless classmates that Hanukah was not a holiday celebrating potato chips. But it was still uncomfortable - and ironic - to hear those kinds of defensive, offensive, remarks made during Holy Week.
Plus I have my own personal interfaith intersection, since as a freelance musician, I play wherever they hire me. This year, I booked a series of Easter masses, so I ended up reading about the papal homily on Good Friday, and then sitting at the piano while I listened to the traditional 'Prayer for the Conversion of the Jews'. (I felt somewhat like a musical prostitute - outraged and disgusted, but not too outraged to accept the check.)
And on a different level, the connection between children and sex is also prominent in my household because I have 3 boys (2 teenagers and a husband) whose sense of humor makes South Park look like Erma Bombeck. Needless to say, the whole subject brought up a barrage of 'that's what she said' jokes and pretty good imitations of the pedophile character from Family Guy. Normally, I try to keep from laughing at their inapproriate humor (and usually fail, if only because their laughter is so contagious), but under the circumstances, it just wasn't as amusing. The thought of some trusted religious adviser molesting my child makes me as irate as a Republican congressman the day they passed health care reform.
Fortunately, the media conspiracy has brought so much to light that even the Vatican apologized for the remarks (in that 'I'm sorry if you were offended' way that politicians use to excuse off-color racial slurs and trips to the Appalachian Trail, but for the Vatican it was progress). And it was a great 'teaching moment' to talk to my kids about anti-Semitism, the Holocaust, child molestation, and unloading the dishwasher properly. (Hey, as long as I was in lecture mode!)
I have 8-1/2 months to recover some of my own equilibrium before I play Christmas masses during Chanukah. (So far the only awkward moment I've had during that holiday combination was explaining to my kids, when they were younger, that Christmas actually wasn't a celebration of the birthday of Santa Claus . . . )

Ricky Martin Is Still Sexy To Me!

The blogosphere is all a-twitter, so to speak, because pop star Ricky Martin finally came out (after 10 years of speculation, evasion, and 'hello, of course he's gay' commentary). Many praise him, deservedly so, for being open and proud of his homosexuality, some homophobic writers are condemning him, and tons of female fans are still supportive but dreadfully disappointed.

Here's the thing about celebrities who come out - I mean, honestly, how many of us would ever get a chance to sleep with Ricky, or Clay Aiken, or Adam Lambert, or Neil Patrick Harris, or any of the other sex symbols who disappointed their fans? (Okay, you may not think of Neil Patrick Harris as a sex symbol, but sexiness is in the eye of the beholder, and while I do think Ricky Martin is incredibly sexy, I've also always had a soft spot for funny guys who can sing - my first celebrity crush was Dick Van Dyke, and I think Nathan Lane is pretty adorable too!)

Anyhow - Ricky isn't going to sleep with me whether he's straight or gay, so I really don't care who he chooses to sleep with. His choice of bed partners doesn't change the fact that he's got a fabulous voice, a great body, and a seductive rapport with audiences. Plus he has that sensitive dad thing going on, with his cute twin toddler boys. See, here's the great thing about celebrity crushes - since it's all fantasy, you can imagine anything you want, and it doesn't matter whether the object of your affection is straight, gay, bi, or an alcoholic sex addict. In a fantasy, Clay Aiken can date his fans, Tiger Woods can be a devoted husband, and Adam Lambert can be punkish womanizer. Or in my case, Neil Patrick Harris can be a passionate lover who sings and tells me jokes while he begs me to costar in his next show.

So disappointed fans, don't despair - you can still fantasize about Ricky Martin all you like, and now you don't even have to compare yourself to any real life women he might date!

What I Learned From "What I Learned From Shamu"

I'm reading a fascinating book by Amy Sutherland, who started out studying exotic animal training but then discovered she could apply those techniques to people in her life, specifically her husband. Her basic principles include learning what a species can or cannot do, judicious use of rewards instead of punishment, and not responding at all to behaviors you don't like. She writes glowingly about the miraculous changes in her marriage, as she stopped nagging her messy husband, praised him when he did something she liked, and ignored his fuming tantrums when he couldn't find his keys. She understood he, like most men, simply wasn't capable of certain things, rewarded him for the tasks she wanted him to repeat, and created nearly instant harmony and serenity in her newly peaceful home. Plus it made her calmer in dealing with honking drivers, rude bank clerks, and a hard-of-hearing mother.
Which sounds great in theory - but Ms. Sutherland is not a mother, and she also had the advantage of novelty, because her husband didn't see her reading her own book. For starters, my husband noticed the title of the book and asked me about it - so now whenever I praise him ("Wow, you figured out the circuit breakers!"), he rolls his eyes and says, "Great, you're Shamu-ing me." And I'm trying to stop nagging, but when I'm exhausted, crabby, and perimenopausal, it's almost impossible to bite my tongue before I lash out.
Plus kids are a whole other proposition. My teenage boys love to bicker - they can get along beautifully while they're home alone, but the minute I pull into the garage, Ben starts humming, David gets annoyed, Ben complains that David was supposed to feed the dog, David claims Ben said he'd switch if David set the table, and in 2 minutes they're calling each other names and telling me that if I were doing my job as a mom I'd make the other one stop because it's all HIS fault. I try to ignore them, of course, but as I'm rewashing the dishes they were supposed to do, folding the laundry, and trying to remember what I have to remember for the next morning, it would take the patience of a saint not to yell that they're both grounded for a month and forget about that movie I promised to take them to. And I'm jewish - we don't have saints!
Still, the basic idea sounds really good, and I have noticed occasional positive results when I can stick to it - recognizing, for example, that teenage boys are not capable of moving quickly in the morning has helped me be more patient when it takes them 20 minutes to put on one shoe, and praising my husband for the circuit breaker thing motivated him to take on a few other home repairs (okay, he called his buddy who's a handyman, but still, he made the call and held the tools while Ritchie fixed the stuck pocket door and replaced the broken shower head).
Ms. Sutherland, I suggest you write your next book for moms who need to train themselves - how do we encourage ourselves to stop nagging? Where's our treat for understanding these alien species with whom we live? Oh, sure, I know the long term results will be worth it, but Shamu got little rewards as he developed his impressive tricks, and we need that gradual training too! So until Sutherland comes out with the sequel (How To 'Shamu' Yourself?), I think I'll reward myself, for not yelling this morning, and browse the Old Navy.com sale page!

I'm Too Young (To Be This Old)

I don't lie about my age, and I like to think that I'm growing older with grace and acceptance - but maybe I'm more in denial than I know. My right knee is acting up - which is because I'm so active, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. So I went to see an orthopedist who specializes in athletes' knees (and who didn't tell me to stop dancing, like the last few doctors I'd seen), and who would have been an absolute delight except that I realized I was several years older than he was, despite his vast experience.

The next bad omen was going in for the MRI. I'd heard horror stories about the claustrophobia, but for me the worst part was when the technician offered me a selection of music for the headphones. (I'd brought my iPod, but she insisted I use their system with the old fashioned ear-covering headphones, because she said "the machine can be somewhat noisy" - which is like saying the Titanic took on a little water. The noise was a mash of police sirens, car alarms, and R2D2 beeps on steroids!) Head banging heavy metal wouldn't have drowned out the MRI sounds, but I appreciated the effort. However, the music selections were Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, or Nat King Cole (but not their hip jazz, the borderline muzak numbers like New York, New York, Hey There and my personal least favorite, Lazy Crazy Days of Summer, which still reminds me of those cheezy King Family Singers specials I saw as a kid). It was a 'duh' moment - realizing what those selections were telling us about the demographic they expected at a facility catering to people with bad hips, knees, and other joints. Jeepers, they think I'm old! (And that was a joke, I'm not old enough to have ever said 'jeepers' except ironically.)

I started thinking back on all the 'you're old' insulting moments I've suffered over the past few years; the subscription to the AARP magazine that starts the day you turn 50; dressing up for a night out and hearing my 16-year-old say 'Mom, women your age look slutty when they wear short skirts'; the time I got carded buying wine at Safeway, and when I told the cashier he'd made my day, he said, "Oh, no, ma'am, we have to card everyone, no matter how old you are".

However, the MRI music thing really got to me - see, I listen to vintage music, but I thought that was a fun quirk in my taste, a historical appreciation, like my love of vintage clothes and Astaire/Rogers musicals. (And I prefer the more hip choices - Benny Goodman instead of Glenn Miller, Andrews Sisters vs. Maguire Sisters, and only the early, cool Sinatra stuff.) But I didn't think of MYSELF as vintage. I mean, what's next, offering me samples of Metamucil and Depends? MRIs with a choice of Glen Campbell or Mitch Miller?

Unfortunately, my kids know how old I am so I can't lie about it, but I am now officially in denial. I'm going to go buy something cute and age-inappropriate at Forever 21, and listen to some Green Day while I touch up my totally premature gray roots!

Licorice In My Pocket

Not all surprises in life are welcome, which makes it even more delightful when you stumble across an unexpected treat. Yesterday, I reached in my coat pocket for my car keys (as I finished a slew of errands, including trips to the bank, the doctor and the orthodontist), and found a piece of gourmet black licorice wrapped in a paper towel, that I'd grabbed on my way out the door to reward myself for running all those errands. I'd forgotten all about it, and as I popped the licorice in my mouth I couldn't help smiling - and thinking about all those other times we get fun little treats. About once every couple of months, I come across cash in my pants pocket, and once I got a lovely reward for cleaning out my closet when I found a pair of terrific shoes I'd gotten on sale and then misplaced. And I love those times where I thought I had an appointment and didn't, so I end up with an unexpected chunk of time off.

But a lovely surprise doesn't have to involve money or accessories - sometimes all it takes is an unexpected facebook message from an old friend, a song you love coming up on the radio, or a really good New Yorker cartoon. Your husband brings you flowers 'just because', your kid does dishes without being reminded, you get a back-ordered mail order package you'd completely forgotten about. The other day I was stuck in rainy-day traffic when I spotted a rainbow, which I got to enjoy more than usual because of the traffic I would have otherwise cursed.

One thing about surprises is that you can't plan them for yourself, you just have to be open to noticing them, and able to appreciate small pleasures. But appreciating the value of a nice surprise makes it fun to plan them for other people - picking up your husband's favorite snack, leaving a friend a fun voice mail message, serving the kids milk in wine glasses to make dinner seem special.

And little treats are so subjective - one friend might love it when you surprise her with chocolate, another might prefer a live plant. (Like one of my favorites - black licorice gets people more polarized than health care, they either love it or hate it. I love the sweet-hot spiciness, plus it also has that Proust's madeline quality, of reminding me so strongly of the Good 'n' Plenty I loved as a kid. Fortunately, I'm the only one in my family that likes it, so when I indulge in the good kind, I can make it last! )

But I think what I love more about surprise treats is that they're actually a reward for absent-mindedness. (Which I prefer to think of as 'my hard drive is too full'.) Instead of cursing myself for misplacing new shoes or forgetting about cancelled appointments, I can enjoy the surprise I inadvertently created. And when I'm more on top of things and not getting those unexpected treats, I can always buy some licorice, browse the New Yorker cartoons I've collected, or hope my husband got the hint about the flowers!

Happiness Is A Thing Called (Trader) Joe*

(*Okay, you have to be of a certain age, or a connoisseur of old music, to get that song reference . . . )

My affair with Trader Joe started slowly, and innocently enough; I was a loyal Safeway customer, but a friend told me that this funky alternative store had a cheaper price on Crystal Guiser Juice Squeeze (the carbonated juice beverage to which my kids are addicted). I just popped in for a second, honestly, but then I noticed their vanilla soy milk was cheaper, and it turned out to taste really good. Okay, just for Juice Squeeze and soy milk . . . and wow, those wine prices are fabulous, and pretty soon I was going every couple of weeks for a few key items. You could say the soy milk was my 'entry drug', and now I'm completely addicted to their prepared salads, storebrand humus, great deals on frozen shrimp, terrific baked goods, reasonably priced coffee . . . stop me, I'm starting to salivate! Plus there's always something to taste, and while the samples can be weird, there is an occasional winner (the polenta coins with bolognese sauce were to die for).

Oh, I patronize the supermarket for basics, but it's big, impersonal, and overwhelming. Instead of a large aisle with 200 brands of sugar-laden cereals, I love seeing Joe's small section, including several low-sugar, high-fiber choices that actually taste better than cardboard. (Barry Schwartz has written a whole scholarly book, The Paradox of Choice - Why More Is Less, that backs me up in thinking most stores offer too many options.) And I love the funky, hawaiian-shirted clerks, the men with ponytails and the women with tattoos, and the way it feels like going to a Berkeley food co-op (even though I know it's a large chain and it's probably more evil than Starbucks).

But if I ever start wavering in my devotion, the floral section brings me right back. Just like Renee Zellweger told Jerry Maguire, 'You had me at hello', Trader Joe's had me at the $1.29 daffodils. (Where else can you find a treat that makes you smile, lasts for several days, has no calories, and costs less than a plain cup of coffee?)

Baby, You Can Drive My (First) Car

There are so many maternal milestones to celebrate, from your baby's first smile, to the first night without diapers, to the first time your child stays home alone while you run to the store (and check your cell phone every 3 minutes). And so many significant purchases - the first big-kid Thomas The Tank Engine underpants, the first school backpack, the first training bra (or, since I have no girls and a boy who's serious about dancing, his first dance belt was equally embarrassing for him). But nothing is as big, or expensive, or as scary (to a parent with any imagination who reads the statistics about teen drivers) as the first set of wheels.

We tried to be good liberals and not add to our carbon footprint with an unneccessary vehicle, but like many teens, David has an extremely busy schedule and parents whose schedules don't always give him the car access or rides he needs. So we bit the bullet and let him buy a used Taurus with summer job & barmitzvah savings (and a bit of parental help). As we sat there filling out paperwork, I tried to impress upon him the significance of the occasion. "Someday, you'll tell your kids about this, and I hope it's meaningful for you. I still remember buying my first . . . " "Thanks for the history lesson, mom, now let's go check out the car!"

And I understand - a first car means independence, wordliness, and a huge sense of accomplishment if you earned the money. I worked 3 jobs one summer to pay for my first car (a '76 VW Rabbit with 150,000 miles on it, a sun roof, and a neon yellow exterior). I loved that car, and I was also really proud that I earned it all by myself. And oh, the car seemed to love me back, and ran like a dream until some moron in a Buick ran a stopsign and totalled my baby. (The Buick suffered minor bumper damage - life is NOT fair!)

It's wonderful to revisit that thrill, as I watch David proudly showing off his car, revelling in the automatic trunk release, and bossing his younger brother around when Ben tries to touch the doors. But it's also sad - the first hints of having an empty nest, sort of like that first day of kindergarten, when you realize your kid is starting to grow up. But it's also exhiliarating - since I was one of those kindergarten moms who got choked up for a moment, and then gloried in the freedom of a few hours to myself. But it's also dismaying - I don't think of myself as someone who is old enough to be the mother of a car-owner. But it's also incredibly cool - I raised a kid who works hard, saves money for a car, and is mature enough to handle driving. But it's also disappointing - no more heart-to-hearts in the car (when sitting side by side makes teens feel comfortable enough to open up a bit). But it's also gleefully liberating - I don't have to plan my schedule around when he needs a ride or a car, and when Husband 2.0 and I need some privacy, we can send him and his brother to the store to buy something we don't really need! But it's also unbelievably nerve-wracking - having your teen drive is already scary, but naturally everyone I know
has a story about some teen getting into an accident the first week in a new car. That's like my ex-mother-in-law, who had to tell me about someone she knew dying from anything I ever experienced, from childbirth to hangnails. Trust me, I worry enough without additional provocation!

To my husband, and most men, it probably sounds like I can't make up my mind how I feel about the whole thing. No, I feel ALL of those extremes, and more, just like mothers have a jumble of mixed feelings about every significant transition. I'm thrilled, sad, exhiliarated, dismayed, gleeful, nervous, and more - good grief, by the time I become a grandmother, I'm going to need a thesaurus! (Maybe by then I'll feel old enough - but I doubt it . . . )

The evil convenience of fast food

Okay, I get it - I've read the newspaper, and my mom has described (in lurid detail) the more disgusting scenes in Food, Inc. Our eating habits are terrible and I want my family to be healthier. Unfortunately, I'm also coping with busy schedules, picky teens, and a bank account that doesn't allow me to indulge in Whole Food's organic produce at $2 per blueberry.

I try - I clip recipes from Cooking Lite, I watch the Food Network nutritionists turn tofu into a work of art, and I buy fresh, seasonal produce that I even sometimes use before it wilts in my crisper drawer. But sometimes I run out of time, and frequently the kids turn up their noses at my efforts. (And even I thought that whole-grain spinach/mushroom lasagne was pretty gross.) Or my good intentions don't go far enough, like the day I felt so efficient, I had all the ingredients for a fabulous split pea soup in the crockpot by 8 a.m. (including sauteed onion & garlic), and came home at 7 anticipating a wonderful dinner only to find I'd forgotten to plug in the crockpot.

And sometimes, the thought of a meal- any meal - someone else prepares and cooks is so tempting. When one kid's band practice lets out 15 minutes before the other kid's study session, I haven't been home all day, and there's a Burger King right there on the corner, calling to us, it's nearly impossible to resist. (And it's even harder to resist my kids' pleas for fast food when, I have to admit, I love a good french fry!)

So I'm trying to compromise, cooking when I can (or when I remember), and when I do need help, usually opting for healthier options like Subway or Fresh Choice - we save the deepfried grease for a special treat. But I have to ease up on myself. After all, my ideal of 'perfect motherhood' was formed by 1970's sitcoms, but Carol Brady didn't have a job, AND she had a full time maid (who didn't just do laundry and dispense advice, but she prechopped Carol's vegetables, competed with her over jam recipes, and served the Bradys coffee in an avocado-hued living room - now that's luxury!). Without "Ann B. Davis as Alice", I'll get by with an occasional "Welcome to Jack In The Box". (By the way, their rice bowls are almost good enough to keep me from eating a burger!)

But it was December yesterday!

Time passes more quickly the older you get - but I was still surprised that it's March already. Between my sleep-deprived brain and the grey weather, it just felt like December had kept going, until I sat down to write a blog post and realized I hadn't been here in 3 months. What happened? It's not like I've been on a secret mission, or visited Haiti with philanthropic movie stars, or visited a Swiss clinic for a carefully disguised facelift. And I haven't written a novel, or re-organized my house (not even one drawer), or kept up an exercise regime.

Somehow days, then weeks, then months, zip by, doing nothing else but sort of treading water. We start to feel like George Jetson on a sped-up treadmill, struggling to keep up. I once tried to explain the relativity of time to my kids - when you're 7, a year is one-seventh of your life, but for grownups, it's a much smaller fraction, so it seems shorter. But they still view it as relative to their enjoyment level - if they're having fun, the time flies, but a boring day goes on forever. (I don't think that equation works for adults - even when we're not having fun, time flies!)

Of course we should 'cherish the moment', 'stop and smell the roses', 'live each day as if it were our last', and other homilies from greeting cards and posters of wide-eyed kittens (or cutesy mass emails, if you're not old enough to remember posters). But that type of advice doesn't tell you how to juggle the demands of kids, homes, jobs, in-laws, spouses, committees, or really-wonderful-causes-you'd-support-if-you-had-more-time-and-money. How are we supposed to do it all?

Since I never 'do it all' anyhow, why not decide it's okay and relish imperfection?
I am finally getting around to New Year's resolutions (in March);
- Don't do today what you can safely put off til tomorrow (and by then it probably won't need doing)
- Say no to three requests a week
- Only do exercise that's fun
and - 'Perfect' is a dirty word (but take-out isn't)
And my new mantra is
- Good enough IS good enough

Say it a few times, and then put your feet up. After all, procrastinating, ignoring clutter and forgiving ourselves can be exhausting!

PS For me, I'll add one more resolution, which is to post once a week - not out of any puritanical work ethic, or sense of duty to the people who read this blog (although I love you both!), but when my kids (husband included) do something annoying, I can view it as material instead of as a reason to explode.

Unexpected (and odd) mom moments

I think most moms occasionally have those moments where we think, "why on earth did I sign up for this?" And most self-employed women have moments of wanting to trade our crazy juggling acts for regular, normal jobs. This week I had a day that combined the worst of both - instead of the relaxing morning I'd anticipated (before a day of nonstop appointments), I had to take Ben to the orthodontist to have his spring re-attached - for the 27th time, I believe. Since I'd thought it would be fairly quick, I hadn't brought work to do, so I ended up having 45 minutes to thumb through out-dated People magazines. (And while I appreciate knowing why Jon & Kate split up, I still had other things I needed to do!) I was already crabby as I drove Ben back to school, so it didn't help when he announced, "Oh, mom, you need to bring my dress clothes to school, it's final rehearsal for the drama team play." As we waited in the office to sign him back in, I envisioned frantically hunting through Ben's room, having to reach behind the rat cage for his crumpled white shirt, and meanwhile Ben stood as far away from me as humanly possible, since of course 8th graders would rather die than publicly acknowledge the existence of parental units.

We walked out at the same time, with me prepared to make an anonymous exit, and suddenly Ben came up to me and said, "Mom, sorry about that, but there were some cool kids in the office and it's sort of embarrassing to have your mother at school." I said of course I understood, turned to leave (without doing anything really embarrassing like waving or kissing him), and then Ben called out, quite audibly, "Bye, Mom, I love you!"

Needless to say, I barely made it to the car before I burst into tears. That one, unexpected gift made up for the 45 minutes at the orthodontists, in fact, it made up for the $400 band trip fee, the nights I sat up with him when he had stomach flu, and even the 12 hours of labor. What a great reminder of why I made the choices I've made - if I had a 'regular' job and a nanny to handle all my tedious tasks, I would have missed a wonderful moment. (On the other hand, I wouldn't have minded letting a nanny look for the dress shirt and clean up around the rat cage . . . oh well!) And if I'd never had kids, I wouldn't know how it feels to cry with joy because a 13-year-old said something to me that didn't begin with "Mom, I need . . . . . "

It Takes a Village (and a few margaritas)

A few nights ago, I met a group of mothers for a much needed round of drinks while we waited for our kids to finish rehearsal. Our 'drama mom community' has had an unusually high rate of life stresses lately, experiencing everything from brain tumors to husbands with cancer to parents passing away, so in between dealing with sleep-deprived teenagers and organizing meals for the families in crisis, we decided we needed a bit of R&R. Since jetting off to Aruba wasn't an option, we picked the next best thing - the bar at the local mexican restaurant.

It was a much-needed reminder for me, at least, of how beautifully women connect. Not all the moms knew each other, but after a few minutes of introductory small talk, we got right into the important stuff - opening up about how stressful it's been, comforting the moms who'd lost parents, talking about medical histories, and sharing our fears and concerns about our friends going through surgery and chemo. But in between the heavy moments, we also commiserated about perimenopause, made fun of our husbands and ex-husbands, and told embarrassing anecdotes about our kids. (I thought I'd struck comedy gold with the story of how I spent the weekend helping my younger son needlepoint the Guatemalan flag - don't ask - but one friend topped us all by relating a particularly bad argument about leaving shoes out with her 11-year-old, where the mom eventually threw the shoes . . "Not intentionally at her, and besides only one shoe actually hit her!")

We laughed, cried, and all split one more margarita (between middle-aged bladders, sleep-deprivation and lowered alcohol tolerance, a drink and a quarter each was all we could handle!) And I was reminded of that scene in Steel Magnolias at Shelby's funeral, where the women bond through tears and then laughter. Men may have a number of advantages over us, ranging from higher earnings to no lines in public restrooms, but they don't provide each other the same kind of village. So here's to all the mom communities we form, to all the women who help each other out, and to the healing power of a margarita!

Romance Novels

I'm a huge fan of Jane Austen, historical fiction, romance novels - any glimpse of that alternate reality where love trumps everything and couples don't have to bother with the messy details of normal life. (I always loved how Elinor Dashwood's family was considered poor because they only had two full time servants.) I also collect vintage novels from 1900-1930, which are a wonderful glimpse at social customs and fashions - and in which the virginal heroines are oblivious to boys, other than as friends, until true love hits them and they marry the men of their dreams. And the modern-day beach novel is always a fun escape - characters in Judith Krantz and Nora Roberts books are always 'flame-haired slender beauties' who never have to diet because they're too busy jet-setting to polo matches and international conferences.

The modern romance novel, according to Wikipedia, was officially born in 1972 with a book called Flame & Flower, the first 'category romance' to be published in paperback. Since then, romance has become big business. Harlequin sells 4 books per SECOND! (which is an awful lot of windswept cliffs, heaving bosoms, and manly chests). But I beg to differ - I recently discovered a vintage novel from 1921, The Sheik, which I'd read was the inspiration for the Rudolph Valentino silent movies (as well as the inspiration for an attempted early morning romp with husband 2.0 - but that's another story).

Reading the book today is a hoot - Diana, our intrepid heroine, is immune to love and prefers big game hunting and exotic travel. Against everyone's advice, she sets out to explore the Saharan desert, but before she left, her stunning beauty caught the eye of a wealthy Sheik, who decides to bribe her caravan leader so he can capture Diana for his harem. Diana is astounded to find that Ahmed is surprisingly clean for a heathen (she comments several times on his manicured nails), and his large tent is sumptuously appointed with silk divans, priceless rugs, and a fully equipped bathroom. Still, she resists him and loathes him until one day she loves him. After a brief interlude where she is captured by a rival sheik and rescued, Ahmed turns out to be an English nobleman who was adopted by a sheik. So now it's okay for Diana to confess her love and they end up living happily ever after in the oasis, with occasional visits to their country estate. (Oh, and although the Sheik forced Diana to share his boudoir for several weeks, apparently all he'd taken from her was her dignity and a bunch of passionate embraces, so she didn't suffer 'the ultimate humiliation' until they were properly wed. Yeah, right.)

The Sheik has all the elements of classic romance novels - the characters are sublimely attractive yet unaware of their charms, they discover deep, abiding passion despite the obstacles, and the plot is about as realistic as my appearing on Dancing With the Stars. And, like those Harlequin best-sellers, it's a great escape from the hassles and annoyances of modern life - although in the case of the Sheik, part of the fun was that I kept cracking up. (The book is full of overwrought prose, lines like "The touch of his scorching lips, the clasp of his warm strong body, robbed her of all power of resistance" - it makes Jackie Collins look like Evelyn Waugh!)

Turns out, the Sheik was also the predecessor of modern romance novels' popularity. (When I get used books, I always flip eagerly to the page before the title page, to see if I've lucked into a first edition - this one was up to the 34th printing in only 9 months!) It was daring, and scandalous, and started a whole sheik/vamp fad that had a huge influence on the flapper era - so really, my fascination with The Sheik isn't about the romance, the seduction, and the Rudy Valentino fantasies, I'm just interested in the historical aspect. (Sure, and my brother snuck my uncle's Playboy magazines for the articles. . . . . )

Mommy playdates

It's been years since I was on the preschool 'playdate' circuit, where I scheduled my kids' social interactions, but I still remember one of the best perks, which was when I discovered a mom with whom I clicked. I'd go over to retrieve my kid, and we'd end up chatting for another hour, thrilled to find someone to talk to in complete sentences. At that age, the kids were young enough that they'd play with just about anyone, so it was easy to make most of their playdates with kids whose moms I enjoyed.

One of those preschool moms has become one of my dearest friends, so yesterday we met for a quick lunch at the Nordstrom Cafe, where we used to meet when our older boys were in preschool and our 2nd kids were in strollers. We reminisced about those 'good old days', remembering where Hannah (her perfect little girl) charmed the grandmother at the next table, or looking at the dent in the chair I'm sure was left by Ben (my rambunctious one). And we fretted that as our schedules (and kids' lives) have gotten more complicated, we no longer have those long, leisurely playground outings and Burger King lunches.

And then this morning I read an article (in the New York Times, so you know it's got to be true!) about how unstructured play time is good not just for kids' developing minds, but for over-stressed adults, specifically those raising teenagers. It was as if the article were written just for me - how did the author know I was play-deprived? We all get so loaded with work deadlines, household chores, kids to drive, volunteer commitments, and the idea of doing something just because it's fun has become alien - these days, my 'fun' tends to be a few stolen moments doing a computer jigsaw puzzle (which I hide the minute the kids come in the room since I told them I needed the computer for work).

Now that I know my stress is aggravated by being recreationally deprived, I finally have an excuse to schedule some play dates for myself. I just emailed my flute-playing friend about scheduling some time to play piano-flute duets (which I used to do with my best friend in 5th grade), and I'm meeting another friend for late afternoon tea. And I even decided married couples need play time. I'd just read a vintage copy of The Sheik, the hugely popular novel from 1921 which inspired all those romantic Rudolph Valentino movies, so I made Husband 2.0 get up earlier than the kids this morning to attempt a harem-fantasy-based quickie. (Unfortunately, his 'sheik' impression made me laugh so much that we ran out of time . . . but it was still fun! Plus I have scientific proof that play does reduce stress - this was the first morning in weeks that my not-a-morning-person-teenager's grouchiness didn't make me snap back!)

Now I'm remembering that although raising toddlers was incredibly stressful, we had all that mommy play time to help us cope, and I've missed it! I know how easy it is for us all to become 'mommy-martyrs', but now we have scientific proof that denying ourselves isn't good for us, or for our kids. So after I finish up some work, I'm going to email a couple of friends about getting together, then I'll go get a pedicure - not for me, but for the good of my family!

Nag, nag nag, nag nag . . . .

I swear, in my pre-mom days, I was a patient, calm, quiet person who never raised her voice, who handled conflict with serenity and aplomb, who never sweat the small stuff, who rose above petty annoyances. That was before I had to get recalcitrant kids to do homework, clean their rooms, take out the trash, practice drums/sax/voice/etc., feed the dog, rats & fish, study for an upcoming bar mitzvah, and so on - all of which take multiple reminders, and supervision, and maintenance visits to make sure one kid isn't spacing out and another isn't slacking off after 5 minutes. ("I swear, mom, I worked so hard, I need a break, and my clock says it's been 35 minutes!") I think I spent more time yesterday reminding Ben to practice drums than he actually spent at the drum set - and this is a kid who actually likes playing an instrument, I shudder to imagine the suffering of my friends whose kids resist piano lessons.

When my mom nagged me, I remember vowing, "I will NEVER bug my kids, I will teach them to be conscientious and responsible on their own." Oh, how charmingly naive I was. First of all, 'self-reliant teenager' is the ultimate oxymoron, because although they really WANT to be independent, they keep forgetting little details, like oops, that 8 a.m. call right after you've gotten home from carpool, "Mom, I forgot my lunch/spanish book/science project". And face it, their standards of cleanliness and hygiene are somewhat different from those of anyone above 18. (My friends with teenage daughters claim they have it worst, describing rooms with piles of discarded clothes from the last "I have nothing to wear" melt-down, but I defy them to complain to me after they've smelled the room of a teenage boy who gets any sort of exercise. I once picked up a pair of freshly-used tap shoes, and nearly passed out!)

So sure, I have the best intentions of staying detached, letting them suffer the consequences of a forgotten lunch, a disappointed drum teacher, a room that needs fumigating. But I'm a mom, too, and sometimes I can't help myself. I think they need a new 12-step program for moms who struggle with letting go - "Hi, I'm Lauren, I nag my kids." "Hi, Lauren!". But come to think of it, nearly every one I know would need to join.

At least now we have very public examples that make the rest of us not look so bad. Ayelet Waldman has a new book out, "Confessions of a Bad Mom", that glories in her non-perfect parenting (as well as revealing way too much information about her wild sex life as a teenager). And apparently the talk shows and blog-o-sphere are all a-buzz with a recent episode of Jon & Kate which showed her screaming at her kids not to eat so many strawberries, and commentators are debating whether she is a control freak or just a human mom with way more kids than anyone should have. So all of us who merely nag can take comfort not just in numbers, but in knowing, hey, at least no one has caught me yelling at my kids on national t.v., or talking about my sex life on a book tour. And next time my kids accuse me of being a mean mom, I'll just rent "Mommie Dearest" and hope they appreciate me for never screaming "No wire hangers" at them - sure, maybe that's because I can't find a path to their closets, and they never hang clothes up anyhow, but at least in comparison I look like the saint I used to be pre-kids!

Surprise - you're old!

My first-born turned 16 recently, and that was just the latest in a series of reminders of my own aging - roots that need touching up way more often than I can afford, having two children with hair on their legs, my own dear husband referring affectionately to his '50-something' sweetheart (I'm 50, not 50-something!). But it wasn't so much the fact of the birthday that made me feel old - it was the celebration.

Between starting his summer job and exhaustion from the end of the school year, David was too wiped out to plan anything but let me know he'd be okay with it if I took over (by saying discreetly, "Mom, just in case you feel like giving me a surprise party, I wouldn't mind, and Danielle might know who I would want to invite, because you know my guy friends are clueless about this sort of thing.") So with the help of his friend, Facebook, and a quick trip to Costco, I was ready for our house to be invaded by teenagers.

It all worked perfectly - Husband 2.0 got David out the door for a driving lesson, his friends showed up on time to help me frantically set the party up (getting 24 helium balloons out of my car, where I'd hidden everything), and he was suitably surprised (yelling something unprintable). I was definitely in the thick of things, supervising the set up, telling kids where to put their coats, suggesting good hiding places, but once the party got started, I realized that despite my internal sense of youth, I was not a peer, I was merely the party planner/caterer/maid. The kids thanked me for the sodas I distributed and the pizzas I cooked, a few even politely asked where to put recyclables, but that was it.

At least I was used to being a wallflower as a teenager, so that sense of being ignored was familiar. For husband 2.0, it was an unpleasantly novel experience. He'd been one of those popular kids in high school who wouldn't have deigned to socialize with a geeky nerd like I'd been (although the biger obstacle to our early romance might have been the fact that when I started high school, he was in first grade). So after he'd made a trip through the living room collecting used dishes, expecting to be fawned over like back in his glory days, he came back crestfallen. "When did I become invisible?" I reassured him that I still thought he was fascinating and the girls who ignored him had no taste . . . .

As I refreshed platters, cleared garbage, and tried to keep the 12-year-old little brother from being too much of a pest, I felt a weird sense of being a housewife from a 50s sitcom, like June Cleaver chaperoning one of Ward's parties and reminding Beaver not to annoy his brother's friends. (At least under my apron I had on cute jeans and platform wedges, instead of a starched shirtdress & pearls.) Sure, in many ways we've changed as parents (I listen to my kids, I never say "Wait til your father gets home", and I don't roll my eyes at their taste in music, since they like what I like), but on a basic level some things never change. Teenagers have always ignored parents at parties, little brothers have always been moderately annoying, and adults have always felt weird about getting older.

I went to wake David up the next morning and looked at his long leg sticking out of the covers, thinking, "Wow, that tall hairy man was once my baby", I realized June Cleaver, my own mom, and generations before them have had the same feeling - and it was actually comforting to realize I was a cliche, sometimes. Then I touched up my gray roots, put on some Lynyrd Skynyrd, and washed the rest of the party dishes.