“Try it on…live it…exhaust it…”

Sylvia: What the hell, Erma?  Really?  I’ve got a mountain of laundry, a sea of bills, a couple of screaming kids and a whining husband/partner. (Actually, just a husband since partner suggests some sort of sharing of responsibility, and well, not to complain, but well, yes, let me complain.) Anyway, understand that there is no time to try it on. I’m wearing it whether it’s clean or dirty at this point.  Live it?  Do I have a choice?  I have too many people depending on me to choose otherwise.  Exhaust it? Exhaust what?  It’s almost all gone- my energy, my concern, my motivation, desire of any kind, money– even me.  Yes, I’m exhausted but not in an “I’m tired so I’ll take a nap and feel rejuvenated” kind of way.  I’m exhausted as in spent, depleted, nearly vacant, used up, and nothing left to give.

Erma: Have you been heeding my earlier suggestion and pouring yourself that deliciously steamy and virile cup of coffee every now and again, dear girl?

Sylvia: Really, Erma, I don’t have time for such nonsense.  It’s not like a daydream will solve my problems or change my life.

Erma: That’s crap.  Complete and utter bullshit.  It’s time for coffee. It’s time for you. In fact, fuck it. Let’s forget coffee and go for something stronger.

And with that, Erma proceeded to tell Sylvia exactly what was required to get her through.

wp-1473640765639.jpg

All women need time to themselves.  All human beings do I would suspect, but for the purposes of helping to maintain the sanity of every Sylvia who reads this, Erma’s only talking about women here. Now, time to oneself may be alone time or it may be time with a dear friend or even a crazy and wildly raucous group of your most trusted allies.  It may be time doing nothing special- reading a torrid novel or emptying your email trash and spam folders.  Let’s just imagine that in this instance though, time to oneself means time doing whatever the hell strikes your fancy at any given point in time. It means taking whatever time is needed to turn a dream into a plan.  It’s the point in time when your real or imaginary Erma convinces you to throw caution to the wind and just do whatever you want.  (Some may call it wildly irresponsible and demonstrating flagrant disregard. Those are the individuals who should kindly exit stage left or any other way you must rid yourself of them from your theater. You don’t need fun-bashers, naysayers, or any of that ilk.) Erma’s appellation, however, for this much-needed “me” time is far more fitting: survival. Ah, yes, that’s it. “Try it on…live it…exhaust it.”  Survive IT!

Erma: Sylvia, here’s my advice, and yes, you will take it. After all, we cannot have you at your wit’s end sticking your head into an oven or doing something equally horrific and final. First, forget the coffee. It’s five o’clock somewhere, and while coffee will help on a daily basis and even in a pinch of soul-sucking desperation, there’s nothing that creates possibility as fast and fervently as an Old-fashioned. We’re past daydreaming, Sylvia.  You need time for you. You need a plan–a survival plan.

With pen in one hand and an Old-fashioned in the other, and with her older and wiser girlfriend by her side, Sylvia thought – out loud this time- about what she wanted to do for herself. As she jotted down possibilities that included everything from the mundane albeit therapeutic dinner-and-a-movie to the unimaginably dreamy vacation in Bali (yes,contemplate Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love), she devised a very doable, planned yet seemingly spontaneous getaway to the Windy City. And in an instant or however long it took for Erma and Sylvia to indulge in two cocktails and create an itinerary, Sylvia had set her plan for “me time” in motion.

Sylvia:  Okay, Erma, there, are you happy?  It’s done.  I’m going to try it.

Erma:  Sylvia, it’s so far from done.  It’s just beginning in fact.  The living part.  The living-for-you part, that is.

Sylvia awoke that morning with a knot in her stomach but a spring in her step. The living part, whatever Erma meant by that, was about to begin.  She managed to get everyone out of the house on time- in other words as quickly as possible-and have a minute to pour one last cup of coffee before heading out the door to the airport.  As she raised the pot to serve herself what remained of the morning’s sustenance, she saw a bit of steam rise.  Sylvia, anxious for her adventure, set the pot back on its burner and muttered quietly, “What are you thinking?  You don’t have time for a daydream right now, foolish woman.”

Announcement: American Flight 136 to Chicago has been delayed. The scheduled departure is now 2:30 pm.

At that moment, Sylvia’s plan didn’t look so good.  She had booked a cheap flight to Chicago from Boston with a stop in Charlotte.  What was the big deal?  Charlotte sounded quaint and manageable and completely unimposing. She had convinced herself that she could only afford “me-time” if she found ways to economize and be free from any more guilt than she was already feeling. Now, she was stuck in Charlotte for three hours with nothing to do but ruminate about her selfishness and play the mental ping-pong game that most mothers play when they leave their families behind to take care of themselves. Serve: Do I really need time to myself?  What have I done to deserve it?  Return: Yes, you deserve it. You do everything.  And with a couple of rounds over and the score tied, Sylvia decided to move forward to step two…live it.

There’s a cute little wine bar tucked away in between the gates of the American Airlines terminal in Charlotte. For once, Sylvia didn’t overthink her next move and headed in its direction. It wasn’t quite noon, but in Erma-fashion of it being five o’clock somewhere, she decided that a glass of something, perhaps a bit of bubbly, was definitely called for on this occasion. With her overnight bag on her shoulder and attempting not to wipe out any tables that she passed by, Sylvia made her way to the Mediterranean-inspired bar and tried to fit in, all the while noticing that only she and one other woman were either brave enough or naive enough to belly-up to the bar alongside stool after stool of men.

Sylvia managed to find a spot at the end of the bar closest to the exit and within earshot of any announcements from the loud speaker. She kept reminding herself that she was worldly, cosmopolitan even. She had traveled extensively in her youth and up until marriage and children, so sitting at a predominately male-occupied bar was no big deal. Her twenties were filled with such happenings- in Florence, Paris, London, DC, and LA. What the hell, this might just be as memorable and at least as enjoyable. She sat down, quietly and confidently, and politely ordered, “A glass of Moët, please.”

Within seconds, the flute of what Sylvia likes to call one of her most delicious tastes of survival arrived.  As she reached for its stem, her hand happened to graze the hand of the man next to her and a bit of his draft spilled on the bar. “Oops, so sorry,” she apologized without lifting her head.  In that instant, Sylvia was overcome by a strangely familiar scent that was both inexplicable and unexpected.  The intensely bold aroma of freshly brewed coffee was enveloping her.  She was drinking champagne. How could that be? She felt a rush.  She was oddly clammy and flush, as she once again reached for her glass remarking that the arm she had brushed seconds ago was tastefully tattooed and muscular. Surely, she was daydreaming.  Could this be real?  She lifted her head with every intention of making an apologetic comment, but she could not. As her eyes met his, she blurted, “Oh my, it really is you.” The attractively rugged man, he with the piercing, soulful, walnut-colored eyes from her very first coffee-inspired daydream, was looking back at her with a twinkle in his eye.

“Hello there. I’m Cam, uh, Cameron.  Do we know each other?” And without hesitation, Sylvia replied, “No, no, not yet, Cam, but I do owe you another beer- or at the very least a nice, hot cup of coffee.”

Erma: Try it…live it…exhaust it…

Sylvia: Oh, that’s the plan, Erma.  That’s the plan.

 

 

photo credit: Kobi Yamada

Would Sylvia & Erma Have Met On Facebook?

Surely they would have. When they would have met and under what circumstances are the two bigger questions and maybe even more intriguing speculations. There is honestly no better, easier, or more comfortable environment on social media for women – in my opinion- than Facebook. 

Don’t get me wrong. You have to get past all of the bullshit that people throw out there. We are all capable of slinging it every now and again, but there’s a vast difference between allowing yourself to wade incessantly in others’ crap and occasionally throwing a little handful of it yourself –or merely stepping in it and getting it on the bottom of your shoe. The latter two are rid of easily and can be overlooked, even forgiven in the worst cases. The former,well, it can be so cumbersome that it’ll weigh you down.  It depends on how thick your skin is, how insecure you are, and if you’ve mastered the expression, “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Here’s the difference for women though, I think, as it relates to the FB dynamic. Again, just a few random thoughts, so please hear me out. Women put themselves on Facebook for myriad reasons.  Women in their teens and twenties usually do it to self-promote and even garner attention about their looks, their loves, their lives, good or bad. Many of them “collect” friends. I’ve actually seen some with over a thousand in their collections. Really. Seriously? Come on, really?  So, that’s FB on Starbucks and with a membership at 24-hour Fitness. In other words, FB on steroids.

Women in their thirties and forties, however, seem to use it more for personal shared experiences and professional purposes. Their posts are evenly distributed between the two for the most part. Perhaps they are not the LinkedIn types.  Maybe they just want to take a few minutes in their day to escape- to connect with old high school friends or college friends with whom they’ve yet to lose touch fully (they are hanging on). Maybe they are even hoping that they’ll prove to everyone that life is great when we form those even deeper and more public connections with the friends and family they saw over the weekend or even last night. They may employ FB as a calendar of sorts for journaling or scheduling purposes; collaboration on childrearing, weight loss and body image issues as a result of childbearing and childrearing; marriage, work, and social engagements (namely vacations, date nights, PTA meetings, etc.); showing one another that they too can have it all and do so without giving a fuck. Here’s the thing though. They do give a fuck.  After all, they are on FB. That’s Facebook on Ritalin.

Women in their fifties- actually from probably late 40s on- utilize FB differently. I’m convinced it depends on where they/we are emotionally and physically. If they still have children at home or who are nearly ready to go off to college (or embark on their first adult living adventure), FB is a great tool to share helpful hints and soul-sustaining suggestions. What you’ll often hear from this generation of women is how quickly those years with their children have passed. Women begin to get more sentimental but also a bit more matter-of-fact. You’ll see either a lot more about their partners/ spouses/ SOs – or a whole lot less. (Admittedly, that’s where I fall to the extent that people wonder if I’m actually married. My husband isn’t on FB, and I’m glad. I like that it’s my realm in our marriage.)  Nothing against you guys, but as many of my FB friends well know, women in this age group don’t need to make everything about men or partners.  Actually, we may use FB as an escape. You can read into that or not because frankly this age group is beginning to master the art of not giving a shit. These women haven’t fine tuned it yet, but they are on their way. With the help of their FB friends, luncheons, dinners, movie nights, and girls’getaways; and coffee, wine, and/or chocolate, these women are becoming comfortable in their own skin.  It’s funny how that happens just as the skin is losing elasticity and lacks collagen from the hormonal imbalances inflicted by the onset and throes of menopause. One of life’s ironies, for sure. We share tips on healthy, easily prepared meals.  We commiserate and eventually find communal comic relief in topics like hot flashes, insomnia, and abnormal hair growth. We are trying to become a bit more egocentric without apology.  FB on hormone replacement for some. FB on anti-depressants for others.

Now, I’ve yet to reach my sixties, but I can pretty well say that women on FB at this age are beginning to achieve a balance. Most seem to have accepted their lots in life. These women post heavily about grandchildren and health issues, but they also demonstrate a certain level of acceptance in terms of self-image. They don’t seem to outwardly obsess about their looks or the physical appearance of others. In fact, they are beginning to see only the good. “I have really unsightly spider veins, FB friends.” Comments on such an admission will range anywhere from “Dot, at least you are still walking on your own steam” to “Be thankful they are only spider veins and not varicose veins making green-blue tributaries on your legs like mine.” They always see a bright side. Perhaps it’s because they also believe in the power of the FB share.  They tend to be more superstitious and will almost always share the posts and prayers that strongly urge “copy and paste” or else the wrath of Zeus will be thrust upon them and their loved ones. These are the women we can count on to save our collective soul. FB on 1,000 units of Vitamin D, increased calcium, and perhaps a glass or two of newly discovered Pinot Grigio, Chardonnay, or Merlot. (Malbecs are too exotic; champagne is only for special occasions.)

Women in their 70s,80s, and 90s?  Not much to complain about. They are the role models for the rest of us. They are who they are, and they are just extremely happy to be alive.  They post prayers. They share funny animal and baby videos. They don’t complain. They are looking back at the rest of us and saying, “Are you fucking kidding us, girls? Life is short and getting shorter. Get over whatever or whoever is eating away at you and move on. Eat the cake. Drink the wine. Spoil the children. Buy the shoes. Take the trip.” FB on pure oxygen.

I won’t begin to fathom when Sylvia and Erma would have met on FB, but this I know. They found each other. They read each other’s posts. They laughed and cried. They discovered that they were not going through anything alone.

Facebook. Solidarity for sisters of all ages.  Hit the like button. Get through life with a thumbs-up.

http://carltons-quote-corner.weebly.com/age.html

​The Best Cup of Coffee Sylvia Ever Had

When I’m at my wit’s end, there are several things that I do to relieve stress, to create a little distraction, and to stop obsessing about the harsh realities that life seems to be dealing me.  So, of course, this got me to thinking about Sylvia and Erma and how each of them might have escaped the trials, troubles, and tedium that accompany women’s daily routines. Neither one of these women was boring, mind you (and I’d like to think I’m fairly interesting and maybe even a fine mélange of fun and unpredictability), but there are always hours throughout the week when every woman- if she’s honest- is bored.  Not in a “bored silly” kind of way because that would be manageable.  Rather in an “oh my God, if I have to do or say that one more time, I won’t even want to be around myself” kind of way.  It’s that kind of irksome monotony that can drive a woman crazy, and I do believe it is a feeling akin mostly to women because we happen to be blessed -or cursed, depending on how irked we are at any particular moment in time-with the maternal, nurturing, less self-absorbed nature. (And before you guys who read this start to vilify me and think that I’m maligning you for being egocentric, I’m not. Egocentrics we can deal with; narcissists, however, are not welcomed.)  

Although Sylvia was in her early 30s when she felt that she had no other option than to give in to her torment, I am once again thinking that Erma might have been able to help her. That’s the Pollyanna in me.  That’s the nurturer, the caregiver, the unrelenting problem solver.  I still can’t bear to imagine the pain Sylvia was in. And for that reason perhaps, and because in my mind, Erma has helped me and so many other wives, mothers, and women-of-a-certain-age, I believe that Erma would have given Sylvia this incredibly wonderful piece of advice: “Sylvia, dear friend, make yourself a very strong, piping hot cup of coffee. Don’t use a flimsy, petite, porcelain cup. Grab a mug, one made of stoneware that actually holds more than a cup and a half and that will keep in the heat. Now, take your coffee, sit at the head of the table, and look into that steaming hot vessel of dark, aromatic liquid. Inhale and be sure to close your eyes. Sylvia, allow yourself a daydream of the best kind.”

What’s the best kind?  Hmm. (Wink, wink.) 

Sylvia did just as Erma suggested, and lo and behold, that loathsome, annoying feeling of malaise dissipated with each waft of freshly brewed java.  The steam wasn’t coming from the coffee any longer. The steam that began to envelop Sylvia was in fact coming from within.

What caught her eye wasn’t his body, though his physique alone would have explained the vapors that even the most refined of women would have felt. He was muscular and sturdy and oozed desire. His biceps were bulging and tattooed tastefully.  He looked like the stereotypical bad boy. He was everything that she was not supposed to want. Sylvia, sitting with her eyes shut gently over the hot coffee that was now leaving her skin dewy in an unsettling yet not uncomfortable way, continued to examine him. The body was indeed attractive and rugged, toned and meaty in all the right places. But that wasn’t it. Sylvia could feel herself smiling, her cheeks blushed and glistening likely more from her thoughts than from the beverage in front of her. Her eyes, though still lightly shut, were oddly staring into his. There, before her, was what she had been missing. She saw in those smiling, hazel eyes that which she hadn’t even known she was looking for. She saw strength and kindness. In those piercing, soulful, walnut-colored eyes, she discovered herself. Her fragility. Her weakness. Her femininity.  

Sylvia-a-a.  Sylvia-a-a.  Open your eyes.  Snap out of it. The coffee’s gone cold, but don’t worry, you can make a fresh pot any time you like. 

For all the Sylvias drowning out there in tragic tedium or simply drifting in monotony, and in honor of all the Ermas who remind us to take time for ourselves, remember that there is no harm in indulging in a bold, strong, steamy cup of coffee now and again.  

Cheers. 

The Moment Sylvia Learned Her Best Friend was dying

An excerpt:

“You know, right? You know she has a mass, right?”

Of course, I know. How could I not know?  After all, she is my mother. My first friend. My best friend. My confidante. My spring board. My cheerleader. My moral compass.

But I didn’t know. I mean deep down I knew that she would one day succumb in some way, shape, or form to her addiction, her vice, that which she so often claimed was her saving grace, her anti-depressant, her stability. I don’t know what or whom I hated more at that instant. The cigarettes. The doctor. God. Or my mother. Even myself. Yes, me.  How could I not see the ravages that her body and spirit had been enduring all of my life? And why, oh why, had none of us helped her, comforted her, been important enough to her to save her from herself?

And then, there facing her in the ER, she looked at me lovingly with her beautiful, soulful, caring, blue eyes, and I could see.  She was not my anything. She belonged all this time to herself. For the first time in forever, I realized that this was about her- her alone-and she was saying, “This is my life on my terms.”

Terry Sohl

All I Needed to Know I Learned from My Mother

So, I envisioned posting this last week and then the week got away from me as most weeks and days usually do. For better or worse.  And there it is: for better or worse. That’s been the rumination of late, especially as I’ve attempted to get a look at myself through a toothpaste-covered mirror.

When we marry, there’s this “little” part of the traditional ceremony that says, “for better or worse, richer or poorer, etc.”  The toothpaste-covered mirror is definitely not indicative of the better part.  Don’t get me wrong; it’s far from the worst part either.  Let’s just say that these days the spit-covered mirror and the toothpaste-crusted sink represent ambivalence that is slowly becoming indifference. Indifference in this case isn’t a bad thing either.

I used to curse and scowl as I walked past that first sink of the double vanity, the one unknowingly claimed by him upon moving in to this house. And in all honesty, I still mutter and complain each morning and evening as I make my way to my side of the vanity.  How can someone not see the remnants of what is left behind?  My gosh, it’s so clear to me. And that’s when it hit me: as I ambled past that mirror last week for the millionth time and saw what has been there for quite a while- my war-torn reflection- a vision of a woman who has gone from caring and complaining about the mess to one who has thrown in the towel, literally and figuratively, and decided not to care.  Not to care about the small stuff.  Because as my mother said repeatedly, and reiterated almost ad nauseum, especially as she lay dying the last four months of her life (the only time in her life when she put her needs, wants, and thoughts first), no one ever gets a medal for keeping a clean house. It’s a thankless job. Necessary but without reward. And above all – both Sylvia and Erma would concur- it’s the least for which you’ll be remembered when all is said and done.

Yes, I get the “pride in appearance” part of it, but really?  I’ll take the word of a great lady who cleaned many toothpaste-covered mirrors in her lifetime, that in the end, it just doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you paid attention to that woman staring back at you in the mirror; you paid attention to and cared for yourself. After decades of wiping up around the sink, scrubbing the hardened toothpaste from the porcelain, and windexing the mirror last to find that the woman who took pride in and did the jobs that no else would without prodding, coaxing, or begging, lost herself.  When she allowed herself to be relegated to the person in the house who would deal with everyone else’s mess (physical, emotional, financial, and spiritual), she conceded defeat in a way. Mom didn’t realize that the war would take its toll, not until the battle scars of being a wife, mother, grandmother, and fixer-of-all-things were deep and permanent. It was then that she would admonish, “Show them you matter by putting yourself first, Kay. Trust me, if you don’t treat yourself well, you’ll let others think that you are okay with being last, disrespected and dismissed.”

So, that’s what this Sylvia has been thinking about lately. She’s been reflecting on her mother’s words — on Erma’s words. Sometimes it’s okay to say no. I just don’t feel like dealing with your shit or anyone else’s right now. At this moment, here and now, however fleeting, it’s all about me. The spit-covered mirror and the toothpaste-crusted sink will still be there tomorrow. I’m going to grab a cup of coffee and sit for a moment and do nothing. For better or worse.

Grab a mug, pull up a chair, and we’ll watch the sunrise.

When your mother asks, ‘Do you want a piece of advice?’ it is a mere formality. It doesn’t matter if you answer yes or no. You’re going to get it anyway.

~Erma Bombeck

A bit of whimsy before wisdom on this Saturday

Wishes for a great day -a day full of life’s blessings and summer’s abundance. My wish is for time to pass a bit more slowly; however, if that wish does not come true and it appears that it may not based upon past performances by Father Time, spend it doing what makes you happy.  And while you’re at it, make a good wish and help spin a tale for someone else.

Thinking of you, friends.

With love,

Sylvia & Erma

If you are a dreamer come in

If you are a dreamer a wisher a liar

A hoper a pray-er a magic-bean-buyer

If you’re a pretender com sit by my fire

For we have some flax golden tales to spin

Come in!

Come in!

~Shel Silverstein

True Wealth