To Dear Friends

There is nothing like an old friend to keep you honest about yourself. I am lucky to have one living only miles away. We have known each other since we were 16-years-old. She knows and understands my tendency to hole up in my own world when trouble strikes. She relates to who I am now, because she knew first hand who I was then. And who I am now is so much a result of her.

She gave me my first taste of independence when she talked my parents into letting me travel back East with her. I will never forget the liberating feeling we had when, at age 18, they served us wine at a wonderful brasserie in Manhattan. I remember her driving a stick shift car out of the crazy streets of Manhattan and up to her families lake house.

A few years passed, and we ended up in Europe together the summer of 1978. Earlier that Spring she had been on a study abroad program in France with my husband. Of course, he wouldn't become my husband for another 12 years. Life is full of odd coincidences.

We met up in August and she taught be how to hop on trains, forced me to stay in youth hostels, and introduced me to the ballet and the paintings of Georges Seurat. I still have the book on Seurat she hid under my pillow one night when I was fast asleep.

Those were some of the richest days of my life. My first taste of independence had a profound effect on me. And I thank her for that. Now her son is getting ready to leave home. Kyle will leave the year after. I hope they both find that fierce spirit of adventure and that desire to soak in everything new and different. I hope they have the time of their lives.

But I ask you and I promise I will ask my friend this, "Can we go with them?" I sort of know the answer already. But I figure it couldn't hurt to ask.

So, dear friends, old and new, I hope you help me find my independence as my sons get ready to leave home.

Thank Heaven for Men from Guatemala

Last night, a wonderful friend and neighbor invited my husband and myself to see a performance of the Gypsy Kings. We told our kids we were going to a concert and wouldn't be home until late. They looked at us in shock. "You're going out?" Kyle asked in stunned disbelief. "To a concert?" Will piped in.

Yes kids, if felt like say, Mommy and Daddy are finally growing up. I must say it was difficult to get out of the house. We needed to manufacture a quick dinner, make sure homework assignments were completed, and bedtimes worked out. But as soon as we finally got to the concert and I sat down and listed to the wonderful latin music of the Gypsy Kings I was transported to another place. Music can do that to me. But tonight was particularly liberating. I watched a beautiful woman a few rows ahead dance to the latin beat. Wearing an off the shoulder blouse and a tight white skirt, she gracefully and seductively danced the latin hula. Her hands moved in grace as her body pulsated to the sexy latin beat.

I couldn't tell how old she was or if she had children who had already left home. All I saw was a sensual woman enjoying the moment. And she seemed to possess a sacred secret. She knew she was beautiful and sexy no matter how old she was or how old she would become. Inside, she was all woman and she was not ever going to let anyone tell her differently.

This got be thinking about a piece a wrote a few years back. I thought it was appropriate to share it with you today.

My stunning mother moved to America from Holland in 1947. She told me that when she first arrived in California she was convinced that she was ugly. She would walk down the street and not one man would whistle after her. This had never happened to her in Europe. By American standards she thought she was homely. It wasn’t until much later on that she realized American men rarely comment audibly on a beautiful woman as she walked down the street. That would be in bad taste. Classless? Or would it?

I have a friend from Guatemala. He is much younger than I am but always finds the time to flirt with me. He calls me “sunshine” and always has time to tease me and assure me that a great woman like me is hard to find.

I love him! I might have dog shit on my shoes, giant pimples on my nose, a middle age bulge, greasy hair, and be wearing mismatched baggy clothing. Still, I am a woman, and he notices!

I know he doesn’t find me superficially beautiful but still I know he sees something in me that was once there. He only met me recently but still I have the fantasy that he can see the fire in me, the sexy young girl I was once. It is almost as if by his very words he can coax the beauty out of me. It is like a dance. The more he flirts the more beautiful I become. Now what does that tell you?

It tells you that Guatemalan men are fabulous and I am more screwed up than I thought. Do I, a self-proclaimed feminist, really need an overly demonstrative bullshit artist to make me feel beautiful?

The answer is simple….Yes, I do.

Once, a long time age, Maurice Chevalier, playing a sexy playboy, crooned “Thank heaven for little girls.” He got that wrong.

“Thank heaven for men from Guatemala.”

The Video Chat

Last night, I went into my son's bedroom to say good-night. He looked up when I was at his door and pointed to his computer screen. From the panic in his eyes I knew something was up. He was video chatting with one of his dear friends at college. I quickly understood. It wasn't that he didn't want me to overhear his conversation. He didn't want me to embarrass myself, or him, if I mistakenly walked in front of the camera and his unsuspecting friend got a vision of me in my lovely pajamas. Not a pretty sight these days. I stood at the door way and mouthed the words good-night.

I climbed back into bed and began to think about Kyle and me video chatting when he will be at college two short years from now. Instantly, I got that awful pit in my stomach. Sure, it will be great to see his smiling face when he is hundreds of miles away. But the thought of seeing him only through the filter of a camera lens on a computer screen seems so cold and distant. I am certain that it will make the separation feel even more unbearable for me.

A few minutes later he popped his head in to say good-night. I normally would follow him back into his room, and we would talk about the day for a moment or two. This old ritual has become one of my favorites, but last night I was just too tired. I hated myself for being too tired. How many more nights did I have to kiss his sweet forehead good night and just talk for a moment before he drifted off to sleep? I need to take advantage of every one. I needed to continue to "tuck him in."

I asked his permission to write about him video chatting in my BLOG. He gave me the A OK and then I asked if he missed his college friends less because he was able to see them via that tiny little camera in his computer.

"Yes," he smiled. "It's like they are two feet away, but we're not going to video chat when I go off to college." It was as if he could read my mind.

My heart sank. He thought video chatting was only for his generation. Us video chatting was breaking some sacred code.

Then he smiled an even bigger smile and said wisely, "They'll be some other technology that will make it feel like I am in the room with you."

I always love to one up Kyle. He has a great personality but I so enjoy teasing him. "Darn straight, it will feel like I am in the room with you," I quipped, " 'cause I really will be in the room with you."

He gave me a kiss and turned to go back to his room.

Poor Kyle, I thought. I am not making this separation any easier for him. Soon, I am going to have to get over my self pitying, overemotional, indulgent thinking and begin to get excited for him.

I hope I have the grace to at least do that.

Terry Castle and the Aging Actress

I don’t know if it is just me or if all woman remember the first time they felt a menopausal rage explode from the deep and very dark recesses of their being. I will never forget mine. A few years ago my son asked me to read an English assignment of his. I sat down and tried to edit the worst essay I have ever read. There was no way to help this thing. I was completely at a loss and then suddenly the anger came. This was unacceptable.

I have never felt anything quite like this. My anger spewed out of me and onto my undeserving son. He stared at me, wide eyed, in disbelief. He had never seen me so angry before and he looked so confused. His confusion turned into tears. My anger dissipated as quickly as it came and I was left to feel only guilt. Had that just cost my poor son years on a couch? What had I done and why?

I was quick to blame it on menopause. I had never experienced anything like that before. It was such a powerful emotion that just took over so quickly. I couldn’t react rationally. Since then I have experience these tantrums more regularly but now I know them for what they are so I can warn anyone around me not to take me seriously. And to take cover. I just can’t help it.

So, instead of shock and awe my family finds my fits like theater. I’m surprised they don’t make popcorn and watch mom act like a loon. They actually laugh at me. I have to admit, it is kind of funny, especially when you see it for what it is.

But come on. The symptoms just keep continuing.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. Another wonderful symptom of this precious time in my life. And then I woke up with a horrible headache. Headaches are also a symptom. Then I began to think about Kyle leaving for college and I started to cry.

So I sweat, cry, scream, and don’t sleep for days. I must be a blast to be around. And they say this lasts for years. It seems like I'm finally in one of my Dad's horror films.

I must reference Dad's film STRAIGHT JACKET here. It starred an aging Joan Crawford who whacked her husband and her husband's lover to death while her young daughter watched. My Dad, William Castle, decided to give me my big break. I was to star in the film and play a young Diane Baker who co-starred with Joan in the film. I was supposed to watch my mother give those "seven whacks" to my father and his mistress. Needless to say, I choked the day I was on set and left the sound stage crying.

All I remember about this day was I was a 'scaredy cat' and that the set was unbelievable cold. Now, I know why. Joan had insisted on subarctic conditions for the set. She not only wanted her aging skin to stay tight from the frigid air but she was probably afraid she was going to have a hotflash! She must have looked around her and saw her leading man careening around the sound stage without an aging care in the world. Perhaps she had enough of her handsome leading men complaining about the slight gray hairs appearing on their temples and the two nose hairs the makeup person might have had to pluck that morning.

I would love to tell Joan, "I get it now. You had to appear forever young." I know I get pissed off when I have to tweeze the gray whiskers careening out of my chin and I have to add extra deodorant for my overabundant B.O. that has appeared again. And nobody is watching me on the big screen. Can you image that? It is enough to explain poor Joan's tantrums about those wire hangers we have all heard so much about

I have one question? If I am miserable should everyone around me suffer too?

Perhaps they don’t need to be tortured, however, I sure don’t have to pretend to be happy for their account. And you know that there is a certain liberation in that. It sounds puny compared to what us woman have to endure. But it’s really not.

I love being in a bad mood and not having to apologize for it. This is who I am so accept it and accept me. I am kind of like an aging actress.

Maybe this will finally translate to other aspects of my life.

Maybe there is a reason for everything.

The Old Lady by the Sea

I discovered something very interesting about myself. I have a particular affinity for long sleeved t-shirts with well worn holes in them. I have never actually thought about this peculiarity until today. In the past I would have thrown these treasured T’s away not considering them fit to be given to a homeless shelter. Now I insist on wearing them. Every day!

I live by the sea and somehow between the sea air and my wholly shirts I feel comfortable. The T’s are soft and well worn. So the question that keeps bothering me is why I don’t accept myself with my well worn qualities like I accept and love my T’s. I am getting older and softer in places that I try so hard to cover up. I am well worn. The lines on my face and the texture of my skin prove this. I want to hide these flaws yet at the same time cling desperately to my tattered t-shirts.

If I am to be honest, my t-shirts show a sort of indifference to the well-pressed and well-dressed norm of my society. In my quiet way, I am making a statement. I am not to be judged by the quality of my T’s. I think my indifference gives me an edge. But then why do I cover my aging spots with make-up and find clothes that cover my middle-aged bulge? Why do I spend hours each month coloring my graying hair? Am I not as good as my beloved T’s? Shouldn’t I be treasured for the wear that I have been through? I should not be thrown aside because of some laugh lines and well earned worry lines.

Now that I have noticed this dichotomy, what do I do about it?

The T-shirts I am talking about are very vibrant in color. Like my apparel, I need to be bold. No more clinging to youth like a middle school girl flinging herself to a popular click. I am out there on my own, flaws and all, for the world to see. Maybe, just maybe I am old enough not care what anyone else thinks.

That is until the first person doesn’t tell me I look young for fifty.

Someone Socked Me in the Stomach

I can't believe I wrote this two years ago. These are not new feelings I am having. Kyle just left, in my car, to pick up In 'n Out and take it his friends house 20 minutes away. Yes he is driving. And no, I will not relax until I know he is there safe and sound. I am no more ready for Kyle to leave home than I was two years ago. Are my friends telling me the truth?

September 14, 2007

Today was yet another day filled with errands. What fun! It is amazing how I can fill up my life with bullshit errands. The reality of the matter is that I could do these errands in less than a half hour if I was working full time. But mindless busy work seems to fill up the space you have. There must be some physics principle to this phenomenon. I must remember to e-mail one of my kids science teachers and ask them about this.

I had to go back to the super market today. I really do try to go as infrequently as possible but some weeks I end up going every day. Today I was delighted to see all the babies out with their moms or dads. Everywhere I parked my cart was another baby to admire. And cute. No, really cute. Not I’m so glad my kids are out of that stage cute. Adorable, smiling, happy, and cute. It was delightful.

Then I went in to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to pick up a baking dish. My life is really too exciting. And there too, were moms and dads with their kids, only these kids were eighteen and buying stuff for their college dorm room.

I felt like someone socked me in the stomach.

My oldest son is fourteen and I have dreaded the day he leaves for college since BEFORE he was born. I can’t imagine not being with him every day. Wasn’t that just yesterday that I strolled him around. Now he is six foot two and independent. It took a blink of the eye for him to get from three months to fourteen years. I can’t imagine how fast time will go before he is ready to leave home.

The thought sickens me. Truly.

All my friends with older kids say that when the day comes you are ready for them to leave. I don’t believe them for a minute. I will never be ready. I will be holding on to his ankle for dear life as he tries to say good-bye.

But seeing the babies at the market with their mommies and then rushing home to be there when my pre-teen and teen-age son arrive made me think, “could I want anything more from my family than I have at this moment.” NO! Every stage has been better than the next. I remember saying that when they were babies and I still say it now. It is perfect just the way it is.

I think for a brief moment that maybe nature has a mysterious way of working. Maybe when they turn eighteen I will be ready.

Then I remember that in a year my oldest will be driving. There is no way I’ll like that stage. No way I’ll be able to put a positive spin on that! I’ll put money on it.

My only solace is in the fact that I am turning fifty now and not when he is learning to drive or going off to college. We have to take these little blessings when we get them.

The Drive-Thru

I enjoyed looking back in time rereading the articles I wrote when I was turning fifty. Most of you are much younger than I am so perhaps you can relate to some of what is in these posts. Like a parent who has watched his or her kid leave home years earlier, and assures me there is life after the kids have left, I can say to you, turning fifty really isn't that bad. It is actually quite funny in a strange sort of way. I hope I get you to a least giggle a bit. I laughed all the way to my fiftieth birthday. I still laugh when I look down and see my middle age bulge or look in the mirror (which I try not to do very often) and see my sagging eye-lids. I can't believe I actually pull the skin of my forehead up to see how I would look with a face lift. I remember my mother doing this and thinking she was actually out of her mind. I will never have a face lift, not because I wouldn't love to look better, but I am just too afraid of doctors. If I wasn't I would be the first in line for a peal or a lift or a tuck. Instead I just pretend that I want to grow old gracefully. It's fear that stops me dead in my tracks. So, if you ever see me looking rested and younger know that I miraculously got over my fear of Doctors and am pulled, peeled, and lifted.

Labor Day: September, 2007

When I was younger I used to be able to put on whatever I left on the chair from the night before, throw a brush through my hair and look half way presentable. Much to my dislike, those days are gone. Unfortunately, old habits are hard to break, and I am a creature of habit. So, once again I threw on my old black pants from four years ago, an orange tee shirt with holes from wear around the seam, a pair of flip flops and out the door I ran. For better or for worse, I rarely look in a mirror.

Today I should have.

I have always admired those aging natural beauties. Hoped to be just like them when my time came. But much to my chagrin two problems arise. Problem #1: I don’t look anything like an aging beauty. I look more like a tired, middle-aged suburbanite who has spent too much time in the sun. Problem #2: This issue has come up way too soon.

I should go to the plastic surgeon for a laser peel or dermabrasion or whatever is trendy this week…but in all honesty I am just too scared. I don’t like to go to doctors, they terrify me. As I age, I know going to the doctor more and more often will be inevitable, but I dread this with every fiber left in my body. So what are my options? Make-up.

I actually bought some last week. But of course today, I forgot to use it. I have to remember the base and blush, lipstick and mascara. I should have been born a boy.

Instead I have on my sunglasses to hide me from the world.

Of course, it is right after Labor Day and everyone is back in town. All the other Moms sport cute hairdos, adorable tennis gear, or sophisticated slacks with matching shoes and handbags. Every place I stop I run into someone I know. I don’t think much of this until I happened to catch a glance of myself in the mirror. Holy shit. I look like shit. Like old shit. Even worse, like old, tired shit. There is nothing natural about my beauty. My hair needs to be colored and cut. My outfit is an embarrassment. Cute ran out many years ago and I am left with something from one of my father’s old horror films.

I promise myself to try harder.

So here lies the dilemma. I am starving and want to go to the cute little Boulange in Mill Valley for a bite to eat, but I am bound to run into people I know. For the first time in my life, I actually chickened out. I have always enjoyed eating alone. But today I couldn’t for fear of being seen by one of my well-put together acquaintances. Even those jocks that I know, who have just run ten miles look better than me.

So I do what every middle-aged starving woman would do. I drove right into the drive-thru at McDonalds and grabbed myself a cheeseburger.

I don’t regret the calories. I don’t even regret the lack of nutrition. What I regret is not being able to throw on my oldest and ugliest clothing and still manage to look cute.

Cute takes work now and I may not be up to the challenge.

But then again, who’s really looking at me anyway?