Oh, Perfect Me!

Barbara: I was having a cozy chat with some beloveds the other day and we all had one of those epiphany moments—which we each kinda already knew about ourselves but which we didn’t known about each other. It was so interesting, that discovery, that I began to wonder if we are not the only sad-sacks who suffer from this “affliction” (or character trait, or Achilles heal, or pain-in-the-buttedness, take your pick).

We were talking about how we were often the “strong ones” in our friendships, the shoulders, the ears. Being a shoulder wasn’t an issue for any of us: we enjoyed it, we valued it, we learned from it. But when I was describing to the group how I had needed to step back from this go-to stance in all my relationships because it was keeping me from developing really deep, true connections, that I had to learn and force myself to be openly vulnerable, the penny seemed to drop a bit for the others. When we asked ourselves and each other why we did this, we spouted all the usuals: we hated to burden people, we didn’t want to obligate them, we didn’t know how they would react. But then, slowly, we started to get a bit closer to the icky truth: we were afraid to show people that we weren’t … aw geez, do I have to say it? … it’s so embarrassing … (and yet I gave it away in my title, didn’t I?) … yes … perfect.

It’s an odd self-imposed requirement—which I wouldn’t even bring up (and risk this shuddering humiliation) if I didn’t believe so many of us might be able to relate to it. I think this impossible standard of perfection gets applied to our behaviour ideals, like in this example, but I also think it pertains to the extended conversation we’ve been having these last weeks about our appearance. Yes, media has a lot to do with that—but so many of us also seem to have this core mandate that we can’t appear to be growing older or less hearty, and that we can’t appear to be weak or needy or questioning or insecure. So we manipulate our appearances so we don’t betray our aging and/or frailties, and we put on this great front in our relationships that so completely covers our weaknesses, neediness, questioning and insecurities that we very often begin to believe our own made-up PR.

Because we’ve talked so much about appearances, I want to bring us back to the whole strong-like-bull act we adopt so often in our relationships. I mean, I think I’m mostly over it. You can’t write an honest, from-the-heart blog every day and fool yourself into thinking people are going to buy the “I’m perfect” routine. But my own experience gave me the utter conviction to bring up and speak out against this habit so many of us have. If we’re going to be honest with each other, if we’re going to avail ourselves of this communal support system we all treasure, if we’re going to reach out and truly connect with others in our real lives (because I know it can be a lot easier to be vulnerable and insecure when it’s online and not so easy when we’re face to face with our beloveds), I think we need to speak up about the things that undo us, the moments of insecurity, the “ack” moments.

In my experience, this revelation is an extraordinary relief. It lifts this onerous weight of “perfection” off my shoulders and makes me feel like a real, true human being. That said, it has also been my experience that this only really works if you have NO EXPECTATIONS of how your listener/shoulder/ear reacts. You are not revealing your weakness to lay it on the shoulders of your friend/love, you are revealing it to get it off your own. See how that works? It’s a tricky line, but it is remarkably effective. Even if you get literally NO REACTION to your heartfelt revelation (yes, this has happened to me!), you will feel an exquisite and lovely release as those muscles that have worked soooooo hard to hide your weaknesses that they are now contorted and twisted into knotted balls finally know they no longer have to contort or twist. It’s amazing.

Okay, so who among you are or have been perfect perfectionists?

Deb: I can relate to this one so much. I think I said before that I love doing favours, but hate asking for them. And yes. No other reason than the one you have stated. I am perfect. At least that was the image I was comfortable with and that was the image I was putting out there. Until menopause hit with its bag of tricks and my facade was stripped from me flash by flash and tear by tear. And now I don’t care who knows I am not perfect. Because I am still perfect for me. Warts and all. And by warts I mean actual warts … which I got during menopause. See? Not perfect. But I will say this. When I became imperfect, I think people liked me more. A fellow human is always a more delightful dinner companion than say ... a goddess, right? 

Talking The Talk: Full Disclosure

Deb: As promised, I am coming in with full disclosure. If there was ever a topic where this F.D. was shouting to get out, it is the stream of Talking the Talk about women and self-esteem and the lengths we will go to make ourselves look better, younger, slimmer, shapelier.

I had a facelift. A full facelift. A big old facelift. This lift was the take your face off and place it on a table, pull your skin behind your ears, frankenstein bolts in the head  kind of facelift. I was 8 hours in surgery and I had this lift fourteen years ago at the age of forty-five.

I should be clear about the full disclosure aspect of this. This is only “bloggie full disclosure”. Pretty much anyone who knows me, knows that I had this procedure. And not just because I can’t keep anything to myself. They know it because I wanted them to know it. I always thought it was important that women should know that I had a lift and I’ll tell you why. 

After my facelift settled (yes, it has to settle, just like the poured cement sidewalk), women would tell me how great I looked and how young I looked. Often this statement, although coming from a sincerely generous place, was accompanied by a look of wistful longing. I knew they were thinking, “I am the same age as her. Why does she not have jowls or bags under her eyes, and where the hell did she get that taut chin?”  So I felt it was incumbent upon me to tell them that I look this way because I have had a facelift. If I had not had said facelift, I would resemble a very cute and well-meaning Shar-Pei pup. It was important to me that these woman knew that I was not better or younger looking, nor had I sprung from a superior gene pool. I had simply gone under the knife. And if you had seen me the weeks following the lift you would have assumed I had gone under a full set of Ginsu knives, such was my train wreck of a face.

I felt very strongly about being honest about my lift and have never been anything but. My thinking was that women, especially middle-aged women are already beating themselves up without worrying that someone of the same age looks better than they do ... or at least tighter. I know many women who have had lifts and they have sworn me to secrecy and I will keep their secret. I am not even judging them for wanting people to simply think they look better than other women our age. That is part of what makes their facelift resonate with them and that’s their beeswax. For me, full disclosure is more freeing. Any women who envies a facelift on face value and is given the truth can say, “Hey, I can do that too”. Or, “Not worth it to me, I’ll be happy with the way I look”.

I know that by now in the story, many of you are swiftly typing your responses, such is the emotions that facelifts bring about. And I totally see and appreciate all angles on this. I respect all points of view on this one because it is such an intimate choice. But I will tell you my personal take on the concept of facelifts. I subscribe to the SOMEBODY STOP ME rule of facelift. The thing is, you can do your nips, your tucks, or a full facelift, but have the words of The Mask, ringing in your ears. When you think of doing a second, third or forth, just call up your Somebody Stop Me! mantra.

My decision was to do it, and then age naturally. At least that is what I have stuck to for fourteen years and what I intend. I have aged of course, since then. And sagged a bit since then. But I am done. I am done because two things have happened in that fourteen years. I have started to look in the mirror and like what I see, and I have come to realize how very lucky I was to come out healthy and unscathed from elective surgery. I have appreciated that I gave myself the gift of elective surgery, but since then, I have seen too much necessary life saving surgery and I have grown to really appreciate how very lucky I was, and still am.

Sticking to the full disclosure theme, I will tell you my reasons for doing my facelift and how it left me feeling at the time and also 14 years later. I am very tiny-boned with a very tiny face and features. I had too much skin for my face. Even as a sleep deprived toddler, I sported big bags under my eyes in the morning. Family trait on my Mom’s side. After the boy was born and I had been big little big big big and little, my extra skin was aging me beyond my years. It was not helping me work-wise or esteem-wise. I interviewed many plastic surgeons, but only one asked me what I wanted to look like after the surgery. I did not even have to think about it. I wanted to look like a well-rested sparkling forty-five year old, which was my age at the time. And bless his skilled hands, that is exactly what I came out looking like. I don’t think I looked particularly younger but I don’t mind saying that I looked great. At our last appointment before my surgery, the surgeon did try to sway me towards cheek implants and botox as I am sadly lacking in both cheek and lips areas. But I said no. I said I wanted to look like a slightly taut but relaxed Deb. I felt that Mother Nature in her enthusiasm to give me all she could, went a tad overboard. Clearly that extra face skin was meant for a woman destined to reach five foot nine, not five foot nothing.

But in his defense, my surgeon did not want to pull my cheek skin back, as we so often see in Hollywood. He felt it was too pully, and that it made the mouth have that wide unnatural horizontal slash. So he asked instead if he could just inject a bit of fat from my butt into my face.  So we did that, forever giving me rights to the title of Assface. And I wear it proudly. No butts about it. You KNOW I had to go there.

As to the people in my life, my husband said he adored me the way I was, but knew I was hell bent so he supported me. My friends were divided on the idea and I am sure talked voraciously behind my back. As you may know I am a huge supporter of the “behind the back”. Gets the issue out, saves feelings. One friend said to me, “I have never seen one facelift that looked good.” My response was, “But you have seen hundreds of facelifts you did not know were facelifts”. She saw my point.  And I did it. And it was, outside of husband and boy, the best thing I have ever done. Ever. After the lift settled, I looked like me! I looked like the me I knew was there. I looked like the me I had strained to see in the mirror. And so now, I am an older version of Deb, but not 1954 Deb. I am an older version of Facelift Deb and I couldn’t be happier. I reckon that 1954 Deb gave Future Deb this gift.

And before I leave you, dear reader, and in the spirit of the Full Disclosure (shout out to Annette who got the ball rolling), I also had a breast job in 1980. Anyone who has seen photos of me on the blog is saying, “I knew it!!!!!”. But ironically you would be wrong. Truth be told, I had a major breast reduction. Yep. 1980. Grew back they did. Yep. But as I said before, an older and wiser Deb has not only made her peace. She has learned to love her body.

Can a woman say that old loud?

Barbara: Well, I say, yes we MUST say that out loud!! I love my body too. Not in that it looks like my dream body, but in that it is serving me well and I have made my peace.

As for the facelift disclosure: I admire your honesty, Deb. Yes, of course, I knew you’d had one—although we weren’t friends yet when you’d had it done—because that’s the kind of open person you are. Knowing you after the fact, I can fully confirm, it is EXCELLENT work. And the truth is, I used to think I would absolutely certainly get a facelift one day myself. But ironically, over the years, I’ve actually fully lost my appetite for it. Not because of you or your experience, but because of my own. I worry about the pain, about the afterward, about the cost, mostly about not recognizing myself. I want to really get used to this whole “loving myself for who I am/how I look” deal. I want to embrace it. But I am not immune to the lure of a shinier face: instead, I’ve invested much much much money into creams and facials. What’s the diff, I ask you?  

Talking the Talk In The Conversation: Calling Our Men!

Barbara: I was talking to my dad the other day. My dad is awesome. He’s always been my biggest fan and reads the blog religiously. If he goes away on a trip, then he reads the ones he missed when he was gone. At the very beginning, and once he got the hang of it, he commented a couple of times, but then he got a bit self-conscious: not because he was a man commenting on our blog, but because he was my father and it might be deemed … inappropriate. You know, like when your parents find your diary or something. Funnily, this is the same feeling I’ve sometimes felt from other random people. We’ll get to talking and they’ll mention the blog and they’ll look a bit sheepish, really as though they’ve seen something they maybe shouldn’t have. But, hey, we blog because we think. We want you to peek inside. And so I’ve always shushed my father and told him to go ahead and post comments. And besides we love men over here, fathers especially, and we want them to feel they belong here too. Middle age is for everyone (sorry if that’s a shock), and middle-aged women affect everyone. It’s a fact of life.

So my father challenged me to call out our men. We know you’re reading because sometimes you’ll pop in, or you might message us privately, or you might mention it at a get-together. And here’s the thing: this isn’t a private girls’ club. I know those exist (and maybe must) as do the boys’ clubs (again, no judgment: we sometimes need the safety of private forums). But here we THRIVE on discourse. We love to skew a point of view this way and that until we get a broader sense of things. You guys might have different prisms through which we can look, or you can remind us that we ALL worry about the same things, not just those of us in the female orbit. We value our men. We count on your wisdom, your support, your sense of things.

So the question is: would you stand up here and be counted? Would you let us know what you think—even if you don’t agree with us? We know if you’re reading this that you are compassionate and temperate. If you don’t agree with something, or if you have a slightly different take, we won’t be offended (we only get offended at rudeness).

But most importantly, if over these next few weeks we are taking on The Conversation, if we’re examining how women are being portrayed in the media and how women’s sense of self is compromised or diminished because of it, if we want to change that, and even if we women are to blame for much of it, don’t you think you guys deserve a place at the table, a voice in the discussion?

We want to hear what you think about this stuff. We want your ideas and thoughts. Even if it means we’re forced to accept a “difficult truth” (yes, men do look at “shiny objects”), it helps get us all closer to the real truth (but they usually don’t mistake that for love, or even lust).

So I hope you’ll speak up today. I hope you’ll join us in our search for balance.

I’ll start off by throwing out a specific question—that of course, I’m still hoping our female readers will weigh in on. What do you think of the pervasive sexualization of women in the media? Does it have a subtle, shifting impact on how boys and men (and girls and women) look at women? Or is it harmless fun that doesn’t actually filter into our private expectations or our bedrooms? This isn’t a trick question, I swear! In its simplest sense, many men I know truly prefer their beloved woman fresh-faced, no makeup, no fancy clothes, despite the fact that it’s the rare media image that portrays a woman like that. So what do you think?

Deb: There was an article yesterday in the Globe and Mail entitled “Thinking Outside the Boxers” and it was basically raising this question: “with so much porn and negative portrayals of women in the media, does it affect a young boy’s view of sex and relationships?”. Are these young boys poised to treat women like objects? I was thinking about it from both sides, this very interesting question. I also wondered if some young women start to act the way they think is expected of them, which is why everywhere I turn, in television and the media at large, the skank meter is up to 11. I got to thinking about my own son and his friends and cousins that I know well. They are, of course, exposed to these things but I think a greater force is at work which prevents them from painting all women with the same glitter body paint. I think they see by example in their homes and the homes of their friends how a real man treats a real women and how a real woman treats a real man. They learn by example, respect, and equality. This way they are able to see porn for exactly what it is, and whether or not they engage in watching this type of thing, they are aware of its place in the grand scheme of things. It is not a real way of life. To a degree, it is theatre. Smart boys know this. So do smart girls. 

Talking The Talk In The Conversation: Women Dress for Women

Deb: In our ongoing conversation about women and our self-esteem or lack thereof, I started thinking about the source of it. I started wondering what makes us change and nip and tuck and fix and futz with our looks. And more to that point, I started wondering who we do it for.

As opposed to popular thinking, most women do not dress for men. Most women dress for women. I think we have done this for centuries. And along those lines I think that women get “work” done for other women, with the possible exception of breasts. I think a large part of the plastic movement is done to impress our own gender. I think we need to look good for other women and, as a result, we might just be doing each other in. Eating our own as it were.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if every woman would look to a friend who is aging or is less than perfect and say,  “You look great.” There is an oft bandied about phrase which goes, “A smile is your best accessory.” But the truth is, it is! If we feel good about ourselves we look great. Inner beauty has gotten a bad rap for being, well ... inner beauty. Yet there is nothing “inner” about it. If we nail the inner, the outer comes along for the ride.

The world is obsessed with “hot”. We have this burning desire to look “hot”.

What is hot? Really. Isn’t hot chemical? Isn’t hot in the eyes of the beholder? Can we possibly sustain this media image of hot? No one friggin can. But between the “hot” flashes we can, in no particular order, look lovely, pretty, cute, gorgeous, rested, sparkling, happy, sexy, engaged, spirited graceful and ... handsome. I have always been miffed at the use of “handsome woman” as a derogatory term. Some of the most attractive and sexy women I have known have been “handsome”, for the record.

I think Ashley Judd was spectacular, strong and poised in her rebuttal. But thinking forward, what would happen if we all just stopped caring? I know, I know ... but I think we have to spend more time changing our own perceptions of ourselves. And we need to spend conscience time doing this. Like ... equal to Facebook time. We worry too damn much about what others think of us. And people in the public eye have the added worry of what the media thinks of them and as a result, the world.

But here’s the thing. Maybe we have to accept what we cannot change. Because we can’t change what people say publicly or privately about us. But we can change what we put out there. And in the end, the only logical answer is to stop taking the bait. And maybe by doing that, we will change it.

In the meantime, we must find a way to fall in love with the image we see in the mirror. WE MUST! Remember that others do not see what we see. I have a friend who wants to get her neck done. I get it. I see that she has a little middle-aged chin thing going on there. And I admit that when she points it out, I see that. But that is the only time I ever see it. What I usually see is her heartstoppingly beautiful face. And I am not just saying that to ease her saggy chin pain. She is beautiful. But she sees the neck. I know. I have been there. Full disclosure in a later blog.

But the truth is, in the last little while I have worked consciously to not only make my peace with, but to embrace my imperfections. I have been diligent in my attempts to banish them from my psyche. Or at the very least form a truce with them. I have decided to do the best I can with what I have. Because I am aging. We all are.

Jennifer Aniston is going to be an old woman some day.

And it’s not like we weren’t told. This is the life we expected. Getting old was in the offing from the get-go.  And yet we seem shocked and panicked by it. And the media rants and the media belittles and the media mocks.

And they do this because they know that we believe them. And in the meantime we hope they will change.

But I think it’s us who have to.

Barbara: Oooh, so many juicy points here I want to respond to. First off, when you mention how most women dress for women, I know you’re so right. I mean, there is some stuff I wear for Phil, but in the every day sitch, I’m thinking more about “fashion” and “trend” and “style” than I am about, well, sex.

As soon as I read this, I remembered a moment earlier today when I was standing in a bookstore in front of the magazine aisle and a young woman stopped not too far from me—and I was tired and so maybe not as conscious as I would normally be. But I suddenly realized I had literally been eying her up and down for several very looooooong minutes. I am sure—given that my relaxed face now looks (okay, okay, in my mind’s eye, Deb, but I am sure in real life too!) like I am an angry, judgmental bitch— that anyone passing must have assumed I was secretly lambasting her, cutting her up, cutting her down. But the truth is, my face looks like that when it is relaxed!!! And I was absolutely LOVING her outfit. I wanted to drink it in. I wanted to memorize it. She looked amazing. But betchya anything she would’ve been shocked and outraged at my blatant staring, and surely would have misconstrued my utter lack of intent. So there’s that.

But I do also want to say that I take up the noble and brave gauntlet you’ve thrown: that we need to be aware of how we judge our physical selves so very harshly—and that we need to STOP IT. If we go along with the old credo that the media likes to scare us, then them openly playing to our insecurities would surely fit in with that, right? Let’s take away that power. Let’s take our own power back.

Can we do it??? 

Self-Esteem: How Low Can You Go?

Barbara: I met the most lovely young woman the other night. She was stunningly beautiful, but in such a natural way it seemed she never even thought about it: no makeup, long loose hair down to her butt, and comfortable, simple, and as a result sexy clothes and jewelry. But also all the fixings of a real beauty: excellent bone structure, perfect olive skin, and bright intelligent eyes. You coulda knocked me over with a sable makeup brush when she announced a few glasses of wine into the evening that she suffered terribly from low self-esteem.

And as the rest of us women also began to consider self-esteem that night it became clear—and maybe obvious—that this seems to be a universal issue for we women of the first world problems. But why? I know I ask “why” a lot—I’m like that annoying 3-year-old kid who’s just learned the word. But again, it just niggles, doesn’t it? Whhhhhyyyyy?

Okay, so why does it matter that there are more beautiful women out there, thinner ones, or smarter ones? Why do we need to measure ourselves against them—and when we do, why do we consider the comparatives as “shortcomings” and not “differences”? When I was younger, I was always drawn to bitches—and why? Because they made me feel absolutely sure of my place as someone dumber, less sophisticated, and less capable. And mostly because I deemed it so, not because that’s what they out-and-out said to me. Did that sense of my being less-than invade my every waking moment? Not consciously, but I know it manifested in all kinds of ways. I always used to worry that my husband would find someone more attractive and then leave me, devastating my very being. It never occurred to me that if our marriage were to end, it would be because we’d fallen out of love and couldn’t find our way back, and not because of some random, slight, and natural observation that there were, oh my god, yes, some women prettier and smarter than I (again, those bitches I was “attracted to” were also the ones I was most sure would be my marriage-nemeses: naturally Phil would leave me for the opposite of me, right? Naturally I would want them in my life.).

Image (yup, that's me) by Michele.

The thing is, we don’t make our problems better by sassing ourselves and preparing for the worst (i.e.: loss of love). No, that’s how we make our problems. That’s right. We. Make. Our. Problems.

That beauty I met the other night, her self-esteem issues attracted the worst kinds of assholes. And I’m gonna guess that if she were lucky enough to meet Mr. Right, she might actually drive him away by being more wrapped up in how “horrible” she is than in how wonderful he is. I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her how amazing she is and how much she deserves the very best (okay, I did tell her all that, short of taking her in my arms). But the truth is, she is surrounded by numerous people who trumpet her wondrousness. She’s not one of those people who’s alone with no one to love her. But it didn't seem to make a difference to her love of self. In other words, despite every apparent gift and advantage, there are still some issues that have such insidious power … they manage to trump all else.

Hello, low self-esteem. Now fuck off.

I want us to fight back. I want us to tell ourselves how amazing we are. I mean, what have we got to lose? That would be one (more) voice on the planet that’s got it right. And don’t worry about getting all hoity on conceit—conceit has its roots in other problems, namely lack of compassion and dearth of awareness. No, no, self-love is something beautiful and generous and expansive. It swells up your heart and gives it more space to love other people.

I begged that young woman to tell herself every morning how amazing she is until she maybe finally believed it, and suddenly one of our fellow diners shared her story with us: in order to land her dream job, she spent every morning looking at her reflection in the mirror and telling herself she was great and smart and the best one for the job. And you know what? She felt so relaxed and confident by the time she got to her interview that she nailed it. And you know what else? Cutest, sweetest, least conceited person I ever met.

By not looking into that distorted mirror anymore, we free ourselves up to really look outward and see the wonderful world.

Deb: Beautifully said, Barb. This subject continues to amaze and shock me. Not only from the point of view of my own insecurities, but from those whom I deem wonderful and “worthy” of self-love.

Lately when I let thoughts of self-doubt and insecurity take up space in my brain, I say out loud, “Enough. Stop this, poison thought. Get out of my head.” If I do not say it out loud, for some reason it looms large in my psyche all day. So I totally get why the cute sweet gal did that. It works! And some days/weeks I don’t say it once and some days I say it ten times. I think my brain is shocked when I say it and it lays off.

My biggest surprise of late, much like the beautiful insecure stranger you met, was when I read Diane Keaton’s book. Oh my God, she is so insecure. I mean, soooooo insecure. And I thought, Really? YOU are Diane Friggin Keaton! But then I thought, “Yeah, but we see her from the outside and she sees herself from the in.”


Barbara: And here's another look at one of the best expressions of confident self-nurturing. Which, with its amazing spirit, made us all stop and watch and cheer.

Too Old To Swim????!

Barbara: I’m pretty flexible when it comes to other people’s opinions. I know they’re just that: OPINIONS. But sometimes an opinion gets so under my skin that I have to rant and rave for, like, five whole minutes. Start your timers, folks:

Okay, read this article—well, not really an article, more like an article blurb—in my paper the other day. Of course, it’s just an abbreviation of several other abbreviated articles of its ilk around the world. To wit: Hillary Moss of The Huffington Post at styelist riffs on it, as does Daily Mail Reporter at The Daily Mail UK (PS: Mr/Ms Mail Reporter, if that really is your name, I’m sorry it's such a pedestrian one, however, if this is the Daily Mail’s idea of attribution, it fucking sucks. Writers unite! Anyway…).

I couldn’t find the survey that they all quote, but apparently it was administered by Diet Chef, a diet service in the UK (and we all know how reliably relevant and important surveys administered by diet services can be). Well, Diet Chef interviewed 2000 women about their opinions on women of certain ages wearing certain clothes. Now, it’s possible we’ve all been guilty of, “She’s wearing that?!” at some point in our lives. But I have to say, it’s one of my least favourite of the womanly clichés.

Anyway, after interviewing these 2000 women, this survey feels compelled to make the following proclamations for aging women everywhere: No miniskirts after 35. No bikinis after 47 (is this my last bikini summer?!). No leggings after 37. No long hair after 53. No wearing trainers except for sports after 44. WTF?! Am I condemned to short hair because of my age??? And I might be grasping here, but aren’t the aging feet of older women––of all feet!––prime candidates for the support and comfort offered by a running shoe when they’re, say, going for a stroll or navigating the aisles of the supermarket (… unless these activities are considered “sport”. Then my bad.)

But the kicker? The unleasher of my wrath and fury? This decree:

No swimsuits after 61.

Yes, you read that right. No. Swimsuits. After. 61.

Do we hate ourselves so much, must we be so controlled and self-conscious and uptight, that we aren’t even allowed to SWIM!!! after a certain age?! Or perhaps these 2000 surveyees believe that if an older women absolutely MUST slip into that refreshing lake or pool, then she should do so only in the dead of night and only after donning a full body suit, thus avoiding egregious insult to the delicate vision of all youthful beings who inhabit the earth.

Makes me want to don thigh-high leather boots and a bikini top, throw a see-through blouse over it, brush my long hair into a ponytail and jump into the fucking lake.

‘Nuff said.

Deb: Deb: As I write this, I am piercing my naval with a bobby pin.

STOP THIS BULLSHIT. Everyone should stop doing it! But women especially. I heard a young girl last week say that it is gross to think of people over 50 having sex. Man, I was so sad to hear her say that. And now this BULLSHIT. People say “don’t revisit what you have worn any other decade.” It is a stupid rule for people who are afraid, for people who conform. Wear a hat full of red blooming roses with a peekaboo blouse. Or wear a sensible skirt and cashmere twin set. I DON”T CARE! But wear what makes you feel lovely and happy and damn everyone who says you can’t!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


PS Oh, and in case anyone missed it, we posted a new deco tip and recipe last Saturday!

Don’t Bring Me Down!

Deb: Recently a friend was talking about an aspect of her appearance that she hated, lamenting about it. I said that I didn’t agree as I thought she was lovely, which is true. She then said––referring to said appearance-challenge––that I should know what she means given that we share the same atrocity. 

Well, I don’t mind telling you that it bummed me out for a month. A full fucking calendar month … of a 31-dayer! Firstly, it bummed me because I DO NOT SHARE THIS ATROCITY WITH HER! And secondly because ... SHUT UP. Don’t suck me into your whirlpool of despair!

A few weeks later another friend was talking about one of our dear friends and her considerable talents. She said (referring to her own perceived lesser talent) that just like US (she and I), she was just not up to snuff in this particular talent-arena. This bummed me because number one, I DO NOT SHARE THIS LACK OF TALENT, and number two ... SHUT UP. Don’t suck me into your whirlpool of insecurity.

Misery adores company to be sure, but if you have issues, they are your issues. Attaching me to them won’t make your problems go away! All they will serve to do is either make me feel badly about myself or make me resent you for your lack of tact.

Oscar Wilde said, “It is not enough merely to succeed, my friends must also fail.” I do NOT subscribe to this theory. I cheer my friends. I support my friends. I talk my friends up! I network and name-drop my talented friends and try to work with them whenever I can. In fairness, my enemies can fail. Don’t care really. But ... it always pisses me off when I am sucked into the black hole of jealousy and insecurity that I didn’t sign up for!

So talk me up or leave me out. But as the song says, “Don’t bring me down. No, no, no. Don’t bring me down”!

Barbara: God yes, Deb! I have a loud enough inner-voice that has no problem pointing out all my ineptitudes, weaknesses, foibles, and failures. I don’t need a well-meaning friend to add to the chorus. Especially a “well-meaning friend”!

It’s like the pea in the princess’s bed. After you walk miles in the rain and finally collapse in relief atop a tower of feather-soft mattresses, there it is: the godforsaken pea. The test, the irritant, the destroyer of everything fought so hard for and preciously gained. And now your sweet sleep of self-esteem is totally screwed. 

We’ve been everything from “gossips” to “highly competitive” to “crazy spenders” (and a gamut in between). And sorry, but NONE of these things describes me either. Unless we’re talking about Scrabble with my sisters in the middle of a designer sample sale. Wait, what were we talking about?

Anyway, Deb, you and me and the readers of this blog and a bunch of other people, we’re totally awesome.