I feel like a chicken running around with no head, which I know isn’t true, because if it were, I wouldn’t have this goddamn (GOT DAMN) migraine.

Christmas came off pretty much without a hitch. Only one spoiled bratty hissy fit, which was easily solved. Of course my threat to donate the offending toy (a stuffed dog that was lying down instead of sitting up, and therefore "too flat") to needy children was completely useless. Instead, I found a way that she could get what she wanted that didn't feel like totally caving in the moment, but actually was. Ah, motherhood. I know I'm not fooling them, but sometimes it is better to fool myself, at least to get through the minute.

KNITTING JUNKIE

I am the laziest not lazy person ever. Even lying in bed is active for me, as I am constantly nursing, shifting kids around, answering questions, waking up to resolve issues with snoring, horizontal interlopers in the bed, and myriad other concerns that arise only at night. For example, my children don’t love to drink water. They will, but usually they prefer it flavored with lemonade powder, or they drink milk, because water has no taste and is therefore totally undesirable apparently. Until the sun goes down. Because then, the only thing stronger than their desire to drink tons of water, is their lack of desire to get up and fill up the bottle if it’s empty. But anyway, back to me. So, while I never really rest – ever – what makes me lazy is that all I usually WANT to do is watch television. I mean I want to do other things too, but I want to do them in front of the television.

So imagine my surprise last night when, awoken again, I had no desire to watch television. I wanted to read. So, I turned the light on low and read. Until my son woke up and said "Mommy, don’t read that book." In the interest of not arguing with a two year old in the wee smalls, I shut off the light, thinking he would just go back to sleep. And then he commanded "Mommy, don’t turn out that light." So, on with the light, down with the book. And, with mommy and the whole world safely secured under his adorable little thumb, my boy is able to go back to sleep. And I go back to reading. And then I decide that reading is keeping me awake, so I try to watch TV again. And I discover that a promising crappy show I have recorded is too stupid even for me to watch. So I watch the rest of it and delete it and swear never to watch it again.

And now I’m awake and I actually don’t want to watch TV and I don’t feel like reading, and I start to think about knitting. And I realize something. I am addicted to knitting. I’m like a knitting junkie. I can’t get enough. Of course, as a beginner, I don’t know enough to just take up random projects or make it work with the weird mishmosh of yarn I have accumulated (and which took me hours to sort out on Sunday). So, I’m lying in bed realizing that I don’t know enough to read a pattern that involves anything more complicated than things they just don’t write patterns for because they are so simple, that I have to return the eight knitting books I took out from the library on my four year old’s card so that she can take out more books for herself, that I don’t have enough of any single yarn I like to make anything good (even if I could somehow puzzle through the pattern), and that in the week since I have actually picked up knitting needles, my knitting-induced carpal tunnel has improved dramatically for the first time since, well, the last time I didn’t knit for a week. And I don’t care. Because I’ve got my knitting jones on. And when I’m not knitting, I’m thinking about knitting and the next time I’m going to knit and how I’m going to find time, and what I’m going to make, and what books I want, and I’m searching the internet for free patterns and thinking about knitting a baby hat and scarves, legwarmers, throw pillows, fingerless gloves with mitten flaps to pull over when it’s cold. I’m wondering how and where I’m going to scrounge yarn. I am a junkie willing to do anything it takes to get my fix. I am coming to understand that addiction starts out as a little nod to your creative other self and then you start to justify the inclusion of a passion in your life, and then, then it’s just you, fingering your yarn stash and wondering how wrong it would be to plug the kids into a move to get two hours of knitting time. I realize I’m a lost cause when I don’t want to teach my kids to knit, not yet, because right now it’s all mine. I’m bogarting the knitting.

And why not? Knitting is a noble art. Every time I learn a new stitch I marvel at the invention of such an art. Or a science. The two woven together into fabric. Knitting is the creation of women who used their brains and their creativity to clothe their families and create art at the same time. I yearn to stand in the shoes of the women who developed knowledge of fibers as though it were their birthright. And who continue to develop patterns and color and materials inventive ways to use their creations to warm, to protect, to beautify, to teach, to learn. So I will consider my addiction a small price to pay in order to claim my place in line. To honor the art, and maybe break off a little piece of it as my own, knowing that such pruning is what creates new life. How's that for justifying my addiction as good for all womankind?

THE KING IS DEAD (warning: a little sappy)

I'll be honest. As much as I wanted a little sweet bulldog puppy in theory, I was shamefully ill-prepared for the reality of owning one. Being newly pregnant in February of 1998, when we brought home his little two month old self, full of wrinkles and skunky puppy breath, and adorableness (him, not me), my tolerance was already limited to things that would not make me throw up or get off the couch. So already, things were not boding well for this little loud ball of energy with sharp teeth and the tendency to leave his poo in places you didn't really want poo to be. Not that you want poo anywhere, but given the option, under your bare foot or on your clean folded laundry are not usually up there near the top of the list.

Anyway, puppy energy notwithstanding, I really really liked Elvis. Jeff really loved Elvis. I eventually grew to love him, but it was more like extreme fondness on my part, not the adoration that Jeff felt for him. Elvis was really Jeff's dog. I was, more often than not, a means to getting fed, a hand to hold the leash, a voice to ignore or the source of an available limb to teethe on. Nevertheless, Elvis was one charming motherfucker. All smooshy and handsome and wrinkly. His dominion over things soft to lie down on was legend. His snore and grunt and ability to get ticks in his ears unequaled. I have never seen one dog win the hearts of so many people (even mine).

So, it was no surprise when Elvis, after being dogsat by friends during the birth of our second baby, caused those friends to be charmed into offering him a home, should he ever need one. The truth is, I was relieved. Elvis was still adorable and sweet, but he was big and heavy, and too much for me to handle with a toddler, a newborn, and a husband who worked nights. Also, it just wasn't fair to him. Elvis didn't ask for much. A pizza crust, more pizza crust, any other food product available, a scratch on the belly, a soft spot to lie down on, and company. We just weren't able to provide him the company he needed and deserved. So, we gave him up. We gave him to Michele and Brian, the kind souls without the distraction of tiny human beings all up in their grills, with loads of grass for Elvis to kill with his squat-like-a-girl peeing. Michele and Brian loved loved loved Elvis. They spent all day with him. He slept with them. They turned entire pieces of furniture over to his control. Michele and Brian routinely had Elvis' favorite brand of pizza crust to spare. Elvis was happy. Elvis deserved to be there.

Later, Elvis moved to perfect bulldog climate, Northern California, with Michele and Brian. And while we never actually saw him again, they sent pictures and news often and we always felt included in the big events of his life: he took over a new ottoman, he got a new cat brother, he liked his new lesbian dogsitters. He ate some more pizza crusts. We even got to see Elvis on TV when he was a contender in the World's Ugliest Dog competition (a great offense to my children who believed that never was there a more handsome doggie).

I am grateful for a lot of things in my life. I have, really, everything I need and a lot more. But one of the things I am most grateful for is that Elvis got to live the perfect bulldog life with Michele and Brian. They gave him love and attention and an ideal life we could not have mustered. Any guilt I felt about the enormous relief I had at giving Elvis up was ameliorated by the realization that the guilt was about me, and that this really was the best thing that ever could have happened.

Elvis died two weeks ago. His death was all it could have been, if it had to be at all. He died doing his favorite thing (sleeping), following a dinner of his favorite meal (Domino's pizza crusts) and with the people he loved most, and who loved him most in the world. Michele and Brian didn't have to make any hard choices and he wasn't sick or in pain. I am grateful for a lot this Thanksgiving. But especially I am grateful for this. And for Michele and Brian. And for Elvis. Long live the King.

GODDESS CHO

Margaret Cho is one of the few women who have attained goddess status in my brain. Reading her blog used to be a necessary ritual for the life of my brain. Now, while I read it less frequently, I am consistently impressed by her commitment to communicate what is important, and her ability to do so effectively.

And every Thanksgiving, I reread this, to keep my feet firmly planted on the blood-stained ground on which we all are lucky to be walking. I'm just posting the link. It's not for the faint of heart. Especially if you like stuffing and have a hard time losing unpleasant mental images:

http://margaretcho.com/blog/index.php/archives/2003/11/27/no-thank-you/

THINGS I BELIEVE

I believe in shaving my legs. I believe that most of the time when I try to combine textures that it doesn’t work. I believe that velvet is a hard material to pull off, but that that won’t stop me from trying. I believe that there is a fine line between taking care of yourself (moisturizer with sunscreen) and obsessing about taking care of yourself (face masks - come on, they really don’t matter and you can’t convince me that they do, they are just fun to wear and look in the mirror with and peel off if you have the peely off kind). I believe that hair, or lack thereof, is your most important accessory. I believe that people should pay more attention to the shape and color of their glasses (they are actually ON YOUR FACE and yes I can see them and the fact that they don’t go with your nose OR your shirt). I believe that, if at all possible, cars should match the house at which they park. I believe in changing purses often. I believe that I will eventually use all of the junk I have collected. I believe that being a passive aggressor hurts more than being a passive aggressee, although it is usually a two-way street and sometimes it does get you your way, you just don’t get to feel good about getting your way, so what’s the point? I believe that it is important to be liked, loved, and lusted after, and not necessarily in that order. I believe that a great sense of humor is a sign of the best kind of intelligence. I believe in jewish doctors. I believe that it is in fact possible to achieve world peace, but that everyone will have to listen to me and do exactly what I say in order to get there. I believe that it is impossible to be a capitalist and a humanist at the same time. I believe that no one has the right to decide who can or can’t set foot on any particular piece of dirt. I believe that life is too short to wear clothing that I don’t love or that doesn’t make me feel good. I believe that growing up without me is the worst thing that could happen to my kids. I believe that minivans are a secret weapon of the oil company designed to make men feel emasculated so that they will buy big gas guzzling trucks, SUVs and sports cars with uneconomical speed capabilities. I believe that making people feel guilty for throwing things away that could be recycled is ridiculous if we don’t first make corporations clean up their own pollution and mess. I believe that tolerance of violence is ruining the human race. I believe that people are basically good. I believe that consumerism is the other thing wrecking human beings. I believe that kids should learn to write in cursive even if they will never use it, or really paper at all, after 2015. I believe that music and art are at least as important as math. I believe that I’m usually right and people who disagree with me are usually wrong. I believe that I have a weird face. I believe that I would be happier if I were thinner. I believe that if celebrities want to be left alone, than they should decline the millions of dollars they get simply by virtue of being famous and choose a different life (it is possible to live quietly acting, singing or playing sports so that you can do what you love and still have a life, you just might not be rich and famous). I believe in spreading the wealth. I believe that most people believe they are entitled to things that they do not have, and that they are deluded about that. I believe that it sucks to get older. I believe in dressing boldly. I believe that I am mostly misunderstood, but that I could be wrong about that.

#3 of 3: MOMMY DRINKS

I found it!
I was in Border’s (evil, evil, I know, but it was for charity, really) and I was perusing the art section because I am extremely sophisticated and cultured. And I have been obsessed about finding this book I once owned about 1970s New York subway graffiti. Anyway. I happened upon a book. In Border’s, who’d have guessed it? Anyway. I happened upon a book called something like "NEW YORK STREET STYLE" about New York street style. And in it was a picture of Kate Young, a NYC stylist. Famous or something. Not that famous, because I’d never heard of her, but now that I’ve mentioned her here, I’m sure she’ll become the new IT girl of absolutely everything. Anyway, they had a picture of her. Bleached blond hair pulled back in a loose bun type thing. Decent looking well-fitting jeans with a slight flair. Black espadrille type things. A black top, stylish and not boring, also not boxy. And on top of that a leopard coat (faux, I presume), almost exactly like the vintage one I bought at Oona’s almost 20 years ago. Anyway, I kept coming back to her, out of all the cool funky looks in the book. And I was thinking that, not only do I actually dress like that (motorcycle boots instead of the espadrilles not withstanding), but she is about my age (she is actually 32, but that is my husband’s age, and I think it’s almost close enough to count), looks good and age appropriate. (The other one I kept checking out was a 9th grader in rainbow knee socks. See last entry). Anyway. I decided to read the miniview (short 4-question interview) with her. She was asked to describe her look and she responded that it was "Goth Victoriana Governess." Which I was like, "Oh, I know what that means. That means ‘I am totally into myself and using words that make me feel all hip and cool but are actually entirely without any meaning whatsoever, especially when mushed together and adding a’s to the ends of adjectives.’" So, I almost wrote her off as too pretentious, even for me, and then she said the words that showered gold upon my brain like tablet bits from Sinai after Moses got pissed. She said "Sometimes I look kind of ‘Mommy drinks.’" And I thought that’s it. That’s perfect. That’s my look. According to a Vanity Fair article about Kate, she likes Converse sneakers, red lipstick, and smart women. I think I’ll send Kate an email and thank her. And tell her that I will let her be my stylist if she wants.

#2 of 3: LOURDES LEON IS MY FASHION MAVEN

Anyone who knows me knows that I am the biggest Madonna fan ever. And, a few select people know that one of my most firmly held beliefs is that if Madonna and I ever met, we would immediately become fabulous friends. And even fewer people know (I only just told my husband a couple of years ago) that the reason my seven year old is named Lola is because I had a vision of taking my young child to the same playground where Madonna takes Lourdes, and, while pretending not to notice that they were there, I would start calling out to my daughter, and Madonna would think that I was calling her daughter and would get all "What the hell are you doing?" up in my face, and I’d explain, and we’d have a laugh and immediately become fabulous friends. I have been known to say, and to mean, that my dream job is organizing and answering Madonna’s fan mail. Because it is. And I would be amazing at that job, let me tell you.
And I was not a screaming teenager wearing lace bows in my hair and rubber bracelets. I was more in the Desperately Seeking Susan style camp - combining the lace, rubber, and leather with a punky sensibility that made it cool and not slutty. And the truth is that I dream of reinventing myself. Changing my look to suit my aesthetic and what I need to express at that moment. So I have always thought that Madonna is my fashion role model. And at one time, she definitely was. I mean, I went to Danceteria and got my hair cut at Astor Place and shopped on Canal Street back in the day. And, if I do say so myself, I think I made it work for me. I have just never been able to grown-uppify that look enough. Also, in my brain, when I am pulling it off, I am skinny. Outside my brain? Not so much.

And I have to confess that Madonna and I, where once were built similarly (by which I mean that I too was once young and fit and had a nice ass, not that our bodies looked anything alike), are not aging the same way at all. Both of us are now in our forties, but she is extremely lean and tight everywhere. I am not. I could not pull off what she wears, and her style now is so tuned to her body type, that it doesn’t even appeal to me in an emulating kind of way (although, at almost 50, what DOESN’T appeal about Madonna in a totally admiring kind of way).

Now, Lourdes is what, 10? 11? (I know, I should know all this, but I love her mom, I’m not some sick psycho stalker know-the-kids’-birthdays freak). And every picture I see of her? I am all "I want that jacket." or "I could totally pull that off. And then I’m all, "Uh, Jen? How about moving yourself back to the planet the rest of us live on and realizing that no, you can’t pull off the look of a gorgeous preteen celebrity’s kid with her own stylist and unlimited credit at every great store in the world." Did I mention that she is ten? Yes, I am so lost that I am seeking fashion inspiration from a ten year old. A gorgeous and fabulously dressed ten year old, but still. I really need to figure out how to dress myself. This is getting embarrassing.

#1 of 3: REFLECTIONS ON MY INABILITY TO DRESS MYSELF

For about the last year - during my approach and then landing into my forties -I have really been evaluating myself and my choices, examining the delicate balance that is my life, and trying to really connect to what is important to me and to figure out how to distinguish the important from the rest of the nonsense. And I have finally come to the crux of my inability to make peace with myself at this time in my life.

Life has peppered me with experience, not to mention self-help books, magazines with quizzes that will reveal the answers to every known difficult situation (not to mention what my kissing style is), respected elders, celebrity examples and finally the internet, which, somewhere, contains the correct answer to every question anyone could ever ask, and also never lies. These and all of life’s teachers have helped me go to law school, get a job, raise my kids, meet the right guy (with the right kissing style), and even find a car with acceptable safety lessons. But, I was still left with the same sense of having a question that I can’t put into words bouncing around in my gut, smacking itself up against my stomach lining. (Quick aside: When I was little, I thought that the inside of your body was this empty black space with a big tangle of veins that looked like multi-colored wires, and that your blood was an Oscar Meyer weenie whistle that traveled around your body tooting out little puffs of smoke). But now, I have finally figured it out. The reason. The source. The answer. The underlying issue. The problem. The source of my midlife neurosis. And here it is. I’m almost afraid to put it into writing, because then it will be real, and I will be at its mercy, and its power may well overwhelm me. But here goes.

I have no fucking idea how a forty year old woman is supposed to dress. Well, other forty year old women manage it just fine. For them. But what they wear doesn’t work for me. And since when am I too old to shop at the front of the store - where they keep they cute and fashionable clothing? I mean, it’s not that I am too old. I’m not. The other forty year old women walking around in their trendy peasant blouses and empire waist camisoles with their bra straps showing? THEY are too old. I, however, am not. I may choose not to wear that kind of thing, but it’s not like I would look like I was trying to be 24. I mean, I’m fine with the fact that no one really wants to see my midriff. I don’t even want to see my midriff, but a girl must shower. But since when am I too old to wear a jean miniskirt with funky striped tights? Since when do I look stupid in Doc Marten combat boots?

I get that, as a mother, certain things are inappropriate. I should not wear my "BAD MOTHERFUCKER" t-shirt to a fourth grade parent-teacher conference. I should not let my cellulite hang out of holes in the ass of my jeans. I should not throw on a black slip and call it a skirt. Ever. Similarly, as a professional, certain things are inappropriate. I should wear appropriate foundation garments. I should not wear ladybug socks with my pumps. I should not let the strap of a thong stick out of my waistline. I should never wear a thong. Ever.
But now that I’m forty, there are a lot of things that I shouldn’t wear that I don’t know about. In my mind, my chosen style is so not how I look on the outside. I think that, weighty matters aside, life, death, world peace, global warming, blahbedeeblahblahblah, my problem? Really? Is that my outsides have stopped matching my insides and I just don’t know what to do with that. In the interest of full disclosure, I must say that I have had problems with this before, even before the heinous decade commenced. I was body dysmorphic until I got pregnant for the first time. I would like awake in bed and not be able to tell how big my body was, or what shape it was, or what its proportions were. I would feel as though my feet were each about twice as long as they really are, and all blown up like blimps, and like the top of my was shrinking to the size of a dollhouse doll. Or that suddenly my arms were super long and my legs were super short. It’s like when you are lying on your bed and you close your eyes, or it’s pitch black, and you can’t figure out what direction you are lying in? Which way your head is pointing? But with your body parts. And I would have to get up and look at my body and turn on the light to assure myself that yes, I still had legs. And they weren’t displaying tire advertising on the sides.
Now I feel like that, but with my clothes. It’s like I can still put together an outfit, but I can’t seem to make it match with the way I feel about myself and the way I want the world to see me. I still want to wear what I can’t get away with, except that I don’t want to wear what will make me look ridiculous. I mean, even if I had the body I had at 23, it still wouldn’t be okay to dress the way I did when I was 23 (I don’t even own a bustiere anymore). And how much of getting away with something is really just wearing it without apology? And how much of wearing something without apology is really just going to make me look like I’ve gone and got my aging brain addled up prematurely?

In my quest to figure it out, I have actually bought magazines that I would never buy because they promised to tell me how to dress in "Fantastic Looks for [My] 20s, 30s, and 40s." According to the magazines, I am apparently supposed to be dressing in "super chic" silver tailored tops with big silver bows on the big round neckline that can "add a little glam" to my jeans or go from "office to dinner" merely by adding or subtracting a little black jacket. Seriously. A silver fucking tailored shirt with a big neck and a big bow. A bow. For those of us who, apparently, never got over the fact that no, we were not the next Shirley Temple. I guess everyone in their forties spends their lives flitting from upscale lunch date in dress jeans and absurdly pointy-toed shoes to cocktail function at the Museum for the major donors.
Work isn’t the big problem. I would love to look a little bit more chic and pulled together, but I sit in an office and don’t talk to anyone, so I can’t get all sweaty about it. Life is the problem. I showed up at my fourth grader’s pre first day of school ice cream social to meet a bunch of families I’d never met. Apparently, no one sent me the memo that said I needed a blonde bob and a Lily Pulitzer skirt, accessorized with a blonde daughter in a pink skort (half skirt, half shorts, the centaur of preteen fashion). I was proud of myself for actually changing the t-shirt I was wearing with my cutoffs (down to just above my knees, I’m not a total idiot about this stuff) and converse (not the high tops). Still, I felt underdressed to go to a playground on a Sunday afternoon. I know, I’m scratching my head too. Long jeans that are appropriately low slung, however, with a more stylish t-shirt would have been fine. If it were tucked in. If I didn’t still carry evidence of my fourth pregnancy around my midsection like it was jewelry and I was on the Titanic. If I had a belt that fit. If I had the right shoes.

I’ve tried to dress earthy. I’ve tried urban chic. I’ve tried retro vintage (hey, it worked when I was an outcast in high school in the 80s, why not now?). Apparently, no one thinks my Mao military bag is cute anymore. Apparently, such things "offend" "people." People can bite me. I’m starting to suspect that all of that time I spent looking for one of those gray Army binocular bags with the black numbers on it was wasted.

I’ve tried to get advice from friends. My friend Liz suggested finding a celebrity style role model. Well, much as I love Madonna, she just kind of dresses ugly these days. And Kyra Sedgwick in The Closer is a little bit too floral rayon dress for me. And while there are lots of folks who look fabulous, none have given off a style aura that speaks to me in a way that demands imitation. Which undoubtedly says more about my discomfort with my own inner forty year old more than it does my true opinion of what the stars are wearing. I’m not a celebrity. Things aren’t always perfectly tailored or pressed in my life. I’m not a size 0. So, while I can admire Bebe Neuwerth’s show-stopping legs and Madonna’s not-falling-down-her-legs-at-all yoga ass, it’s just not me.
Where does all this angst leave me? With the same closet full of hand-me-downs from my mother and thrift shop finds I had before I wrote it down and made it real. And while I may no longer be adorable in a bowling shirt, and while I still fantasize about finding a perfect Public Image Ltd. t-shirt on eBay that will make me look like I should be dating Sid Vicious (the pre-death version of Sid) but dumping him because I’m better than all that, at least I know that I know that I have to mourn the end of my cuteness. Because really what it is, is that even if I think that I’m the exception to every rule and that it really might work on me? It doesn’t. Most days I figure that out before I actually get out the door and too far down the road to have it be an option to turn around and take off the flared jeans with the just-a-little-too-big flare.
Of course, that leaves me wondering if I will have to settle for appropriate but not self-actualizing clothing, now that I am a woman of a certain age. And I will continue to hope for the Goodwill find that will pull my whole signature look together. And if I find that gray binocular bag, I will undoubtedly buy it and wear it. Or it will sit in my house with all of the other bags that I will definitely wear until it comes time for me to put my fashion risk where my mouth is, and I realize that I can’t possibly leave the house carrying a metal lunch box with a biohazard sign on it as a purse. Or maybe I can. Or I could. If it fit my Zoloft bottle, which it doesn’t.

So, I try to piece together a personal style. I try to trust the voice in my head that tells me when I can’t get away with something. I try not to trust the voice in my head pushing me to try to get away with something that I shouldn’t. At least, instead of spending my time congratulating myself on being the only forty year old in the world who really can get away with a plaid mini, knee socks and a ripped up black t-shirt with combat boots, I spend my time wondering how my lack of authentic personal style reveals my own lack of a sense of who I have become. I don’t want to reinvent myself, I just want to figure out what the hell to wear that will, without a word, tell the world that while I’m sophisticated, experienced and wise, that I am self-assured, funny, charismatic, uniquely irreverent, and, of course, possessed of excellent taste. And that I don’t look a day (or a pound) over what I looked like at 29.