As seen through the eyes of my iPhone…

{Sand between our toes}

{The cast of characters}

{Appetizers and wine~aka dinner }

{Laugh Out Loud! Little Old Ladies! Lots of Love! Love Our Life! Lollygagging!}

{Homage to the ocean}

{A beautiful mess}

{Just plain silly}

{It always pays to look up, especially when you’re

under a beautiful chandelier}

{Portrait of a happy hour, before going out to celebrate a special birthday}

{The Birthday Princess}

{The Birthday Girl crown}

{The Birthday Cake~aka Lemon Meringue Pie}

{Scenes from a stroll around town}

{Downtown Dog}

{Fresh blooms}

{Beautifully painted blooms}

{Breakfast (OJ and frothy latte) Lunch (Chardonnay) Dinner (Martini)}

{Peaceful Morning}

{These boots are made for shoppin’)

 {From eyes to mouth to thighs}

{Love your life…}

{Our future’s so bright, we gotta wear shades}

*****

Disgusted by my discovery in the OJ department, I headed over to the cereal aisle. The word “real,” I discovered, is way overused.  I came away wondering if Honey Bunches o’ Oats has any honey in it. And what really comprises their ”oats”? Sawdust? Are the “red berries” in Special K  just shredded cardboard chunks saturated with Red Dye #2? Ewwwwww.

Don’t get me started.

Okay. Get me started…

“Are they real?” That’s what I asked my friends as we walked past an attractive,  long-legged, too-perky-to-be-true breasted 30-something last weekend. When I saw Christie Brinkley on TV recently, I wondered if that was all her real hair. Because it was way too full and fluffy and thick and lustrous to be on the head of someone over 50.  And then — get this – I saw an ad for “Booty Pads.” Really?

So I guess that’s part of our reality these days — wondering if derrieres are really that rounded and pert, if teeth are really that perfect and white, if hair, breasts, lips, and even our tans, are…real.

And what about when I was on the phone with United Airlines last week? Was the

United agent really sitting in America…or the Phillipines?

I mean, Beyoncé didn’t really sing the National Anthem on Inauguration Day.

Poor Manti Te’o. He didn’t even fall in love with a real person.

And Lance Armstrong didn’t really (legitimately, honestly) win all those Tour de France’s.

As for Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson, sadly, they’re deceased. I know the impersonators are laughing all the way to the bank, but I really wish they’d stop acting like they’re the real thing, when clearly they’re just Great Pretender Wannabe’s.

Perhaps the mother of all un-realness, though, is Las Vegas. They have a faux Venice, a pretend Paris, a counterfeit New York, and a bogus New Orleans. It’s all smoke, mirrors and fakery. Why can’t you just be yourself, Las Vegas — an American getaway destination, an entertainment oasis in the middle of the desert?

When Chuck and I were in Grand Cayman, I was trying to decide which flip-flops to buy.  Not a big deal, right? But the salesperson was pushing the Havaiana brand. “They’re made from real Brazilian rubber!” As if that made them infinitely more desirable and valuable. (Okay. I’m a sucker. I did buy the Havaianas.)

And the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Are you kidding me? First of all, most of them aren’t even wives anymore, as they’ve long since divorced. Their faces aren’t real either.  They’re made of synthetics, molded, sculpted and crafted by the finest plastic surgeons money can buy.  Calling them the real housewives is like calling me The Real Best Cook of Gold River. It just isn’t true.

The only thing real  about reality TV is the obscene amount of money made by the producers and cast…at the expense of our easily influenced, impressionable youth.

Let’s keep it real. Please!

Well, except for some things…

I’m guilty of being sucked into the fray.  For many, many, many years,  I’ve paid many, many, many dollars to make my hair look like it was really sun-kissed, like my life is spent cavorting on sunny, sandy beaches — when in reality I’m now just a middle-aged frumpish housewife trying futilely to cover up my mousy dark blonde and gray hair.  As for my “tan,” I have Jergens Natural Glow foaming moisturizer to thank for that. And I often wear my “fake pony” — a wonderful, synthetic, thick, fat ponytail that I just clamp onto the back of my head. (There. True confessions. Feels good to get that off my 34A real chest.)

Okay. So I have a question for you.  Are these images (below) photos or paintings?

They’re paintings, by New Realism artist Christopher Stott.  Realism at its very, very,  honest-to-goodness best. (If you want to see his work in person, go to Elliott Fouts Gallery in Sacramento. Truly worth the visit!)

*****

So is our life a sequence of little white lies and falsehoods?  Is our everyday world filled with mini-untruths and distortion? I think so. Do I like it? Not at all. But as of right now, it’s our reality. For reals.

I say we now, together, start a new movement:  NO MO’ FAUX! Let’s go back to keeping it real.

And all I can think about is, this time last week, the victims and injured from the Boston bombings and the West, Texas explosion were enjoying their Saturday night, feeling the warmth, beauty and promise of an early Spring weekend.

“You just never know.” “Life can change in the blink of an eye.” ” There but for the grace of God go I — or my loved ones.”  How many times have you said, heard or thought that this week?

From Boston to Texas, evil, destruction, anger and tragedy raised its ugly head. Again. And I, like you, am very sad about it all.

Personally, the terror in Boston hit very close to home. Literally.  Our long-time friends’ and neighbors’ daughter, Jessica, was at the finish line where and when the first bomb went off.  Jessica and Patrick, newly wed last summer, runners themselves, were cheering on friends, rooting for the Human race and the American way. They both lost their left legs below the knee. They’re both still in the hospital. They’ve got a long road ahead.  They need our prayers and support. But they will survive and flourish.

The images of grace and giving and the stories of compassion and sympathy, though, have trumped the repulsiveness, horror and evil.

A citizen handing out OJ to traumatized runners. A police officer carrying a victim to medical care.  Neighbors consoling one another. An evening vigil, and a wish for Peace. A makeshift memorial.

Ain’t that America?

When Jessica’s family took the red-eye to Boston Monday night, they were accompanied by the neighborhood’s collective thoughts, prayers and well wishes for their Jessica and Patrick. Of course. When we awoke the next morning, we were touched and struck, but not surprised, by the fact that the family had left town for an unknown, indefinite period of time… but not before hanging the American flag in their front yard.

An amazing family facing the height of adversity. And they proudly fly the American flag.

Ain’t that America?

So Janet, a kind friend and thoughtful neighbor, suggested we all hang our flags (like we did post 9-11) in our front yards as a show of solidarity, to support in absentia Jessica and Patrick on the other side of the country, to emulate what this family-in-trauma had done. And then the next day, there were Tony and Zack, each pulling a wagon filled with American flags, diligently hanging an American flag on each and every light pole in our Gold River community.

{One of the many flags hung in Jessica’s and her family’s honor in our neighborhood.}

Ain’t that America?

As news spread about “one of our own” being affected by the Boston jerks/radicalists, everyone that I encountered, to a person,  felt impotent and frustrated, not knowing how to help. “What can we do?” “How can we help?”

{Patrick and Jessica Kensky Downes)

As of this moment, $560,355 has been raised for Jessica

and Patrick. And that’s just one fund! Another fund has been set up by a close friend of the family, Leslie Kelly. If you want to give, go to any Wells Fargo Bank in the country and donate to the “Patrick and Jessica Kensky Downes Recovery Fund.” 100% of the proceeds go directly to them. $5, $10, $100 or more, it all adds up. Every single penny will be needed for this young couple to get the requisite future surgeries, rehabilitation, counseling and lifelong medical care that lie ahead.

And there are funds set up to give to all of the other victims as well, who are in need of monetary help just as much as Jess and Patrick are.

Donate. Give back. Care.

Ain’t that America?

So they captured “Suspect #2″ (he’s not worthy of my mentioning his name) last night. He’s in serious condition. I hope he survives —  not so he can ever enjoy a Saturday night like so many victims did last Saturday night — but so he can be grilled and interrogated and tortured (there, I said it) by our professionals, our experts, so we can perhaps learn more as to how and why this repugnance, maliciousness and malevolence comes to be.

There’s a size XXL spot in my heart for all law enforcement, as my father was an LA cop and an investigator for the DA’s office. Now?

It’s even  larger. The Boston PD, the FBI, the ATF, the military and other agencies put the city on lockdown, had four sleepless nights and worked countless, round-the-clock hours. But they got their guy!

{Relief, exhaustion and jubilation.}

And the community, the country, the world celebrated!

{Go America!}

 {Go Boston!}

So yeah, it’s been an awful week. Lives and limbs were lost. Optimism and joie-de-vivre took a big hit. Our collective hearts skipped several beats. Tears were shed. Anger, disgust and sorrow were expressed.

But resolve, tenacity and love of country will prevail.

I mean…

Ain’t that America?!

So I was a nervous wreck. I was full of trepidation, atwitter with anticipation. I felt like I was going on a blind date or something. After the initial hug and “Omigosh, you look exaaaactly the same!”  (don’t we all say that to each other?), would the silence be deafening and painful?

Because I mean, we weren’t like BFF’s in high school. But we were in a couple of classes together, and we were each on the periphery of the other’s clique/bubble/circle of friends. You know what I mean?  Do you remember that girl from high school that you, like, never had over for a slumber party, never went shopping for prom dresses with, who wasn’t a part of your inner circle, but who you really, really admired and liked from afar?  Well, Therese was that girl  for me.   

So the doorbell rang. I opened the door. We shrieked in unison. We squeezed each other tightly. I said, “Omigosh, you look exaaactly the same!”  (which she pretty much did, actually). Okay. This was gonna be awesome. I knew immediately that there would be zero awkward moments between us.

I said, “Seriously. Let me look at you!” We then headed right to the mirror in my living room and happily, unabashedly, compared our 38-years-later selves.  I was the blue ribbon winner.  Yep, I won in all categories: biggest thighs, yellowest teeth, and most lines and bags.

But all that mattered

not a scintilla. For we had a lot of catchin’ up to do.

{“Reunited…and it feels so good.”}

So I first showed her one of her works of art, an original Therese Fowler Bailey, (yep, she’s a well-known, prolific, talented artist. Google her name and see for yourself), now proudly hanging in my dining room! And then I introduced her to my 24-year-old Cassidy (who is six years older than we were when we last spent time together. Surreal, truly.) We next headed to

the local Gold River Starbucks…where we commenced Part 1 of what will surely be a 12-part series of rehashing the past almost-four decades.

My life? It reads like a boring textbook: 1.0 husbands. 2.0 children. 3.0 Kenmore washing machines. Living the quintessential suburban life. (Wake up! I know you’re bored.)

Her life? It reads like a dramedy: Worthy of many exclamation points (!!!!!), packed full of real-life stories, virtual roller-coasters, and colorful humor.

“Do you remember reading those articles about me back in the Eighties?” she asked (but not in a braggy sort of way at all.)

“Nooooo. What? What are you talkin’ about?”

Here’s the deal:  Many news outlets throughout the state wrote about my then uber-pregnant friend, as her baby boy, Blake, was one of the first test-tube babies born in California! Big news back then…as well it should have been. He’s a robust, healthy, good-looking, late 20′s guy now, the apple of her (gorgeous) eye(s).

Okay. And then the conversation wended its way to the Porterville peeps of our past.  Therese stayed in town quite a bit longer than I did, so she had a lot of the nitty-gritty scoop. Not gossip, mind you, just accurate, historical, truthful, honest scoop. 

Our fellow classmates were, it seems, now scattered hither and yon, a lot of them settling in various locales —  the East Coast,  Europe, Africa, in a trailer on the outskirts of town.  A couple of them, as it turns out, ran for office (and won!); several successfully ran their own businesses; and one or two were…run out of town. 

And of course it wouldn’t be a real heart-to-heart if we didn’t discuss our friends who had fought their fair share of battles — of the bulge, of the bottle, of cancer — and had come out victorious; and one or two who had fought the battle of their own demons, and lost.

We also commiserated and complained about those schleps from the Class of ’75 who never go to a reunion, never send a Christmas card, never call out o’ the blue, never email, and never go on Facebook.  Shame on you!

Which reminds me: This blog post, this wonderful rediscovery of a long lost hometown friend, was made possible by FACEBOOK!  That’s how Therese and I found each other after all these years. I hereby profess my love and devotion to Facebook…which I check about nine times a day. (Shhhhhh. Please don’t tell my husband.)

Below is what Therese sent me a few weeks after we ‘Friended’ each other on FB.  Someone, long ago, Graduation Day, June of 1975 to be precise, snapped this pic, which I’ll treasure forever…

{T is in the foreground. I’m to her right as you look at the pic.}

(Check out our Sbicca shoes! Remember those? I want hers!)

*****

So there we sat at Starbucks, sippin’ our lattes, relishing the moment, happily digging into our past.

Krista, Joey, Becky, Steve, Kit, Greg, Rich, Julianne, Cameron and Felipe (and many more): Were your ears burning a few Fridays ago? ‘Cuz they should have been. ‘Cuz we were talking about you all — reliving moments spent on Main and Olive, or Pizza Barn, or at Jamison Stadium, or at The Porter Theatre,  or (ahem) in a certain car in a certain orange grove/overlooking a certain lake.

We chatted about the ties that bind — the love and pride of our beloved hometown that many of us left behind, the part we played in the rich history of PHS, and the fact that no one can ever take away those cherished memories of the simpler, less complicated times of our lives.

(Sheesh. I’m getting dewy-eyed.)

So our four-hour fun Friday friend-fest came to an end.  But not without knowing that this was only the beginning of a renewed, reinvigorated and, shall we say, ’more mature’ friendship.

Here’s cheers to at least 38 more years.

(By the way, when is our next class reunion?)

So the birds are chirping, my backyard is coming back to life, my eyes are puffy, and my nose is itchy.  It’s that time of year when the strawberries are plump and plentiful, and “Sunshine on My Shoulders Makes Me Happy” is more than a song. It’s Spring ~ when J Crew, Banana Republic, and Target beckon, and my Boden catalog yells at me to buy, buy, buy — which I undoubtedly will.

‘Tis the season, also, where I like to act like I’m a seasoned stylist and fashionista. Seasoned, I am. Stylist, not so much. But I like to pretend.

Here’s what I’ve culled from perusing the latest issues of a bunch of different magazines.

COLOR!!!  

From neon to jewel tones to pastel, anything goes!

 And GREEN  reigns supreme as the #1 color of 2013!!!

PETAL PUSHERS!!!!

Everything’s in full bloom…

CUT IT OUT!!!!!!!

(I’ll do the handbag. My daughters can do the dresses.)

~~~LAVENDER LIDS ~~~

(I think I’ll pass on this one.)

*** BLOCK HEEL SANDALS ***

(A must-buy…if you ask

In a CLUTCH? Try one of these. 
Love ‘em…..

The LACEY days of Spring… 

 I don’t often get beyond excited. But when I do…

I get beyond excited for

SPRING shopping.

ENJOY!!!

A lot has been going on: BIG LIFE PICTURE stuff — Cassidy moving to Portland and starting a new job; Julia a short six weeks away from graduating from college! FUN stuff — connecting with a high school friend I hadn’t seen in 38 (yes, 3-8!) years; going to Grand Cayman with Chuck. And the EVERYDAY microcosm-of-life stuff – getting mammograms and bone-density scans; and dealing with our 14-year-old Mia dog…who has become bowel-incontinent…at like 3:50 a.m…all over my sisal rug.

So I  spent this past weekend thinking to myself that maybe I

just won’t blog anymore.  There is a lot of self-inflicted stress and angst that comes with writing and then ultimately pressing that “Publish” button.  It does take up quite a bit of time. And then all that self-doubt raises its ugly head: Did I offend anyone? TMI (too much information)? Will my daughters disown me?

By about 4:30 Saturday afternoon, I had decided: I was done blogging.

But then…but then, I thought, What would those thousands of readers do

without my 4-6 posts per month? Answer: Not a thing.  Because there are not thousands (not even close). You know who you 12 readers are.

And then I had a heart-to-heart with ‘me-self.’ Here’s the deal: Writing is my therapy, my escape, my much-needed happy place.  Even if it ranges from really-really-really bad to not-too-bad writing,  I’m going to continue blogging.

So as I sit here blank-staring into the abyss that is my computer, having trouble putting words to proverbial paper, acknowledging that I’ve fallen off the horse (or wagon or bicycle or whatever your cliché), I’m determined and relieved to get up, brush myself off, get back on, and ride (write)!

And I thank you very, very much for reading my ramblings.

“Come on!” he said.  “When in Rome…”

I acquiesced. Chuck “won” that one.

So we took off walking from the hotel. After about 65 seconds, a Caymanian bus beeped its horn. “Come in! Come in!” said a not-in-unison, collective group of unrestrained, enthusiastic voices. I mean, that bus was jam-packed. There couldn’t possibly be room for two more humans.

“Baby, we can’t. It’s too crowded. Look in there,” I whined.

“Oh, get in! It’ll be fine.”

So we did… And it was…

We climbed up and in, then over backpacks, luggage and who-knows-who-or-what else. The bus then screeched away from the side of the road onto the main thoroughfare. And thus began our Caribbean adventure, an evening of what I swear was the universe reminding us of what a beautiful, glorious hot-but-wonderful-mess of a melting pot in which we live.

Chuck sat next to AJ,

an adorable, talkative 6-year-old local boy.  Oh how I wished I would have brought my purse, because he so wanted an “American  piece of gum.”

I sat next to two 20-something girls from Austria, who had just come from Cuba, who were then on their way to Boston before heading back home. Confused? So was I. But they were so sweet — and clearly having the time of their lives.

Then in front of us sat a couple from Nova Scotia who was visiting their daughter, who had been working as a waitress in Aruba and was now working at the Ritz Carlton on Grand Cayman.  (Good gigs, no?)

We finally, safely, happily arrived at the Cracked Conch…

…and the sipping, savoring, moon-basking and dining began, under the stewardship of our darling, attentive waitress Sandra, from Sweden,  who introduced us to her “assistant” with dark skin, a superbly square jaw, and smoldering eyes  – whose name I cannot for the life of me recall right now — from Barcelona! (I won’t tell you the trashy novel I wrote about those two – Ms. Sweden and Mr. Barcelona – in my mind.)

And then a sixsome took up residence at the rather large table to our left. Chuck and I were on a worldly roll here, wondering from which faraway  locale they hailed. We listened, leaned in and eavesdropped…and heard them tell their waitress they were from Iowa.  Wa-wa-waa. (No novel, trashy or otherwise, could be conjured up.) (And I’m sure they would have said the same about us.)

“Hello — is it Chuck?! Jodie?! We met on Monday, right?”

There was Joey, a Londoner of Lebanese descent who we had met a few nights before at our hotel. He was one of the top producers this year at Chuck’s company. (Just ask him, he’ll tell ya.) Very nice, very vivacious, very… self-assured.   

“Oh, hi Joey. Yeah! Chuck and Jodie,” Chuck said. “Good to see you again.”

He spent the next seven minutes telling us all about his day: smoking Cuban cigars and drinking 50-year-old French wine on a 75-foot German-built yacht with a friend from Turks and Caicos who he had met through his hedge-fund manager friend in Dubai. (You want to hear more details about his day? Just ask him, he’ll tell ya.) 

He asked, “Are you guys staying on here in the Islands after the meetings? My wife and I are. We’d love to get together!”

“Shoot. No,” I said. “We’re going back home, to Sacramento.” Wa-wa-waa.

So after an enjoyable, delectable repast, we paid our bill, headed out to the front of the restaurant, and ordered a taxicab. (Too late in the evening to gamble with the bus thing.) And that’s when we met Sergei and Lynn — Sergei with longish, dark wavy hair, tall of stature, with a swagger in his gait and a cigarette in his hand (but in that sexy European sort of way).  Lynn? Ample-hipped, button-nosed,  lily-white skin, with a non-assertive brown ponytail and wearing a just-this-side-of-matronly sundress.

We decided we’d share the taxicab ride and fare back to our respective hotels. Yay! We’d get the scoop on this mysterious duo.

“Okay. Where are you from?” I asked Sergei. ‘Cuz I just knew when he opened his mouth, he’d emit an exotic, thick, sultry, accented voice.

“Oh, me?  I’m from Russia.”  (I wish I could write with a Russian lilt and cadence right now.)

“Oh, that’s cool! And where are you from, Lynn?”

“I’m from Nebraska.”

“Seriously!!!?” I cackled. I could not help myself.

The pieces still just did not fit.  Why/how were they together? And what  was their relationship?

After further inquiry, we learned more fun facts about this seemingly incongruous coupling:

So they were in Grand Cayman for the wedding of their Brazilian friends.  And yes, they were

indeed a couple. An engaged couple! They’re both medical doctors. Pathologists! They met while doing their fellowships at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles.  Lynn went to medical school at Stanford;  he went to Harvard.  (What big fat, juicy, robust brain cells they have, eh?) They’re now co-habitating in LA as they happily plan their wedding, which will probably take place in Michigan.

Okay. So I was way wrong. Opposites do attract. And you can’t tell a book by its cover. After talking with them for 15 minutes, I was convinced they were a perfect couple and will have a long and happy life together.

The taxicab dropped us off at the hotel. We bade our newfound BFF’s (whom we’d never see again) adieu, wished them luck, and headed to the bar for a little nightcap to celebrate their pending nuptials, where we then met some fellow Empty Nesters… from Australia. 

*****

One day. One small island. A couple of Canadians, two Austrians, a Swede, a Spaniard, six Iowans, a Brit, a Russian, a Nebraskan, a couple of Australians, and two Sacramentans. One small, wonderful world.

I think melting pots are just so cool.

Following is kind of a combination of pearls of wisdom/a to-do list/sage advice to all of you now living out your glorious Thirties.

~~~~~

Go put on your bikini, however skimpy. Now go parade around in it…on a busy street…in a crowded bustling metropolis if you feel like it. Because nothing will jiggle, sway or droop. And you will gross out nobody.

Then go take a gander in the mirror, under that horrid and cruel fluorescent lighting. Your face will look dewy and smooth and creamy and tight. Because it is.

Do you have a big fat ponytail? Rejoice in it. Because there will be a

day when your hair thins and your pony becomes puny, frithy and pithy.

And feel free to put on those extra skinny low-cut jeans. Because goodness knows the only muffin-top you have to worry about now is whether to eat the top off that third banana nut muffin you just enjoyed.

Which reminds me…after eating that third muffin, feel free to indulge in a rather  large bowl of ice cream… or cherry pie… or massive hunk of sourdough bread — or whatever your edible guilty pleasures are. Because we both know that your metabolism hasn’t even begun to think about slowing down. (Yes, you’re a brat.)

Do you like to jump rope for exercise? Go for it! Jump high, energetically and often.  Enjoy hearty laughing and profuse sneezing now also. Because one day, your bladder will leak profusely. (No matter how many Kegels you do.)

Did you not get enough sleep last night? Poor dear.  Out too late? Was your child up all night vomiting? Not to worry. You still look bright-eyed and well-rested this morning.

And don’t worry your pretty little head about consuming too much salt or soy sauce…or drinking that extra glass of wine. Your eyes won’t look puffy and swollen in the a.m. (Brat.)

Go to J Crew. Today. Buy the cutest, shortest skirt on the rack. Because with each passing year, your thighs will get cottage-cheesier and cottage-cheesier, and your skirts will get longer and longer. (Sigh.)

After you go to J Crew, stop by Lululemon. Buy one of those darling headbands. Wear it! Wear it often and proudly and tightly! Because there will come a day when you will not want to flaunt your forehead in public. (Did you really think Michelle Obama got bangs just for the fun of it?)

And speaking of white teeth,  display them proudly. Smile a lot. Eat a lot of spinach.  (Aka: Don’t worry about certain foods sticking to your tartar-covered teeth.)  And don’t fret about those you’re-the-only-one-in-the-pic-that-has-yellow-teeth future photos of yourself. Because your teeth are bright, white and beautiful right now.

Got menstrual cramps? (Oh puhlllllease…) Revel in them. Because, sadly, one day you won’t have them anymore

Do you have your annual Pap smear appointment next week? (Cry me a river…) Be grateful for those doctor visits. Because, woefully, your eggs will one day become all shriveled up,  and you’ll need Paps only once every three years.

And if you think hot flashes and night sweats only apply to out-of-shape ladies like your great-aunt Edna, you’d be wrong. So very wrong…

Do you like deep-V or scoop necklines? You go, Girl. The lower, the scoopier, the better. The decade will come soon enough when it becomes imperative that you creatively yet effectively hide your once-flawless decolletage.

And are you tired of having to shave your legs, like, every day? Do not complain. Because when you get to be my age, the hair on your legs grows very slooowly, if it all.  But you’ll still need your razor… to shave your beard and mustache.

Speaking of legs, love and nurture

those long, tanned appendages right now. Just don’t freak out when several years from now you get little white spots/dots on your limbs. They’ll be there to stay.  (It’s called “hypopigmentation.” Comes with age.)  Whatttttever.

Look lovingly upon your lithe, long fingers. Because they will turn pudgy some day. Pinky-swear.

And lastly, don’t forget to — um — shoot. I forgot. Oh, yeah… Appreciate your ability to multi-task and remember the myriad things you have to do and places you have to go. Because some day you will become forgetful, and you will have to make lists for absolutely everything.

Perhaps most importantly, and what applies to us all, no matter what our age? Live today to the fullest. Because these are  the good ol’ days.

~~~~~

Now quit rolling your eyes,  get your nose out of the air and wipe that smirk off your face, Missy.  Because in seemingly the blink of an eye, you too will be 55, sitting at your computer, blissfully, selfishly, reflectively and therapeutically dispensing advice to all of the 30-year-olds out there — who are now like 12-years-old!

Trust me: That ‘Aging’ train’s a-comin’, and it’s a-comin’ fast… right at you.

From the Rachael Ray Show and Dr. Oz (which I think should now be called The Diet Show), to ads on TV, to magazines, to Barnes and Noble, where ‘everybody” has a diet book — Shred, The Virgin Diet, The Green Drink Diet, Practical Paleo, Wheat Belly, the 17-Day Diet — it’s overwhelming, and annoying. And confusing.

Last week I was told by one guy on one show that you should mix it up and eat different foods every meal, every day. And then on another show,  a self-proclaimed diet expert espoused the virtues of eating the same foods at the same time every day, as often as possible. Which is it, People?

Now, I’ll be the first to tell you what I’m not. I’m not a nutritionist, or a dietician. I’m not a physician. (Actually, I suck at all-things Science.)  I’m definitely not  thin. And I ‘m not, unfortunately, Joy Bauer, that darling, fit and trim, knowledgeable Today Show nutrition guru.

But…I am an expert at one thing: My body. We’ve been together for 55 years, through thick and thin, my body and me. We’ve gone a lot of wonderful places, seen a lot of beautiful sights, done a lot of extraordinary things, and eaten a lot of yummy foods.  And we’ve tried a lot of diets – The Grapefruit Diet, The Atkins, The Pritikin. (If you’re too young to have even heard of these, you’re a brat.)

About 10 years ago, I came up with a non-scientific, tried-and-tested, common-sensical, easy and inexpensive diet, that works! The ELMM Diet.  As in  Eat   Less   Move   More. 

To prove to you how much I believe in the ELMM, here’s a pic of the dog-eared, weathered and worn sign that’s been hanging on our garage fridge for at least the last seven years:

EAT LESS:  I’ve been guilty of convincing myself that “a calorie is a calorie is a calorie.” Which is so not true. Some calories burn off more slowly than others, so that when you MOVE MORE, it’s kinda futile.

So eat real  food. If it came out of the ground (UNembellished with sauces, dressings or that god-awful mayonnaise), or it’s from an animal that ate what came out of our God-given ground or ocean, you’re good! And if you think you can’t get enough of a good thing, you’re wrong. Do not overeat!

And by the way, you can’t do one without the other.

You must also MOVE MORE. And don’t kid yourself. Parking as far away from the grocery store entrance three days a week does not qualify as moving more. Nor does walking your dog to the mailbox and back every day.  You know exactly what you need to do. Perceived exertion is important: Did I get my heart rate up? Did I sweat? Did I give it my all?

If you consume all those healthy, real food calories, and then MOVE MORE, you will burn them off.  And for those who aren’t really into the exercise thing (yet!), you’ll soon find that the MORE you MOVE, the MORE you MOVE. Honestly.

I promise you that if you do, indeed, EAT LESS and MOVE MORE, as a way of life, you will start losing those l-b’s –  slowly, surely and healthfully. Seriously.

Here are some other helpful tips:

• Make sure your plate is colorful. No overabundance of pale, anemic-colored foods allowed.
• Act like a cow. Graze on mini meals throughout your day. Ix-nay the three-square-meals-a-day thing.
• Do the best with what God gave you. If you have over-achieving thighs or the gene pool from a-loaf-of-bread-shaped Grandma Maggie, put your big-girl panties on and deal with it.
• Don’t beat yourself up if you have a power-lounging, multi-slacking, over-indulging kinda day. Sometimes it’s good for the soul. You can press the Reset button tomorrow morning.
• Shop the perimeter of the grocery store — where all the real foods are.
• If you must enter the inner sanctum of the store to buy packaged, processed foods, beware! The less ingredients listed, the better.
• If you can’t pronounce more than 50% of the ingredients listed on pre-packaged foods, run!
• Scales-Schmales! So unnecessary.  Look down. Look up. Look down again. How are those thighs looking? Put on your skinny-day jeans. How do they look on you? How do you feel in them? Can you breathe? You don’t need scales to tell you that you haven’t lost any weight.
• Drink lots and lots of water.
• Be HONEST. Just because you told the world, “Yeah, I had a great workout this morning,” doesn’t mean you did.  And demurely picking at your plate in front of others doesn’t cancel out the fact that you finished off that bag of Pepperidge Farm Soft-Baked Chocolate Chip
  acheter du viagra

  Cookies behind closed doors. Only you know the truth.  And I know you know, that I know, that you know what you know.

• Watch your Carbs! (See bullet #1)
• Don’t mess up your metabolism — like I did in 1983 when I “starved myself,” lost a lot of weight, looked what I thought was great…until I started eating like a normal person, at which time I gained it all back, and then some.
• Do cardio at least five times and weight-bearing at least three times a week. Come on — you can find the time!
• Carrots, raw almonds, bananas and rice cakes are delicious, filling and quick snacks on the run.
• And don’t
  viagra

  even think about eating after 7:00 p.m.

Now go forth and ELMM. Enjoy. And good luck!

And furthermore, by golly, our child would never, ever (and I mean never, everrrrr) get out of her big-girl bed after we had tucked her in and kissed her good night, and come downstairs sniveling, snotting, whimpering and saying she just couldn’t go sleepy-bye. I mean, we just would not allow it.

(Poor Jessica, my niece, my Zsa – our first, and only, exposure to children as new newlyweds.)

And no way, under zero circumstances, would our as-yet-unborn children ever (and I mean everrrrrr) bite another child! Are you kidding me? What kind of parent parents a child that does such a heinous, evil thing!

Fast-forward, please, to 1988 and 1991, the births of our beloveds….

Circa Easter of 1989,

when Cassidy was about one, we were standing in our first Gold River home’s kitchen. We gave her a $1.99 big ol’ milk chocolate bunny. The look on her face after biting his head off was that of unadulterated, sheer joy and ecstasy. I smiled. She smiled, laughed and drooled. I would never (and I mean neverrrr) deprive my child of sweet treats, ever again.

Our Cassidy, our first-born, had separation anxiety. We’d read her ‘Goodnight Moon,’ say our prayers, kiss her nighty-night, and tuck her into her be-ruffled pink big-girl bed, blowing kisses as we turned on sweet lullaby music, softly shutting the door. Every single night. And every single night, after about 2.5 minutes, she’d come breathlessly screaming and bawling out of her room, imploring — no, demanding — that we come back in and read her another book or two. Or three. Which, of course, we did. And then we became so tired of that nightly routine that we just made a “little nest” by our bed where she could go sleepy-bye, calmly, without the nightly parent/child tug-of-war. Whatttttever.

Along came sweet Jujubee.

Now I had heard and read about little ones biting others. My children, of course, would never do that. So I just skimmed those articles. Until Julia bit a babysitter when Chuck and I went to see Titanic one Sunday afternoon. And then about a month later, she bit a chunk

out of my thigh as I was doing dishes. (An excruciatingly painful occurrence).  We were told by a child psychologist acquaintance that younger children acted out like that when they were trying to keep up with their older siblings. Oh…okay.  That makes it acceptable then.

And of course, my children would innately, inherently have impeccable table/high chair manners. After all, they were ‘little ladies.’  At least that’s what I wanted the world to think.  But I got busted. My neighbor Jody dropped by one evening at the arsenic hour, when I was feeding Miss Julia her dinner. Upon entering the room, Julia threw a bowl of peas (including the bowl) halfway across the kitchen.  Mortified me said, “I guess she doesn’t like peas,” to an aghast Jody. (I so feared that my not-yet-a-Mom friend would schedule an appointment to get her tubes tied the next day. Thankfully, she didn’t.)

So, yeah, we stepped down from the Parental Pedestal a little bit. We felt we had an arsenal of great experiences under our Mom and Dad belts, and we were confident that the next phase of parenthood surely would be easier than the infant-to-age-5 stage.

{Corona del Mar circa 1998}

We couldn’t wait for our kids to start playing sports.  Exercise, sportsmanship, camaraderie, teamwork, learning the strategy of gamesmanship, experiencing defeat as well as victory – this was going to be great. And there was ab.so.lute.ly no way I would ever (and I mean everrrr), like, keep track of how much playing time my kid had, or, worse yet, seek out the coach for a little chat after a game. I mean, Who does that?! Well, it turns out I did that. Mea culpa. Mea culpa…

And the computer thing. The media and every family therapist in America kept admonishing all of us parents to never, under any circumstances, let your teenager have a computer in his/her own room. Duh. Of course we wouldn’t do that! Chuck and I pinky-swore that we would stand firm on this one. So we did not allow computers in their room… until we did allow computers in their room.  It was a slow, insidious process that just kind of happened.  Are we just awful parents? (Don’t answer that.)

But we did adhere to a strict dress code in our home, by gosh. It was made crystal clear that the hemlines were not to be too high, or the necklines too low. But shoot…they had to show off their just-tanned and toned legs during the summer months. And “Mommmm, I decided I’m not going to wear anything under that deep-V-neck shirt from Abercrombie & Fitch after all!” Hmmmmm. (I wonder: Do you buy viagra online think I subconsciously allowed it so I could vicariously live through my daughters, as my decolletage had long since lost its smoothness and buoyancy?) (Don’t answer that either.)

*****

We’re now less than four months away from our baby graduating from college. They’re both (yikes!) full-blown adults. We fed and watered them. We clothed and sheltered them. We loved and guided them the best we knew how.  Soon they’ll both be off creating their own lives, making their own friends, choices, money (yay), decisions and mistakes.

Speaking of mistakes, yeah, I was wrong about that “perfect parent” thing. There is no such thing. And I’ve finally realized what I should have realized about two decades ago — that parenting is a hard, humbling, humiliating, happiness-filled, rewarding and never-ending job.  Yep, my Girlies, please know this: Even though you’re all grown-up and off on your own journey, you will always be entitled to my opinion. And I’ll never, ever quit being your parent. (And I mean never, everrrr.)