Lemon lovers unite!

I've always wondered about that expression - "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." Hmmm. Lemonade is delicious. So are lemon bars, lemon torte, lemon meringue pie, lemon chicken, lemon pudding and lemon drops.

At the risk of sounding like Bubba in the movie Forrest Gump, there are literally hundreds of things you can make with lemons that are mouth watering. So what's the problem? The Barefoot Contessa can make a thousand tasty treats out of a lemon. Martha Stewart can show you how to decorate your home with them. And don't get me started on what you can find on Pinterest.

It seems to me that if you really wanted to make the point that even when life is tough - you have to make the best of it, I think we need to use something else.

The origin of that expression dates back to an obituary in 1915 for a dwarf that by all accounts made the most of his life and rose above the challenges that life threw at him. "He picked up the lemons that Fate had sent him and started a lemonade-stand," they wrote about him.  Dale Carnegie later adopted the idea in his 1948 book "How to Stop Worrying and Start Living" with his Rule #6: "When fate hands us a lemon, let's try to make a lemonade."

But if someone threw lemons at me, I'd snatch them up. My daughter LOVES lemons. She bites right into one with a smile. She can't be the only one. Where is the lemon lobby? Where are the citrus growers? How about the Vitamin C Council?

On behalf of all the lemon lovers out there, I think we need a new scapegoat. (The goat lobby is going to have to wait for my next campaign.) The proverbial phrase only works if the object is something that we all agree isn't delicious to begin with.

So I have a new suggestion: stinkbugs. You know, those pesky little creatures that crawl into your homes in the middle of the night like the stuff of your nightmares, and then multiply. And then they start to appear literally everywhere. And to make matters worse, when you go near them they emit this odor that, well, let's just say, stinks.

I do hereby propose: When life gives you stinkbugs, make perfume. Now THAT is a challenge.

That ONE TV show we all hate to admit we love

I'm treating this blog post as a confessional of sorts. I need to get this off my chest. I am a college-educated, smart, professional woman. I have common sense, and two children. I want my children to know that life is not always a fairy tale. That things aren't handed to you. That you work for what you want and you make your own happiness. So it's with all that baggage that I must explain my absolute pleasure in watching The Bachelor on ABC. I know, right? What the heck? How can I stand how these women are objectified and humiliated and desperate enough to go on television and practically claw each other's eyes out to get to the big prize: the man. I'm not sure. But there's something totally satisfying about it. First of all, for the most part, they're all BEAUTIFUL. Not hard to look at it. And maybe that's part of it. Beautiful people ALWAYS win. Don't they? Maybe there's something hilarious about pitting beautiful people against each other where the majority of them will lose. There's the group dynamic lesson where the strong ferret out the weak and then go to work to eliminate them while the others watch on the sidelines. That can be hard to watch, but it's interesting to see how their personalities come out to play. Of course, then there's the hot guy. Or in the case of The Bachelorette, all the hot guys. But that would be too easy to explain and can't be the only reason. It's the fantasy of it, I guess. Not sharing the hot guy with 20 other girls, because that would be more like a nightmare. But watching the decision-making process of the average hot guy is fascinating. Invariably, the most drama-prone girls get to stay week after week. Now that could be a ratings ploy, but based on my life experience, girls with drama do stick around longer than they should. There's the fantasy date locations where they get to climb mountains or zip line across the rain forest (all with perfect makeup and the cutest, skimpiest outfits of course). There are private concerts in romantic settings and private jets waiting to take you to a dinner for two in the middle of the fountains at The Bellagio in Las Vegas. In the end, it's like the Superbowl. I know who I'm rooting for and I know who I hope gets left at the altar. I've spent the season watching their moves. I know who is deserving of the hot guy and who needs to be sent packing. I have no real expectation that the relationship will last. If fact, I'd be pleasantly surprised if it did. But what makes this experiment any different than real life? With half of all marriages ending in divorce, why does this approach face so much criticism? Who am I to judge how someone finds love? Or at least a heck of a good time along the way. And Sean, if none of these girls work out, give me a call. I can be your shoulder to cry on.

If the shoe fits...

I walked into a store the other day and had a lot of questions for a salesman about a product I was considering buying. I was listening intently, until my eyes drifted for a moment, and what I saw stopped me in my tracks. I couldn't take my eyes off of his feet. He was wearing those new socks as shoes contraptions. The ones that look like gloves, covering every toe and you'd swear they were socks, but they have soles on them apparently. Barefoot running shoes I think they call them. Who comes up with these things? The salesman said they were the greatest invention since the wheel.
I remember thinking similar thoughts about Crocs when I first saw them - something like Who in their right mind would put those on their feet? And Uggs. I don't think it's a coincidence they are the first syllable in ugly. I admire people who wear these trend setting footwear items before they've gone mainstream. And by admire I mean question their sanity.
It's the same thoughts I have when I'm at the beach and I see someone wearing a bathing suit that reveals more of them than I need to see. What are they thinking? But I do sort of marvel at people who are not afraid to be themselves, and make their own choices. They are comfortable in their own skin (and the more of it that shows the better apparently).
But back to footwear. I was in Las Vegas recently and have never seen more stripper heels in my entire life. Now granted, it's Las Vegas. Apparently people feel the need to dress like strippers when they are there to sort of blend in -- like wearing flannel in the northeast or turquoise in the southwest. But it made the game of picking out the professionals a lot harder because EVERYONE was dressing like a hooker.
I am probably biased here because I am six feet tall. I used to say 5 feet 11 and three quarters, but realized at some point during college, that 6 feet is pretty cool. But when you are this tall, high heels are the enemy. Growing up, it was a struggle finding shoes that fit me that didn't have high heels. Note to shoemakers: girls with big feet are probably tall, so they don't need any extra help.
I watch shorter women wearing heels and am in awe at their ability to walk in them. My neighbor doesn't leave her house in anything but her heels. Her grown daughter is the same way. She plays were her son wearing 4 inch heels. She goes bike riding, in 4 inch heels. She would fit right in in Las Vegas.
I guess I won't be seeing them wearing sock shoes anytime soon.

No heavy lifting required

Today I had to do what every girl hates more than just about anything, except maybe a trip to the dentist or the OBGYN. I had to buy a bra. I'd been wearing the same bra for a while now, and as I put it on the other day I noticed it was falling apart. So with a handful of Kohl's cash I headed bravely into the "intimates" section to climb Mt. Everest.

You see they make bras for women of all sizes apparently, except mine. Sure, they may come in my size, but get that thing in a dressing room, and let's just say, my twin is out there and she doesn't look anything like me. You're first hit by the marketing machine that puts this on top of a display: Headlights are for cars; or The bra that makes you go "Ahhhhhh". I'm pretty sure the only time most women go "Ahhhhhh" when it comes to bras is when they take it off and fling it across the room.

There are bras that promise miracles, bras that claim to be invisible, bras that you can wear 12 different ways (although I'm pretty sure that requires an advanced degree I don't have), bras that provide a "youthful" lift, and bras that have more padding than the average expense account.

The youthful part makes me smile, because as far as I can tell from recent trips to the mall or the boardwalk, young women today have a different idea of bras than I do. They aren't afraid to let them all hang out, that is, if they choose to wear one at all. Certain Hollywood celebrities - Christina Aguilera - appear to just use duct tape, which, come to think of it, is a great name for her new collection of intimates and could be cross promoted in Home Depot.

But back to me. Armed with what appear to be the best contenders, I head for the dressing room. Now, I really don't mind trying on clothes in stores and would never think of buying clothes without first trying something on. But to buy a bra, everything has to come off so I spend a few anxious moments looking for that hidden camera you know they have somewhere to prevent shoplifting. I don't seem to find any and feel a little more at ease until my mind wanders to the likelihood that the geeky teenage employee I saw nervously eyeing me make my selections has probably installed a hidden camera somewhere not for perverse pleasure but just to laugh at women who are clumsily trying to wedge themselves into ill-fitting bras.

And so the laugh fest begins. Bras that looked possible on the hanger look completely ridiculous on, either because I can't fill them up so they indent like the Pillsbury dough boy, or they are so tight that my skin pops out of places that nobody needs to see. If I were to write down the qualifications of a bra that I'm looking for like a help wanted ad in the newspaper, it would read something like this: Looking for reliable, sturdy, friendly assistant for light clerical work. No heavy lifting required.

The best bra I ever owned was one I didn't have to shop for. We were on vacation in Aruba and after a day at the pool returned to our rooms to see that after housekeeping had cleaned the room, a bra - not mine - was sitting there on the nightstand. After ruling out the possibility that my husband had met a mysterious island girl, I stared at it and noticed it was my size. Curiosity led me to try it on, and shockingly it fit like a glove. The only explanation was that it was a gift from the Gods. But that was 7 years ago and the Gods have been quiet ever since.

As I take my purchases to the counter, the clerk says to me: "Oh. Don't you hate shopping for bras?" As she rings me up, I remember the only good thing about bra shopping. Most of the time you can find them on sale: two bras for the price of one. Which is a really good thing because I think I'll send my extra one to Christina Agiulera.

Revisionist History

At the risk of sounding like an old person, who reminds everyone how hard they had it when they were your age, kids today have it made. Remember when cartoons only came on t.v. on Saturday mornings? Now they have an entire station devoted to nothing but cartoons - the Cartoon Network. And dozens of channels devoted to kids programming.

And the Internet? Are you kidding me? I remember going to the library (it's a big building with books) and you had to hope that the World Book Encyclopedia Volume J was in or your report on Japan was doomed. There were other encyclopedias, but somehow the World Book had the prettiest pictures and the best explanations.

But this morning, I realized today's kids are the luckiest ever to roam the planet. As I was looking at my daughter's school picture form, there's a box to check off for retouching. They show a picture of a young girl with acne, and another with perfectly smooth skin. What? Your dreaded school photos can be retouched? Removing all traces of acne, bad hair, and that morning's breakfast? And the retouched photo will appear in the yearbook.

I'm not sure I agree with this. The yearbook is a sacred document full of historical (and hysterical) facts. I mean, 30 years from now, you're gonna look back at the guy who sat behind you all year in Spanish and not even recognize him. Gone will be the days of laughing so hard you fall off your seat when you see your best friend's picture with one eye closed.

What's next, a little retouching of their grades, too?

I've been on Facebook now for almost a year, and I truly enjoy the opportunity to catch up with old friends, and see photos of their kids and family vacations. Facebook is a fascinating sociological experiment. Some people choose to be voyeurs, never posting anything but only watching others. That is what is so nice about Facebook. You can stay in touch without actually have to TALK to anyone. For some friends, that is ideal. But others insist on sharing everything, and I mean EVERYTHING with their friends. I have quite a few writers as friends and I think they get paid by the word. Or they only feel validated when they offer some pithy observation about everyday life.

Some people have a small circle of friends, and aren't interested in growing that circle beyond people they really know and like. I understand that too. I have very personal photos of my children on my page and I do worry about people gaining access to that side of my personal life. Others seem to collect friends like kids collect seashells at the beach -- quantity over quality is preferred.

Making decisions about who will be your friend on Facebook can pose some problems. Are co-workers really your friends? Will they limit what you feel free to share with the group? On the other hand, maybe they'll keep you better in check and prevent you from posting things that could potentially embarass you in the future. Kind of like having your mom listen in on your phone calls. The rule for Facebook these days is never post anything that you wouldn't want to read on the front page of the newspaper. Because if you go missing, or something tragic or miraculous happens to you, they will pull your Facebook profile.


Speaking of tragic, I was defriended the other day. Of course you only know this when you go looking for a particular friend and realize they no longer are on your list. It's not like there's a big break up speech where they must explain why you no longer make the grade. It happens quietly, in the middle of the night, and you are left to wonder, was it something I said?

I mean this particular friend has more than 800 friends. Seriously. 800 friends and I can't fit into that circle? I mean with 800 friends I won't even be able to get a word in edgewise! It was a strange feeling. In real life, if someone chooses not to be your friend you just stop running into then, or they stop calling you to hang out. But it's gradual and may go unnoticed for a while. But with Facebook, it hurts! I mean there are ways to silence friends, by hiding them in your newsfeeds for example. That way you never have to see another annoying post about how bad their commute to work was or how lonely their Saturday night turned out. But to choose the defriend option is final. It sends a message. And the worse part is I see this friend commenting on my other friend's pages. His face pops up at all hours of the day and night. So he has time for them? How are they so much better than me?

I've given him a second chance. I asked him again to be my friend. Partly because I need an explanation on why he cut me loose. He accepted, but are we really FRIENDS again? I have resisted commenting on his page, which has been hard because so much of what he writes cries out for a comment. I've toyed with the idea of defriending him, just so he understands how it feels. "Don't stoop to his level" some have offered. "Take the high ground" others have opined.

Instead, I may write to Facebook and suggest that in addition to being abe to "poke" someone (whatever that means), you should also be able to slap them. That might be the only thing that will make me feel better.

Making memories

I still remember the feeling of utter astonishment the day after giving birth to my son. It was less than 36 hours after his arrival in this world and we were packing up to take him home. I was being pushed in a wheelchair by a nurse, and my husband was carrying the baby in the brand new car seat (which he had spent at least an hour trying to figure out how to put in the car). As we crossed the threshold leaving the hospital, I half expected a security alarm to go off. I simply couldn't fathom that they were letting us leave with this newborn. Didn't they realize we had absolutely no idea how to be parents?

Sure, we had books, and paperwork from the hospital to help us with the important stuff like feeding and bathing and cleaning the umbilical cord. But the enormity of the situation - that we were soley responsible for his well being - was overwhelming. It felt like maybe they had made a mistake.

I remember feeling that I wasted so much time reading about the pregnancy, and all the nuances of every stage while he was in my belly, that I had completely forgotten about the fact that before I knew it, he'd be in sitting in my lap looking at me for all the answers.

As I look at my kids now, one in the seventh grade, the other in the third, I still can feel overwhelmed. In a few years, he'll be driving. Have I prepared him for that? What if he doesn't pass Algebra this year? Is he making real friends? Is someone going to break her heart? Will they look back on their childhood and remember it fondly?

It's that last question that I think of often. I try and create memories for them, that will stay with them. Sometimes, my daughter and I like to start talking in British accents. We may do this for 2 hours. Even if we're in public. It makes us both giggle and my son crazy.

Or if something funny happens, we store it away and talk about it over and over. My daughter will say, remember that time when ... and we'll all laugh and remember it and know it is one of our special memories. When something new happens, she'll say "Can that be one of our special memories, Mom?"

Parenting isn't rocket science; it's about helping a child explore their world and helping them reach their greatest potential. It's about chasing fireflies and building campfires and reading bedtime stories. It's about saying no and fighting back tears. It's about picnics in the front yard and baseball games in the back. But most of all, it's about unconditional love.