Addicted to the Bottle

Hi all! Check out an excerpt from my newest story about choosing to be a bottle blonde over going gray on MORE.com.....

Why I'm NOT Embracing My Gray Hair

More and more women I know over 40 are letting their hair go gray naturally. They say they feel freer and more “authentic.” They’re setting an example for women everywhere that aging is nothing to be ashamed of, and we should kick the bottle and just let it go.

God help me, but I’m addicted to the bottle.

I've been a bottle blonde for about 10 years. I didn't start off being a blonde. I was born with a full head of bushy, dark-brown hair befitting my southern Italian heritage and pretty much grew up looking like Annette Funicello.

Then it happened. Around age 30, the first sprig of gray appeared. I was like, WTF!!—gray at 30? Pluck! Out came that sucker. But you know what happens once you start plucking— suddenly a sprig turns into two sprigs, and the next thing you know you’ve got enough silver on your head to decorate the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.
I was having none of that. As soon as the grays started coming in faster than I could pluck, I headed to the drug store and picked up a box of permanent haircolor. Read the rest of the story here......

Squeezing the Pencil

I was paging through a magazine the other day, when I came across this ad for multi-size feminine "leak protection." The headline explained the reason why I might need variety in leak protection: "Because one style doesn't fit all."

This struck me as hysterically funny and petrifying at the same time. Having been officially menopausal for the past two years, I've been enjoying the freedom from the "pad" that plagued me for more than three decades. And I’m not talking about flimsy little pantyliners that are basically over-sized bandaids. Between fibroids and what seemed like the Amazon River of menstrual flows, I was a mega-absorbant slave. Try pads made for hippos. So to say I was ecstatic when my periods came to a total and complete end is a huge understatement. I wanted to break out the champagne. Dance on table tops. Wail: "I'm free!" from TOMMY, until my neighbors complained. You don't understand, I'd say. I never have to buy a box of Kotex again in my life. Ever, ever!

And then I come across this ad. Ironically, all the people shown in the ad were women. This says to me that, one way or the other, the feminine protection industry refuses to give up its lucrative stake in our uncontrollable body fluids. Think about it: if most women start menstruating around age 13 and menopause sets in between 52 and 54 on the average, that’s around 40 years of tampons, pads, and liners, not to mention all the peripheral products we have to buy because of our hormonal condition. Like Midol. For a good part of my life—and I’m sure yours--I was mainlining Midol. I even took it between periods as a post-hangover treatment, mood-lifter for general crankiness, and a caffeine substitute. Next to chocolate, Midol, I believe, is responsible for less women being incarcerated as serial killers. (That’s a joke…don’t go off thinking I believe hormones make women into criminals. There are times, though, that we’ve all wanted to claw something in a fit of cramps.)

Now, blissfully free of all the products designed to manage my monthly gift from Mother Nature, I’m resistant to any suggestion that I’ll need to return to the pad. It makes my teeth hurt just thinking about it. Do manufacturer’s really understand women’s revulsion to disposable protection products? Yes, we thank God we no longer have to hide in huts with other “taboo” women or shred up old dishrags—which, when you think about it, really were a “greener” option. But that doesn’t mean we enjoy feeling like pre-potty-trained toddlers. No matter how sleek the design, the idea is that we can’t control ourselves. Our short-lived independence from the pad disappears with the first sign of bladder dysfunction. The first, “Oops!”

I don’t know what the alternative is. I’m not in Research and Development. There is, at least, work being done in the pharmaceutical industry to calm over-active bladders to lower your chances of urinary accidents. Again, kind of ironic. They get us with Midol in the first half of our lives, then keep us hooked on anti-urgency meds in the second half. It may not be a conspiracy, but it sure is opportunistic.

I don’t know about you, but I’m practicing my Kegels like mad. Sqeeze the pencil. Squeeze the pencil. Maybe it will buy me a decade or two.

Fashion Fouls: The Older I Get, the Easier It Is to Make Them

The other day I was running into the grocery store, and saw a vision of myself fifteen years down the road. There was a woman in an outfit I can only describe as bag lady athletic club. On top: a flowered tank top and Nike jacket; on the bottom, gym shorts over matching floral leggings and sneakers. A fleeting thought passed through my mind: there but for the grace of God and major self-consciousness, go I.

I admit, I’ve never been particularly Vogue-ish when it comes to fashion, but I’ve always tried to avoid outright wardrobe catastrophes. Still, there are moments that I look back on with bemused horror. The neon-pink fishnet stockings I just had to have in fifth grade. Spandex dresses. Strirrup pants. I had them in all the basic neutrals. Knit dancer’s leggings that we wore over shimmery tights because Flashdance and Olivia Newton John made them so must-have. All my past fashion sins are in some landfill somewhere, and will probably still be around in the next millennium thanks to synthetic fabrics. But so far, I haven't publicly embarrassed myself by dressing in inappropriate combinations that suggest some form of disconnection from reality. The fear in the back of my mind, though, is that I could be that woman in the flowered leggings and gym shorts. Maybe not this minute, but someday. It was almost like a premonition.

I say this because the older I get, the less weight I put on what other people think about my appearance. What concerns me now is comfort, sensibility, and all-weather protection. There was a time when I wouldn't be caught dead in clunky snow boots that had more tread on them than a Ford Bronco tire. No more. Going through my mother's hip surgery a few years ago, and living in a region where it can snow in June, makes you think twice about style versus safety. I knew I had entered the practical age the day I brought home a pair of unattractive but sturdy boots. Who would see, I thought? And so what? At least I wouldn't be sprawled on a pavement in designer heels with a shattered ball joint. If wearing thermal underwear over my pantyhose is tacky, you’re right. I’m guilty. But I’m warm.

Somewhere in the back of my head, though, there's a tiny, nagging voice that sounds vaguely like my grandmother. She was a woman with style. Never a lot of money, but definitely style. In family pictures, she always looks pulled together, often wearing a smart hat and carrying a matching purse. My grandmother couldn't conceive of going out in public without lipstick, let alone wear gym shorts to the grocery store. She would have been mortified to be so underdressed.

I like to think I've inherited my grandmother's taste meter, but there are days I look in the closet and wonder, "What was I thinking?" There are skirts at least four inches too short; jeans two sizes too small; tops that show a little too much cleavage (although not necessarily a negative).; shoes that I'll never wear out of fear that I’ll break an ankle. I know I should toss or donate these items that will never again be on public display, but there's a part of me that emotionally clings to the image of the girl in skin-tight denim mini skirt, fitted tank top, and a full body tan. The problem is, I'm not that girl any more. My daughter is.

To age my wardrobe forward is to admit that I'm no longer who I used to be. And if not, then who? I'm not ready for elastic waist slacks and tunic tops despite the fact my body no longer likes being squeezed into curve-hugging clothes. But mentally, I'm not ready to concede. When I look in the mirror, a part of me says, "I can get away with this," while the grandmother-in-my-head says, "Are you seriously going to wear that?"

Some days, I shrug off the scolding voice and throw on the too tight jeans. I may only be able to pull this off one more year, I think, and then it's adios slim fits. Other days, I look around and see women, a decade ahead of me, who are dressing with great panache and I tell myself, Take a cue. One of these ladies, an artist I know who’s pushing 80, showed up at an event in a fuschia leather jacket that looked smashing. My friend Deb has created her own signature style by combining long decorative skirts she brings back from Peru with fabulous, one-of-a-kind jewelry. Gorgeous silk scarves, batik printed jackets, quirky felted hats--they're all finding their way into women's closets who refuse to give into senior frump, and, instead, want to make a statement about who they are at an older stage of life. Not dark, somber, and draped like over-stuffed furniture; but vivacious, trendy, and original.

Even O Magazine is trumpeting “Yes, you can!” when it comes to dressing chic at any age. In the current issue (August), they put the same look on a 20, 30, and 50-year-old. Me? I’m loving the black and white animal print dress with knee high suede boots.

On the other hand, age makes me feel that I’ve earned the right to a little fashion liberation. I’ve never been a suit person so now I don’t sweat the fact that I’ll get by in separates. I sometimes wear socks with my ballerina flats. I’ve even dashed to the corner store for my Sunday paper in flannel pajama bottoms. Okay, they were under a full length raincoat, but still, my grandmother would have died of shame.

Knowing there are women out there who choose dignity over laundry basket diving, I’m reassured: there's hope! I can fend off the temptation to grocery shop in flowered leggings and gym shorts, and avoid the kind of fashion faux pas that make us wince when we see them. Gone will be the cute little sundresses that look better on Barbie. Off to the Goodwill with the tiny tees and size 4 jeans.Some thrifty eighth grader will think they’re cool vintage.

I may need a complete closet overhaul. Which, now that I think of it, could be just what I need: A little shopping therapy to erase my fears of being caught in a fashion disaster moment. That, and constantly reminding myself: No flowered leggings! No flowered leggings!

Drills are Sexy

My nail polish is worn away. My hair is coated in fine white plaster dust. I’m sweaty, and there are pieces of drywall everywhere. I’m on a mission: to smooth down the kitchen backsplash that used to have ugly old tiles so that I can put up snazzy white subway tiles like in my “dream kitchen picture” torn from the pages of Better Homes & Gardens.

Despite the dust, the sweat, and the growing pile of old mortar on the floor, I’m pumped. It’s a DIY Sunday, and I’m locked and loaded with enough tools to build a strip mall.

Here’s a secret guys don’t want us to know and the reason they don’t want us mucking around in their man caves: tools are fun. Not only that, they’re an adrenaline rush. Think about it: with nothing more than a screwdriver you can put up new drapery rods or outfit a bare kitchen wall with shelves. The ultimate high is being able to say: I did it myself. That’s if the shelves are level and the drapery rods don’t pull out of the wall because you forgot to attach the screws with wall anchors. But that’s okay—when it comes to tools, you improve by doing it wrong.

Maybe it’s because I grew up with three brothers, but I’ve never been afraid of tools. My father kept a pretty well-stocked workbench in the basement that, to me, was a subterranean lair of mystery and magic. Girls weren’t privy to the secrets of tools and their power to make things. We were told they were heavy. Dirty. Dangerous. Girls had no business handling tools. Which, for the precocious among us, is just an invitation to touch forbidden fruit.

This didn’t happen right away. I went through my, “Ugh, grease!” period. But when I ended up divorced with a house full of projects, I had to get over my tool resistance, or accept defeat and ask my tool jockey brother to come to my rescue. I hated being helpless.

So I started with a beginner’s set—in cutsey pink that I guess was supposed to make tools more women-friendly. It contained all the basics: hammer, Phillips head screwdriver, regular screwdriver, a small adjustable wrench, and a pair of needle-nose pliers, all tucked into a pink carrying case. You know us ladies: we need things orderly. I got along pretty well with that first set. Pictures were hung; the toilet float was repaired (again and again), assemble-yourself furniture was put together, taken apart, and reassembled in new digs. Eventually, I added new toys to my arsenal: a wallpaper scraper and scorer, laser level, assorted scrapers and putty knives, a heavy duty staple gun, a hacksaw. Every time I decided to undertake a new project that needed some special gadget, my tool drawer expanded. Then it became two drawers. And a couple of shelves in the hall closet.

I knew when I asked for a Craftsmen drill for a Christmas present one year, that I had graduated to a whole new level of toolmanship. Power tools are the bomb. Plug ‘em in and let ‘er rip! Instead of causing calluses on my hands from trying to force screws into wall studs, my powerdrill could zip them in just by pulling the trigger. I soon discovered the reverse mode for taking screws out—a handy thing when you’ve put them in the wrong place.

Knowing your way around tools lets you into men’s inner sanctum of hardware. It can be daunting, at first. My initial visit to a Home Depot was as bone-chilling as walking into Afghanistan. I saw tools I had never seen before—giant, hulking things that belched smoke and could take down an entire wall. Who knew there were different adhesives for different surfaces; that nuts and bolts came in so many sizes (not, unfortunately, a large array of colors); that purchasing a simple thing like a utility knife could be as complex as shopping for a mortgage? (Why does it matter what I’m cutting? Can’t they make one that cuts everything?)

These days I can walk into a home improvement store with the confidence of a woman who knows her way around a tube of caulk. When I go to the paint counter, I remember to ask for my free stir stick and paint can key (the little metal thingy that pops off the lid). I keep my eye on HGTV for killer tricks, for instance: spraying down a wallpapered wall with a mix of fabric softener and hot water will break down the adhesive just as good as the pre-mixed stuff they sell in the store.

So here I am on a Sunday, prepping a wall for a task I’ve never undertaken before: tiling. There will be new tools to buy: a tile snapper, trowel, chalk line, thinset mortar, grout. Yesterday I spent half an hour paging through a how-to book that explained the right way to stick the little plastic spacers between the tiles.

For me, the journey of tools is a bit zen-like. You get in a zone, and nothing distracts you. It’s just you, the tool, and an impenetrable wall. Eventually, you and the tool become one. You slog away at what starts out to be a filthy job, but ends with satisfaction. If that’s not soul satisfying, I don’t what is.

Chocolate is Women's Viagara

An excerpt from my most recent post featured on MORE.com, Sex & Love channel.....

"Honestly, I can’t think of any crisis in my life that hasn’t been improved with chocolate. Bad day at work? Fight with the boyfriend? Hot flashes? Nothing that a dose of the dark stuff couldn’t tackle. Chocolate is our remedy and Ectasy all rolled into one luscious legal substance. Chocolate is to women what Viagra is to our men folk—a guaranteed lift whenever we need it. It’s almost as if after God made Eve, he saw the aggravation Adam was going to cause—especially with Eve walking around naked all the time--and decided to create the cocoa bean so that women would have relief for all eternity. If there was any real temptation in paradise, I’m betting you it was a hot fudge sundae or a slice of chocolate cake layered with ganache filling, and not a boring old apple."

Read the whole story here titled: Chocolate: My Viagara in a Tempting Foil Wrapper

To Lie or Not to Lie: The Age-Old Age Question

I don’t usually have time to sit around watching TV in the morning. God knows, I barely have time for my eyes to come into focus. But it was one of those mornings I was going into the office late and decided to flip on what my daughter bemoans as my “antique” of a TV set ( meaning not a flat screen, plasma screen, or high definition anything).

My luck that Lesley Jane Seymour, editor of MORE magazine, was a guest on the Early Show (CBS) and was debating the issue of whether women should lie about their age. On the other side of the issue was a youngish online dating guru (their term, not mine). Seymour emphatically argued that people in our society need to get over what amounts to penalizing women for their maturity. The guru countered that there are times—like when you’re trolling for a date online—that a little bit of subterfuge is a good thing.

The male co-hosts seemed to concur. Asked whether they’d be interested in dating a woman over fifty, they all agreed that, while age did have a strong influence on their interest, the idea of deception at the beginning of a relationship was never good. But. Oh boy, here comes the BUT, I thought. Out spewed the one-line stereotypes: “It would be okay if I wanted to spend all my time playing bridge.” Har-Har. “No problem, except she’d probably want dinner at 4:30.” Har-Har.

Lesley Jane and I had the same dumbfounded, you-are-so-pathetic expressions on our faces. Could this be the twenty-first century, and are these attitudes coming from men whose mothers were the first to embrace their sexuality with birth control and thumb-worn copies of Erica Jong’s “Fear of Flying?”

Irrational as it may be, the guys’ response, made Seymour’s point exactly. We’re neurotically age-phobic in America. See a fit, vivacious, sexy woman without knowing her age, and you see exactly what she projects. Look at her driver’s license which tells you she grew up when the Kennedys ruled the new Camelot, and watch the excitement fizzle and the you-know-what go limp. No wonder we shave a few years off when we’re putting ourselves out there in the unforgiving on-line meat market. Can anyone blame us for erasing the year we graduated from our resumes? Or telling people we’re celebrating our twenty-ninth birthday--again?

I’d like to say I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’d like to be seen as a desirable woman at every stage of my life, not just when I’m flush with baby-making hormones. I’d like to blow out every single one of the fifty-plus candles that should go on my birthday cake, instead of the one I allow myself. Forget how long it takes to light that many candles. The point is, I shouldn’t feel ashamed of my age, that my employability is diminished, or that a man will assume I’m ready for the canasta table and in bed by eight. But a lot of times, embarrassed, self-conscious and afraid are what I feel. The upside is, I know plenty—make that millions—of women share these feelings. Our sisterhood of fearless aging is slowly beginning to acquire a face, and it’s relentlessly eeking its way into our mass media where, subtly and deliciously, it’s making a footprint on the backside of out-dated American attitudes. It's one of the reasons I use as my motto: "Life blooms after forty!"

Lesley Jane Seymour’s final choice word on lying about our age was this: visibility. The more women that are seen without the stereotypical dowdiness that so often gets slathered on to us like age-spot remover, the more perceptions are likely to change. So put us on billboards. Splash our faces on 84” high definition TV screens. Pose us on runways. Send us out on bizarre global treks in the Himalayas. We’ll have the last laugh, oh, guru of youthful ignorance. You’ll see.

Too Old for the Job, but Not to be a Formidable Woman!

I just read in the May issue of MORE that actress Isabella Rossellini was canned by cosmetics giant Lancome after 14 years representing their makup. The reason she got the axe? She's--ahem--forty-two. Oh, dear God, a woman who's actually mature selling make-up to women her own age! It's absolutely unthinkable. Well, at least in the cosmetics industry which is, let's face it, built on creating the illusion of eternal youth. Same goes for the movie and TV industries. When they start casting Molly Ringwald as a pregnant teenager's mother, it's time to wave the reality red flag and shout, "What gives?"

Fortunately, most of us don't have jobs that require our faces to be twenty feet high on the streets of Manhattan. Crowsfeet at that size can look like the lines on Mars. It's not pretty, but it's real. We know what crowsfeet look like. We see them in the mirror everytime we brush our teeth. It's not like the cosmetics companies are fooling anybody. And even if Rossellini doesn't feel too irked by the parting--Lancome, as she says, made her a rich woman--it's the principle of giving a woman the boot, or not even offering her the juiciest role/job/title, because her age conveys something that terrifies us--deterioration.

I didn't think I gave a hoot about what Hollywood/NYC does when it comes to casting twenty-year-olds opposite leading men old enough to be their grandfathers, until I was asked at a seminar if I had a LinkedIn profile. I was the one who waved my hand feebly. Well, sort of, kinda. The truth was, I had started a profile--which for all of you not familiar with LinkedIn is a bit like posting your resume on a giant, worldwide bulletin board--and then I hit the wall of anxiety. What if my twenty plus years of experience looks like I'm out of the loop; old-school; a shriveling peach that's one flick of the wrist away from the compost heap? What if my timeline makes a future employer fidget in his/her seat because they're thinking, "Oh, God, hot flashes and menopausal lapses of memory!"

I know this happens. I know it, because I've been on the receiving end of resumes and have reacted to "older" candidates with the same stereotypical reservations. One of our positions was pretty demanding, physically. I remember saying--not even just thinking, but saying--do you think she (the job seeker over forty), is up to it? Ten lashes with a mascara wand to me! We did end up hiring the older candidate who didn't work out, but for entirely different reasons that had nothing to do with her stamina. Still, we're all in a bit of a cultural conundrum when it comes to older women in the workforce. We just don't have a lot of precedents. Even if our mothers worked--mine in her 70s still does a few hours a week at her old place of employment--the work world is a very different place. Technology is a part of every profession, and the rapid pace of change leaves some of us stranded at the back of the pack, panting furuiously and coughing up the dust of Blackberries gone wild.

Our seminar leader, however, encouraged us to get our LinkedIn profiles to 100% completion. 100% means you not only fill in your stats, hook up to some collegues (called your "connections"), and make sure your headshot is reasonably less scary than your driver's license photo, it means you recommend people and ask people to recommend you. When I started asking for, and getting, remarkable recommendations from my friends and colleagues, I
I began to realize that down-playing my accomplishments was, one, absurd, and, two, falling for the ageism trap. I had to tell myself to get over it, already.

I discovered that, instead of being intimidated by LinkedIn and the potential of my over-experience sticking out like week-old grey roots, I could work it for the great "identity mask" it is. In cyber-space, age is relative. If you can walk the walk, and talk the talk, you can be sixteen or sixty. Play around with the cool tools a little (or get your tech savvy teen to help you), and the next thing you know, you've got your own Me Channel where you can never be fired for the lines on your face, or given the axe because your skin has lost its dewey glow.

To me, self-appreciation trumps outer validation when youthfulness is no longer your strongest selling point. When I look at my LinkedIn profile--now at 100% complete!--I don't see a woman afraid to reveal her age or experience. I see confidence and accomplishment; passion and creativity. I'm betting that some intelligent director or smart company CEO will see Lancome's farewell to Rossellini as a golden opportunity, and she'll be off and running in exciting new directions. Sometimes the boot is the very thing we need to propel us forwards.