Thanksgiving is just around the corner and I am once again blessed. I’m not hosting dinner.
I’m not hosting Christmas this year either. Which makes it a double-whammy year for me—I get to add hundreds of hours to my work schedule. Hours that would have been spent cleaning. Then cleaning some more until everything was spotless and you could eat off the floor-- which, according to my mother is the measure of a clean floor. Perhaps our relatives ate off the floor at one time and she had those memories, like people have who have lived through the depression and hoard everything.
Last year, I cleaned until all surfaces and crevices glistened. I walked into the dining room only to find that the dog had wrestled with the seventy-six dollar fall centerpiece on my polished table. He’d also eaten much of it-- as evidenced by the vomit on the freshly cleaned area rug under my once spotless table.
I’ve never understood how people could cook everything and also have their house clean. It’s really one or the other to me. Even if you have cleaning help, it’s the hours right before people arrive that set the disasters in motion: The garbage disposal breaks, the cat jumps on the counter and licks the turkey, forcing you to serve Kentucky Friend chicken to 18 guests. The vacuum spits the last several weeks cleaning on your carpet—the carpet you are quickly doing the “spiff clean” on before people arrive.
But not this year. I’ll whip up a salad for a couple dozen people while I enjoy my morning coffee. I’ll watch my son chase the dog around the dining room. I’ll laugh and enjoy the happiness it brings him instead of screaming like a crazed Martha Stewart. “PEOPLE ARE COMING IN ONE HOUR… GO SIT IN THE CLOSET AND DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!”
I’ll look in the bathroom and notice that all of the towels I just creased and put on the rack, ever-so-welcoming, are now soiled and crunched up. And it won’t bother me.
Yes, it’s a good year. I’m not hosting.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Monday, September 3, 2007
Weeee! We bought a Wii!
We don’t have an X-box. We’re not big fans of video games –we don’t want
our son to be some testosterone, he-man, aggressive teen.
So, we have him in football.
As much as I dislike video games, I really can’t stand the whining, crying and
moping around the house --the constant complaints that there’s nothing to do—and that’s just from my husband.
I surveyed the house and I too realized, there was simply nothing to do. I stored all the board games, put the foosball table away, cleared out the tennis racquets, golf clubs, the 126 basketballs, footballs and Frisbees, I wedged the soccer net into the corner of the garage, and folded up the huge basketball hoop in the driveway. I put the Swing Away and the Perfect Pitch in their boxes. I packed up the art supplies, took away the talking globe, the baseball card collection, and even dismissed the yo-yo’s and water guns. I started to get weepy
while taking down my son’s dart board.
So many memories of doing absolutely nothing.
There would be no more nights of Texas Hold-‘em around the kitchen table, or 21 questions during dinner. No kick-the-can with the neighbor kids, or walks with the dog. Creating a home with nothing to do also meant dismantling the fire pit in the back yard where we roasted marshmallows with his friends. If this house was declared as a place where there was nothing to do, so be it.
It was clear he was right, the only way we could have any fun was to get a Nintendo Wii. So, my son, the fiscal conservative, bought one with his own money.
Suddenly, there was a lot to do and tons of kids to do it with! It turned out (and I found this shocking), that the entire world, which included every single child in his school, didn’t have a Wii. My son must have been mistaken.
Okay, truthfully, it’s fun. The cow racing alone is worth the money (my son’s money) and my sweet little cherub gets so much satisfaction at beating me and then using excessive celebration techniques, learned from the NFL, to demean me, what mother wouldn’t melt with emotion at seeing her boy so happy?
The only thing wrong with the game is that the characters—who are created to look like the players--win by jumping up and down, or lose by hanging their head in a very sad, defeated manner. (Think Saddam Hussein on the cell phone video). I am most familiar with the loser position and let me tell you, after awhile, it actually begins to affect you.
The game should come with a prescription for Prozac.
A major benefit to the Wii is that it’s more compact than a ping-pong table! (Except for the wide-screen TV you have to play it on.) So when there’s nothing to do in the future, including playing the boring Wii, it will be easier to toss.
our son to be some testosterone, he-man, aggressive teen.
So, we have him in football.
As much as I dislike video games, I really can’t stand the whining, crying and
moping around the house --the constant complaints that there’s nothing to do—and that’s just from my husband.
I surveyed the house and I too realized, there was simply nothing to do. I stored all the board games, put the foosball table away, cleared out the tennis racquets, golf clubs, the 126 basketballs, footballs and Frisbees, I wedged the soccer net into the corner of the garage, and folded up the huge basketball hoop in the driveway. I put the Swing Away and the Perfect Pitch in their boxes. I packed up the art supplies, took away the talking globe, the baseball card collection, and even dismissed the yo-yo’s and water guns. I started to get weepy
while taking down my son’s dart board.
So many memories of doing absolutely nothing.
There would be no more nights of Texas Hold-‘em around the kitchen table, or 21 questions during dinner. No kick-the-can with the neighbor kids, or walks with the dog. Creating a home with nothing to do also meant dismantling the fire pit in the back yard where we roasted marshmallows with his friends. If this house was declared as a place where there was nothing to do, so be it.
It was clear he was right, the only way we could have any fun was to get a Nintendo Wii. So, my son, the fiscal conservative, bought one with his own money.
Suddenly, there was a lot to do and tons of kids to do it with! It turned out (and I found this shocking), that the entire world, which included every single child in his school, didn’t have a Wii. My son must have been mistaken.
Okay, truthfully, it’s fun. The cow racing alone is worth the money (my son’s money) and my sweet little cherub gets so much satisfaction at beating me and then using excessive celebration techniques, learned from the NFL, to demean me, what mother wouldn’t melt with emotion at seeing her boy so happy?
The only thing wrong with the game is that the characters—who are created to look like the players--win by jumping up and down, or lose by hanging their head in a very sad, defeated manner. (Think Saddam Hussein on the cell phone video). I am most familiar with the loser position and let me tell you, after awhile, it actually begins to affect you.
The game should come with a prescription for Prozac.
A major benefit to the Wii is that it’s more compact than a ping-pong table! (Except for the wide-screen TV you have to play it on.) So when there’s nothing to do in the future, including playing the boring Wii, it will be easier to toss.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Clueless in Cosmetics
Clueless in Cosmetics
a tribute to shopping with Peggy
My friend Peggy is one of the funniest people I know. Together we think
we are hysterical. Sometimes we can barely look at each other without falling onto the floor and rolling around in fits of laughter. Okay, not rolling around. But almost rolling around.
Not everyone thinks we are as funny as we think we are.
This is why we should not have gone to the Bobbie Brown counter for side-by-side makeovers. Our salesperson, let’s just call her Gidget, (darling and sweet a--double whammy for a makeup gal) was more than a tad horrified by the insults we tossed back and forth like so many brushes of blush.
Peggy watched the woman carefully apply base (okay, tinted moisturizer) to my face–no actual base, because, Gidget said, and I can barely write this without laughing—I had beautiful skin. This put Peggy and me over the edge, as we had just spent 15 minutes looking in the mirror, horrified.
I have an age spot the size of Iraq.
“Well, could you put the ‘tinted moisturizer’ a little heavier on her beautiful age spots?” Peggy asked. “And fill in under her eyes with spackle.”
At this point the “You Are Beautiful From the Inside,” lecture began—this, from a 23-year-old with skin that would make Snow White look weathered. This poor woman didn’t know she was preaching to a motivational speaker and a cynical Northwest Airlines flight attendant. A wicked combination.
We didn’t shut up. We couldn’t stop laughing. We started to draw a crowd.
An elderly and exceedingly made-up saleswoman commented, “How much have you girls had to drink?” We’d been at the Nordstrom Café having coffee and a salad. If she wanted to see how we behaved after drinking, well, she would have had to have been in college in 1979 during our “hang-from-the-balcony” escapade, when the police…
Well, anyway, we hadn’t been drinking.
It’s great fun to have your makeup applied by a beauty consultant. Especially when you have nowhere to go, so if you end up looking like a hooker/clown/State Fair Freak Show exhibit, no biggy. But as much as I enjoy the makeup counter and I enjoy Peggy’s company, quite possibly the two shouldn’t go together.
I learned that it’s impossible to part your lips for lipstick application when you’re laughing. Really. Just try it. The minute Gidget came at me with the “gloss wand” I lost it again. Maybe it was because Peggy was mouthing the words “gloss wand” in an exaggerated English accent. It took the poor woman 10 minutes to do my lips. I think I spit-laughed on her twice.
We made it worth her while. Two hours and much hilarity and hi-jinx later, I spent a lot on makeup from Bobbie Brown. Peggy bought the tinted moisturizer. And Gidget did her damnest to get us to love ourselves—from the inside.
The next time I have a spare 47 minutes to apply my expensive makeup, I’ll put on all my Bobbie Brown. Until then, it will sit in my cabinet and remind me how much fun a woman can have without drinking.
a tribute to shopping with Peggy
My friend Peggy is one of the funniest people I know. Together we think
we are hysterical. Sometimes we can barely look at each other without falling onto the floor and rolling around in fits of laughter. Okay, not rolling around. But almost rolling around.
Not everyone thinks we are as funny as we think we are.
This is why we should not have gone to the Bobbie Brown counter for side-by-side makeovers. Our salesperson, let’s just call her Gidget, (darling and sweet a--double whammy for a makeup gal) was more than a tad horrified by the insults we tossed back and forth like so many brushes of blush.
Peggy watched the woman carefully apply base (okay, tinted moisturizer) to my face–no actual base, because, Gidget said, and I can barely write this without laughing—I had beautiful skin. This put Peggy and me over the edge, as we had just spent 15 minutes looking in the mirror, horrified.
I have an age spot the size of Iraq.
“Well, could you put the ‘tinted moisturizer’ a little heavier on her beautiful age spots?” Peggy asked. “And fill in under her eyes with spackle.”
At this point the “You Are Beautiful From the Inside,” lecture began—this, from a 23-year-old with skin that would make Snow White look weathered. This poor woman didn’t know she was preaching to a motivational speaker and a cynical Northwest Airlines flight attendant. A wicked combination.
We didn’t shut up. We couldn’t stop laughing. We started to draw a crowd.
An elderly and exceedingly made-up saleswoman commented, “How much have you girls had to drink?” We’d been at the Nordstrom Café having coffee and a salad. If she wanted to see how we behaved after drinking, well, she would have had to have been in college in 1979 during our “hang-from-the-balcony” escapade, when the police…
Well, anyway, we hadn’t been drinking.
It’s great fun to have your makeup applied by a beauty consultant. Especially when you have nowhere to go, so if you end up looking like a hooker/clown/State Fair Freak Show exhibit, no biggy. But as much as I enjoy the makeup counter and I enjoy Peggy’s company, quite possibly the two shouldn’t go together.
I learned that it’s impossible to part your lips for lipstick application when you’re laughing. Really. Just try it. The minute Gidget came at me with the “gloss wand” I lost it again. Maybe it was because Peggy was mouthing the words “gloss wand” in an exaggerated English accent. It took the poor woman 10 minutes to do my lips. I think I spit-laughed on her twice.
We made it worth her while. Two hours and much hilarity and hi-jinx later, I spent a lot on makeup from Bobbie Brown. Peggy bought the tinted moisturizer. And Gidget did her damnest to get us to love ourselves—from the inside.
The next time I have a spare 47 minutes to apply my expensive makeup, I’ll put on all my Bobbie Brown. Until then, it will sit in my cabinet and remind me how much fun a woman can have without drinking.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Spring baseball or work? A mother must choose.
Work or baseball? A mother must choose.
On Friday afternoons working mothers everywhere IM each other from their warm, decorated cubicles: “TGIF.” They actually look forward to their weekends at home with the kids.
Those mothers do not have children who play traveling baseball in Minnesota.
I dream about working. I fantasize about where to start with a new speech, fret about my back pain from sitting at my computer too long and even think about …filing. Yes, filing. Because when I file (and let’s be clear, I detest this task) it’s done in the warmth of my office. A baseball game in the spring is played outside. In Minnesota weather, that can mean a nice May day feels like it’s 20 below. Like Sunday’s game. A great deal of the film “The March of The Penguins” was shot in warmer weather.
Sundays, devoted mothers of 12-year-old boys who have watched game after game after game have cheered their son’s on-- prayed that their team would lose so they would be kicked out of the tournament and they could go home. Okay, maybe that was just me. Still…
One mother sat in a lawn chair with a stolen blanket (from a child she deemed warm enough) pulled tightly over her head. She supported the team, but didn’t watch the game. It was simply too cold. Plus, she had worn flip-flops and a cute outfit because yesterday she was dripping with sweat-- it was in the upper 80s.
Flip-Flops, winter boots…hmmm what to wear to spring baseball?
At the Key’s restaurant after the game, some of the mothers came up with the perfect excuse to get out of baseball on those frigid days of the month of (let’s just pick, June) when we don’t want to dress like Inuits with poor taste. We will look at our sons with our devoted, sad eyes, ala Puss n’ Boots from Shrek, and say—“Oh honey, I can’t make it. I have to work.”
And then we’ll gleefully start filing in our warm offices.
On Friday afternoons working mothers everywhere IM each other from their warm, decorated cubicles: “TGIF.” They actually look forward to their weekends at home with the kids.
Those mothers do not have children who play traveling baseball in Minnesota.
I dream about working. I fantasize about where to start with a new speech, fret about my back pain from sitting at my computer too long and even think about …filing. Yes, filing. Because when I file (and let’s be clear, I detest this task) it’s done in the warmth of my office. A baseball game in the spring is played outside. In Minnesota weather, that can mean a nice May day feels like it’s 20 below. Like Sunday’s game. A great deal of the film “The March of The Penguins” was shot in warmer weather.
Sundays, devoted mothers of 12-year-old boys who have watched game after game after game have cheered their son’s on-- prayed that their team would lose so they would be kicked out of the tournament and they could go home. Okay, maybe that was just me. Still…
One mother sat in a lawn chair with a stolen blanket (from a child she deemed warm enough) pulled tightly over her head. She supported the team, but didn’t watch the game. It was simply too cold. Plus, she had worn flip-flops and a cute outfit because yesterday she was dripping with sweat-- it was in the upper 80s.
Flip-Flops, winter boots…hmmm what to wear to spring baseball?
At the Key’s restaurant after the game, some of the mothers came up with the perfect excuse to get out of baseball on those frigid days of the month of (let’s just pick, June) when we don’t want to dress like Inuits with poor taste. We will look at our sons with our devoted, sad eyes, ala Puss n’ Boots from Shrek, and say—“Oh honey, I can’t make it. I have to work.”
And then we’ll gleefully start filing in our warm offices.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Professional Women
I spoke at the Professional Assistants' Day conference in Alexandria the other day. There were 175 women in the audience. If ignited, the amount of estrogen in that room could have blown up the Mall of America.
Women's programs are the most fun for me to do. They get my jokes, they do my improv exercises, they buy my products...and I get paid. But the best part is that these women know how to have a good time. I overheard one audience member say, "My boss paid for me to be here so I'm going to have a good time." I wanted to hire her to be a professional audience member. I just kissed her and left it at that.
I lead an improv exercise around the concept of "Yes...And!" Which teaches the principle of agreement. The groups were to come up with a made-up product and then build on it. There were to be no bad ideas.
The"Boob Holder Upper" was by far the winner. This contraption made the Victoria Secret Miracle Bra look like something from Toys R Us. (My computer doesn't make backwards R's--get over it.) The woman who shard the group's invention could have done an infomercial that would rival The Magic Bullet. She's probably been scooped up by the State Fair by now and is no longer a professional assistant.
The "Boob Holder Upper" led me into my joke about aging and how eventually we will be able to do a breast exam with our toes. There were several older women in the front of the audience who didn't laugh; they had been doing that for years. Note to Self: Know your audience.
The great thing about this organization was that it was made up of a group of women who had the word "professional" before their title. You don't see a lot of professions like that, do you?
Professional President of the United States? Professional Pope? Professional lawyer? Nope.
These women knew they were professionals and didn't have to prove it to each other. They were there not only to learn, but to have fun!
God bless women and their capacity for connection and humor. And God bless that group who came up the with the "Boob Holder Upper." I'm going to have it patented and then hire the woman from my audience to do the infomercials.
After all, she's a professional.
Women's programs are the most fun for me to do. They get my jokes, they do my improv exercises, they buy my products...and I get paid. But the best part is that these women know how to have a good time. I overheard one audience member say, "My boss paid for me to be here so I'm going to have a good time." I wanted to hire her to be a professional audience member. I just kissed her and left it at that.
I lead an improv exercise around the concept of "Yes...And!" Which teaches the principle of agreement. The groups were to come up with a made-up product and then build on it. There were to be no bad ideas.
The"Boob Holder Upper" was by far the winner. This contraption made the Victoria Secret Miracle Bra look like something from Toys R Us. (My computer doesn't make backwards R's--get over it.) The woman who shard the group's invention could have done an infomercial that would rival The Magic Bullet. She's probably been scooped up by the State Fair by now and is no longer a professional assistant.
The "Boob Holder Upper" led me into my joke about aging and how eventually we will be able to do a breast exam with our toes. There were several older women in the front of the audience who didn't laugh; they had been doing that for years. Note to Self: Know your audience.
The great thing about this organization was that it was made up of a group of women who had the word "professional" before their title. You don't see a lot of professions like that, do you?
Professional President of the United States? Professional Pope? Professional lawyer? Nope.
These women knew they were professionals and didn't have to prove it to each other. They were there not only to learn, but to have fun!
God bless women and their capacity for connection and humor. And God bless that group who came up the with the "Boob Holder Upper." I'm going to have it patented and then hire the woman from my audience to do the infomercials.
After all, she's a professional.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Look What I Found!
Look What I Found!
I can’t help thinking about a conversation I recently had with friends. The question put to the merlot-laden table was: Do you go through people’s medicine cabinets when you’re visiting their home?
The overwhelming response: “Hell, yes.”
First, you should know that these weren’t just neighbors and friends from my cul-de-sac (I know they would rifle though my cabinets faster than Britney Spears can check in and out of rehab), these were “professional colleagues.” These were the kind of friends you make as an adult, who didn’t know you back when you used to skip high school to smoke cigarettes and drink bad coffee at the pancake house. These were people who may potentially have been woven from a tighter moral and ethical fabric than your life-long friends-- the ones you love despite their character flaws.
But it turns out, most of us are the same. We’re all curious (read: snoopy) about how other people live. Is Suzie as “balanced” as she appears?” Is Ed as together as he comes off in his best-selling book? Is Trudy really that wrinkle-free, or is there a tell-tale tube of Mederma in her cabinet? We want to know where we fit in on the scale of 1-10 (as in, normal = 1, to they’re coming to take me away, ha ha ho ho = 10).
Medicine cabinets give us a glimpse into our friends’ “other world.” The world that they don’t want you in. The stuff of life.
I would caution you though that there are a few people (eg. me) who are well prepared when hosting a party and make sure the only thing that jumps out is a well-placed vitamin C bottle and some luxuriously fragrant facial cream. But then, I’m the sort of person who would just tell you whatever you wanted to know. No need to dig.
If you are the type who takes time to “look,” be aware you might find something you really, really didn’t want to know about—like anti-serial killer pills, or an eye- of-newt remedy for a deadly contagious airborne virus. What do you do with that information? Do you tell someone, “Well, I was snooping through Bella’s cabinet when I came across…” ?
Too much information can be a real burden. But then it seems that sometimes it can give you just the edge you need to build your self-esteem and put a sneaky little, I- know-something- you- don’t- know smile on your face. Isn’t that why people do it?
Regardless of where you fall in the snoop category-- based on my
teeny, tiny and telling little survey…you probably have someone going through your cabinets each time you have people over.
With that, I must go dust my Vitamin C bottle. I’m having people over tonight.
Molly Cox
I can’t help thinking about a conversation I recently had with friends. The question put to the merlot-laden table was: Do you go through people’s medicine cabinets when you’re visiting their home?
The overwhelming response: “Hell, yes.”
First, you should know that these weren’t just neighbors and friends from my cul-de-sac (I know they would rifle though my cabinets faster than Britney Spears can check in and out of rehab), these were “professional colleagues.” These were the kind of friends you make as an adult, who didn’t know you back when you used to skip high school to smoke cigarettes and drink bad coffee at the pancake house. These were people who may potentially have been woven from a tighter moral and ethical fabric than your life-long friends-- the ones you love despite their character flaws.
But it turns out, most of us are the same. We’re all curious (read: snoopy) about how other people live. Is Suzie as “balanced” as she appears?” Is Ed as together as he comes off in his best-selling book? Is Trudy really that wrinkle-free, or is there a tell-tale tube of Mederma in her cabinet? We want to know where we fit in on the scale of 1-10 (as in, normal = 1, to they’re coming to take me away, ha ha ho ho = 10).
Medicine cabinets give us a glimpse into our friends’ “other world.” The world that they don’t want you in. The stuff of life.
I would caution you though that there are a few people (eg. me) who are well prepared when hosting a party and make sure the only thing that jumps out is a well-placed vitamin C bottle and some luxuriously fragrant facial cream. But then, I’m the sort of person who would just tell you whatever you wanted to know. No need to dig.
If you are the type who takes time to “look,” be aware you might find something you really, really didn’t want to know about—like anti-serial killer pills, or an eye- of-newt remedy for a deadly contagious airborne virus. What do you do with that information? Do you tell someone, “Well, I was snooping through Bella’s cabinet when I came across…” ?
Too much information can be a real burden. But then it seems that sometimes it can give you just the edge you need to build your self-esteem and put a sneaky little, I- know-something- you- don’t- know smile on your face. Isn’t that why people do it?
Regardless of where you fall in the snoop category-- based on my
teeny, tiny and telling little survey…you probably have someone going through your cabinets each time you have people over.
With that, I must go dust my Vitamin C bottle. I’m having people over tonight.
Molly Cox
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