The Age of Maintenance

I type this evening with a green face in a pathetic attempt to revive my skin's "elasticity." Somehow, I am convinced that a face mask will instantly transform me from a middle-aged mother into Katy Perry.

Alas, the treatment doesn't work. Once the green goo is removed, I remain slightly sun-damaged, with crow's feet and dark circles under my eyes. All I've really accomplished is a brief interlude where the children compared me to Frankenstein, and I was unable to retort because my face was frozen.

So why do it?

The answer is simple: insurance doesn't cover Botox.

From my limited understanding, the only bona fide method of removing wrinkles is by injecting poison into your face. This is an attractive proposition if you are not afraid of death and you don't mind looking like Cher. But even then, there remains one drawback: Botox is expensive, and insurance doesn't cover it, no matter how hard Nancy Pelosi may lobby. But now that John Boehner will be Speaker of the House, perhaps I can get some tanning to hide my imperfections!

There was a time (long, long ago) when all I needed to look good was a scrunchie. My smooth skin glowed, my boobs stayed north, and my chestnut hair boasted natural highlights.

But then came motherhood, a period marked by puffy eyes, grey hair, and boobs the size of the Hindeburg. (Those boobs were a wasted opportunity really, because it's hard to be seductive when you are covered in baby vomit. And now they've disappeared, along with most of my brain cells. But I digress.)

I've found that my forties bring an opportunity for appearance redemption. Now that the children can dress and wipe themselves, I've picked up an extra ten minutes a day. But redemption is not easy. Roots must be dyed; eyebrows must be waxed, errant chin hairs must be plucked. Imperfections must be minimized with moisturizer, concealer, toner, exfoliant, etc. It's exhausting. I've already got two full-time jobs - working and motherhood- can I really tackle a third? The fight against aging is a war I'll never win, so I'm beginning to embrace the "Middle-Aged" me. My appearance is a reflection of a four decades of a life well-lived, so why not be proud?

I recently read about a group of Texas teens who started a 'no make-up' club. Once a week these girls go to high school in t-shirts bearing the slogan "Redefining Beauty One Girl At a Time." This a gutsy move for any female, and especially impressive for teens. It reinforces the conclusion that I am drawing as I reach the age of maintenance: we are all beautiful, with or without the window dressing.

TLC

How To Win My Vote

It's mid-term election season, which means I suddenly become a relevant statistic.

Funny, I don't feel empowered. I feel just like yesterday, but maybe with a slightly bigger headache because now I have to another item to the "to do" list: become an informed voter.

Frankly, it's pretty easy to grab my vote. All you need to do is tug at my motherhood heart strings. Mothers are accustomed to solidarity: misery loves company. I'd like to see an honest-to-goodness mother in office.

So, candidates with small children, listen up. Here's what you need to do to win my vote:

• Next time you are at a rally, take the microphone with your infant on your hip and explain that your sitter canceled at the last minute. Be sure to have a second child running around on stage and interrupting you every four minutes with a request for a snack, a declaration of boredom, or a need to visit the potty.

• Explain to your running mate that you will miss the next fund raiser because you have to chaperone a field trip. When asked about the scheduling conflict, confess that while you realize that this might cost you up to 10% of your constituency, you cannot stand to see any more tears due to your absence from school activities. On the trip, be sure to feel awkward and excluded because you cannot identify by first name anyone in the class besides your daughter. Try to check your blackberry surreptitiously because nobody will understand that they changed the time of the fundraiser AFTER you had volunteered and though you would love to take the blackberry and throw it down the nature center’s ravine, you need to keep your job because your adjustable mortgage just ballooned and your 401 K went down the toilet in the subprime shuffle of 2008.

• Sit for your next media interview in a designer jacket that is covered in dog vomit, because just as the limo pulled up, the dog puked and the good-bye hug from your son included the paper towel that he used to help you clean the mess so that he unwittingly permanently stained the silk shantung masterpiece of fashion for which you have been paying, with interest, for almost a decade. Lament the loss of your only decent suit jacket and wonder when you will find the time to scour the racks at TJ Maxx for a replacement. The floor of the limo should be littered with crushed crumbs, shin guards, hair elastics, books, and the ipod shuffle that has been missing for 6 months.

• Have a bad hair day and a run in your stockings. Forget to shave your legs. Smudge your mascara. Show the world that your lunch consists of stale Triscuits and a cup of coffee. Write your next campaign speech with a crayon on the back of someone's homework.

Do that, and you've got my vote!

Where to Eat in Chinatown

Recently my mother, daughter and I found ourselves with a rare free Saturday. So we went to Chinatown.

I had great expectations for our day. We'd be three generations boldly exploring sights and smells unknown. I yearned for a culturally enriching experience that would broaden my occidental world view.

I'm not really sure if browned duck hanging in store windows qualifies as "culturally enriching" or if little ceramic cats waving a single paw will open my eyes beyond western traditions. Frankly, it's not clear to me what anyone in Chinatown actually does except sell things to tourists. In this respect, Chinatown is no different than any other designated area of New York City.

The coolest part of Chinatown was the Mahayana Bhuddist Temple, which sits right at the end of the Manhattan Bridge. This houses a statue of Bhudda that is about as large as an aircraft carrier. But much more colorful. One could not buy ducks, cats or chopsticks in the Temple, but for a dollar you could pick a fortune out of a bin. I can't get anything that cheap in my church. You haven't been able to purchase anything decent in western religions since indulgences.

After about an hour we thought it might be fun to stop for Dim Sum. I don't know literally what "Dim Sum" means, but in our experience Dim Sum means "your restaurant of choice is closed for a private function." Apparently the Lee Party had booked the "Golden Unicorn" for their nuptials so we were forced to seek sustenance elsewhere. And I am pleased to say that I can recommend to you a wonderful little place to eat if you are ever peckish in Chinatown.

It's called "Da Gennaro" and it's right up the block, off Mulberry. In Little Italy.

tlc

Men CAN Multitask

I was going to blog tonight about my trip yesterday to Chinatown. There's alot to be said about Chinatown.

As I sat down to type I noticed that my husband was watching the Redskins/Eagles football game, with the television muted. For a while I thought he was listening to the simulcast on his iphone until I heard the words "Sanchez pops it up into shallow center." Generally speaking, people don't 'pop things up' in football, especially to "shallow center.". So I asked him if he was listening to the football game. He told me no, he was listening to the Padres/Giants game. And he meant the San Francisco Giants, as in the baseball.

So, to clarify, my husband was watching a football game while listening to a baseball game.

I am hugely excited because this might just be the first documented instance of a man multitasking. Ordinarily my husband cannot do more than one thing at a time. For example, if the phone rings he must STOP whatever he is doing, find a comfy chair, put his feet up, and have a brief chat. There is no chance that he will ever wash dishes, do laundry, or mow the lawn while on the phone. I'll grant him that it would be awkward to chat on the riding mower, but there is no reason why he can't be folding his boxers while discussing the latest Mets failure.

So I stand corrected - men CAN multitask. I always new my husband was special.

Why The BP Disaster is My Fault

This afternoon I noticed that I was low on gas so I pulled into my local BP.

But then I remembered my promise. After the Deepwater Horizon disaster, I vowed never, ever to buy gas from BP again. I believed wholeheartedly that this personal boycott would teach Big Oil a lesson, possibly saving a future fish or two and ultimately making the world a greener place for my progeny. I would single-handedly combat global warming by changing gas brands. Greenpeace, here I come!

So I pulled out of BP and drove an extra self-righteous mile down the road to my local Mobil. But as I filled my tank with unleaded, the shoe dropped. Visions of Exxon Valdez flashed before me. Is there nowhere I can purchase gas without the pall of environmental malfeasance?

Watching the pump approach $50, I began to feel increasingly sheepish. You see, I drive an SUV.

On the scale of gas guzzlers, I’m somewhere in the middle. I’m no Hummer, but I ain’t no Prius either. With only two kids, clearly I could drive something smaller, but the fact of the matter is that I LOVE MY CAR. Outside of the hideous sound it makes when I put on the emergency brake, the thing drives like a dream.

So how do I reconcile my love for my car with my love for the Earth? I don’t. It’s one of those convenient blind spots. You know what I'm talking about. It’s the same one that lets you eat veal and shop at WalMart.

My husband says that owning a big car is a necessary evil in an age of distracted drivers. It's hard to argue with that logic. But the price of my safety (and let's face it, comfort) is a disappearing ozone layer, flash flooding, and the death of bottom-dwelling sea creatures.

While my conscience slowly gnaws at my blind spot, I’ll continue driving my car and try to forget oil rig explosions or aquatic birds covered in petroleum. But my denial is not unlike the gas in my car - it can only take me so far before it disappears and I have to face facts. Hopefully the Earth will hang in there until I do.

tlc