Category Archives: Girl Talk

Girl Talk, Life Lessons, Pop Culture, The Brownstone

My House, My Rules

When you live alone, you can do whatever you want, whenever you want.  For instance, you have complete 24/7 control of the remote.  You always get to eat the last piece of cake.  And you can decorate your bathroom red – which I did.

My friends who are married are limited when it comes to home decor.  They paint their walls “mushroom” and choose stripes and solids for drapes and upholstery.  I can use colors and patterns no man would ever agree to have in his home.

I inherited a kitschy 1970’s styled bathroom when I bought my condo.  Picture a man cave.  Now picture the polar opposite.  The tub, toilet, sink, and even the floor tiles – pink.  Calamine lotion pink.  But since the fixtures were in such good condition, instead of gutting the whole thing, I decided to keep the pink.  Remember the number one rule of living alone: you can do whatever you want.

That’s when those iconic red poppies came to mind.

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“This is either going to be the most brilliant thing I’ve ever done,” I confided to the Marimekko salesgirl, “or else it’s gonna clash so badly that it’ll make me dizzy.”  She assured me I could return all of it: the shower curtain, the matching storage tins, the accent towels, if I passed out.  Once I knew I was on to something, I bought an armful of solid red towels and a lipstick-colored soap dish, tissue box, and waste basket set.  In the end, the pink ran and hid under all that red.

As a single woman home owner, I took on a big responsibility.  But with that responsibility came great freedom.   Recently, I looked with new eyes at the kitchen counter tops I also inherited.  Then I took a trip to that big home improvement store just to look around.

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Girl Talk

Coffee Date

heartAfter batting around a few impersonal emails with an on-line dating prospect, the coffee date is what you do.  It may seem old-fashioned, but I miss the blind date.  There you had a genuine connection.  A good friend would fix you up with her husband’s old college roommate.  Two things were guaranteed: someone who knows you and knows him thought you might just hit it off – and he’s not a sociopath.  Even if you didn’t find your soulmate, it was safe to let your guard down, and maybe even enjoy yourself.  Not so with the coffee date.

We met after work at Starbuck’s.  From our emailing, I knew he was a financial analyst and although I didn’t know his last name, that he was Italian-American like me.  I was hoping for a Renaissance man…

My date was tall and attractive in his charcoal gray suit.  And he was all business.  After we sat down with our coffee, what I can only describe as my interview commenced:

“So you mentioned that you like to cook,” he began.

“Well yes, I do.”

“You make your own tomato sauce?” he prompted me.

“Ah huh.”

Then he fired off a series of follow-up questions:

“What do you put in it?  Do you slow cook it?  How do you make your eggplant parm?  You do make eggplant parm, don’t you?  And stuffed artichokes?  What about steak pizzaiola?”

I was on a job interview all right, and the job under consideration was wife.  Turning the tables was tempting.

“How are you with plumbing and electrical work?  Can you unclog a sink?  Install a ceiling fan?  Do you do your own house painting?”  I could ask.

But I didn’t.  I knew he wouldn’t get it.  Instead I just smiled and sipped my latte.

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Girl Talk, Pop Culture

Mad for Plaid

My disdain for plaid began in childhood.  While most of my neighborhood friends went to public school wearing whatever they wanted, I attended parochial school dressed in a hideous Catholic School Uniform.  These frocks all look the same: a plaid jumper with a pleated skirt, a white blouse with a peter pan collar, and a nerdy crisscross tie.  The only possible variation is in color.  Mine was hunter green.

As if all that wasn’t bad enough, I was forced to wear profoundly ugly black oxford shoes.  I’m not talking hip Doc Martens, or timeless penny loafers.  Try old-lady orthopedic clodhoppers.

I remained trapped in that get-up for six long years.  It was more than a crime against fashion – it bordered on child abuse.  To this day, I do not own a single hunter green garment, my contempt for plaid is legendary, and pleats of any sort literally give me a case of hives.  Really, I’m not kidding about the hives.

During the nineties, plaid flannel shirts were a staple of the grunge look but I ignored them along with the Seattle Sound.  Now plaid’s back again. This time, the inspiration’s come from the Scottish kilts worn in the runaway television hit Outlander, based on the Diana Gabaldon books.  And while watching the show has become my guilty pleasure, I’ve continued avoiding plaid like the plague.

plaid-wrapUntil a few weeks ago, when an unexpected parcel arrived from my mother.  She’s a skilled seamstress, and I’m always the lucky recipient of her handiwork.  I quickly opened the package and to my surprise, it was a plaid wrap.

What was she thinking?  She knows I hate plaid. 

Ooh, me likey… 

This wrap has become my go-to outerwear piece for the fall.  It’s easy and comfy, and it looks great with everything in my wardrobe.  Disdain finally removed.  Now I’m mad for plaid.

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Girl Talk, Life Lessons

Inked

When I was a kid, it seemed like the only people with tattoos were guys who’d been in the military or who rode motorcycles.  Getting tattooed is painful and it proved these guys were strong, tough, cool.  In other words – badass.

Once in a great while, I’d see a woman with a tattoo but it was usually a dainty little red rose on her ankle or shoulder.  Still, I never considered doing it myself.  For one thing, I didn’t feel strongly enough about anything to have it branded into my skin.  Then there was the pain factor.   And a badass?  Definitely not me.

But getting tattooed has become so commonplace that it hardly seems the act of courage or rebellion it once was.  These days, it’s more about artistic expression and individualism. That being said, getting tattooed remains a painful endeavor and, you have to be gutsy to let that needle go at your skin.

Full disclosure here: I got inked.

Like far too many women, first I was cut.  Next, pumped full of poison.  Then came the tatts, and finally they nuked me.  I guess that makes me a badass after all.

pink-ribbonYou see, my tatts are radiation markers.  I am a breast cancer survivor with four small permanent black dots on my chest.  But I’m also a hockey enthusiast, a devoted Boston Bruins fan, so I choose to think of my tatts as small hockey pucks.  Four little pucks in honor of the greatest hockey player that ever was: Number Four – Bobby Orr!

It’s October.  Hockey season started last week and my Bruins are back on the ice.  It’s also Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Have you scheduled your mammogram?red poppy

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Girl Talk, Life Lessons

To Be A Princess

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I keep hearing “just because you don’t have a prince doesn’t mean you’re not a princess.”  Although several people have taken credit for this saying, it’s the cutest three- and five-year-old sisters who’ve helped me figure out the whole princess thing.

What is it about the princess narrative anyway?  Is it the notion of being rescued?  When my office mate brought her two young boys to the LEGOLAND Discovery Center, she was appalled that one of the activities was all about ‘saving the princess.’  “The princess,” she insisted, “can save herself!”

While there have always been princesses who fall into a deep sleep, or lose their glass slipper, in recent years, we’ve seen a whole new crop of them.  This new breed may be self-reliant and reflect greater diversity, yet their end game still seems to be marriage.  Which brings me to the handsome prince.  Of course the princess wants to marry him.  He’s a great catch – not to mention major eye candy.

But there’s a time before the prince enters the picture.  As I watch my friend’s two tiny daughters get all caught up in the princess craze, I can tell you, they’re not thinking about any prince.  For them, it’s all about the girly, glittery princess costumes.  They just want to wear the pretty dresses.  That’s all it takes to make them feel special.  They twirl around in their princess dresses and show me that you don’t need a prince to be a princess.

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Girl Talk

Uncommon Proposal

My neighborhood is lined with cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks.  As you might imagine, the old chipped bricks make for an uneven walking surface.  And over the years, I’ve ruined more than one pair of high heels.  So I’ve learned to watch where I step.

Back in July, I noticed that an old brick had been replaced with a brand new one with clean, sharp edges, and a perfectly etched message that read:  JAIMIE, WILL YOU MARRY ME?  NICK

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I’m not sure how long the brick had been in place when it caught my eye.  But each day as I walk by, I feel compelled to check and see if the brick is still there.  It’s become a wildly romantic mystery to me as I spin all sorts of stories about how the brick came to be in this spot, as well as my speculations about this couple – Jaimie and Nick.  Do I know them by sight?  Maybe they live right across the street from me.  Is Jaimie a woman or a man?  Have they gotten married?

So many questions remain unanswered.  Why did Nick choose to propose in this way?  How exactly did he plan his grand gesture?  And what happened when Jaimie spotted the brick?  If Jaimie accepted the proposal, wouldn’t they have dug up the brick as a memento?  Likewise, if Jaimie rejected the proposal, wouldn’t Nick have dug it up and gotten rid of what would’ve become a painful reminder?  Either way, why does the brick remain?

This uncommon proposal has piqued my curiosity and I may never know the story behind it.  But I’d like to think that Jaimie and Nick are together and living happily ever after.

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Girl Talk

BFF’s

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Last week, I got to see my college BFF’s.  We’re lucky if we get together but once a year.  Phone calls and emails are mostly what sustain us.  Still, I continue to feel close to these women, despite the miles that separate us and the years spent apart.

All of them are married, and most are mothers; I am the only single one – the Dolce Zitella of the group.  And while I can’t know what it’s like to be a mother, watching my children grow and learn, or to have a husband and partner, helping me weather the inevitable tough times, they don’t know how it feels to buy a house by yourself or to walk into a wedding reception, or a funeral parlor alone.  Yet, they KNOW me and I KNOW them.

We share a common history, full of memories and funny stories.  But we don’t reminisce about the past because we’re far more interested in what each other has been up to lately.  So we talk about what really matters – our families, our work, our future plans – always picking up right where we left off, as if no time has passed.  Because these friendships are solid, there’s no pretense, no BS.  Except maybe when my BFF’s pretend not to notice I’ve gained a few pounds and tell me that I haven’t changed a bit.

This time around, we enjoyed a leisurely lunch, a decadent dinner, and a sunny day at the beach.  Shared a few secrets, offered some advice, and took a lot of selfies.  Whoever said “old friends are the best friends,” knew what she was talking about.

How long has it been since you’ve had a heart-to-heart with your BFF’s?  Planned a girls’ night out?  Or even better, a girls’ weekend?

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Girl Talk, Pop Culture

Crimes Against Fashion

Blue nail polish?  Not for me.

“Why not?” a gal who was young enough to be my daughter asked.

“Well, I’d wear it if I were your age,” I told the twentysomething.  “But at this point in my life, I prefer a classic red nail.”

As the conversation continued, I admitted to having worn shades of chocolate brown as well as metallic jade green nail polish back in the day.  This led to a larger discussion about fashion as I recalled some of the crimes against fashion I was guilty of committing when I was her age – or younger.

Two words: shoulder pads.  In my defense, it was the 1980’s and the TV show Dynasty had convinced every woman in America that it was not only okay, but necessary, to look like Ron Gronkowski if you wanted to stay on-trend.

Two more words: Leg warmers.  Yes, I wore them.  And thought they were cool.  Blame the movie Flashdance for that one.  I hear they’re making a comeback.  Why, I don’t know.

And finally, I have to go way back for this one – polyester bell bottoms.  I’m embarrassed to admit I wore those cringe-worthy things with my platform shoes.  Oh yes.  Big, clunky, wedged platforms.  I was in junior high school, it was the height of the Glam Rock era, and I was going for a certain look.  Which I achieved with the help of Mary Quant cosmetics and that metallic green nail polish.

Audrey HepburnThese days, I try to use my common sense when I’m debating a fashion choice.

I whisper to myself: WWAD – what would Audrey do?

Audrey Hepburn, that is.

 

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make up1We all have our products that we love.  My beauty arsenal consists of foundation, blushers and concealers, eye shadow and pencils, lipsticks and mascaras.  I’ve got a stash of lotions and potions, brushes, and of course, my all-time favorite beauty product, nail polish.  Then there are the shampoos and conditioners, sprays and gels, any and everything to make my hair straighter and shinier.

In a case of “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” my mother is the same way.  In fact, I’d wager that nearly all women – whether they be fashionistas or all-natural types – have a few faves they absolutely need for survival, even if they found themselves stranded on a desert island.  And they’d be heart-broken if said item, or items, were suddenly discontinued.

Just last week, my mother experienced her latest retail dilemma.  “It’s happened again,” she solemnly announced, “I’m the kiss of death.”

“What’s wrong?” I was almost too afraid to ask.

“Everything I like gets discontinued…”

This time, it was the demise of her favorite liquid foundation.

“I’m going from store to store trying to get the last of the “pure beige # 2,” she sadly reported.

That’s what we do when something gets taken off the shelves – we stockpile whatever we can get our hands on, hoping it will last until we find a suitable replacement.

For me, it’s always about nail polish. When OPI discontinued their rich red shade “vodka & caviar,” I hit every beauty supply store in a twenty-mile radius and snagged a half-dozen bottles that I stored in my fridge to preserve their longevity.  I only have one left.

This retail tragedy happens in the supermarket as well.  I lost my favorite salad dressing and my dear friend her favorite yogurt.  How many times do we see the dreaded phrase “new and improved” when there was nothing wrong with the original?  I ask you: Why can’t things just stay the same?red poppy

 

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Girl Talk

Hot Mama

My grandmother’s generation did not speak of it.  My mother’s generation at least began the conversation.  My generation has no filter.  We are hot mamas.

 

That’s right – we’re is-it-hot-in-here-or-is-it-just-me, somebody-get-me-a-fan, let-me-stick-my-head-in-the freezer-for-just-a-second, hot mamas. 

 

fanThis may be TMI but I, myself, am a hot mama.  At work, my officemate wears turtlenecks and fleece sweaters, while the gal down the hall prefers a blouse and blazer, then wraps herself in a pashmina.  Most days, I go sleeveless as I flush and shvitz my way through one menopause-induced hot flash after another.  Then at night, I pad around my apartment barefoot, wearing an oversized man’s tee-shirt, my hair up in a high ponytail, as a ceiling fan is whirling overhead so fast you can hardly see the paddles.

 

But don’t get me started on the nightly routine.  After a shower, when it’s time to dry my thick, curly, frizzy hair, I need an 1875 watt blow dryer before step two, the flat iron, set at 400 degrees.  By the time my hair is dried and set, the rest of me is wringing wet.  So it’s back in the shower wearing a silly floral shower cap to protect my freshly straightened hair.

 

decorative fanI remember once, years ago, asking my mother how she felt when a hot flash hit and she said very calmly, “You feel as if your head’s about to come popping off.”  Do you suppose that the genteel southern belles who had “a case of the vapours” were really just trying to describe their hot flashes? 

 

What’s the up-side to all of this?  For one thing, there’s fashion.  As long as women have hot flashes, I predict, twin sets will never go out of style.  You know, take the cardi off, put the cardi back on, take the cardi off…  There’s no need to slather on an expensive facial cream to have a youthful dewy glow. The flop-sweats will keep your face and neck hydrated while the flushing adds some color to your cheeks.  And finally, with all that sweating, there’s no way you can be retaining water, so you’ll surely be down a pound or two when you step on the scale.

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