Still Playing Dress-Up

I recently sat at a table, in a gaggle of women, sipping Cristal as
a limo waited for us outside a hot L.A. nightclub. It was Keren's
birthday. We were celebrating in style. But all I could think about was
“The Love Boat.”

It wasn't just the
Julie-the-cruise-director short-shorts that all the women at the club
were sporting. (Apparently, camp counselor gear passes for evening wear
these days. Who knew?) I had “The Love Boat” sailing around my brain
because I wasn't entirely comfortable in my outfit

When
I was 6, Sarah's mom set up a “dress-up box” for her – and by
transitive property, me. Boas, hats, high heels, anything that Sarah's
mom didn't want anymore, she'd toss in the box for us to play with. I
never understood exactly how she chose which clothes to toss in the box
for us, but they almost always seemed to be evening wear.

That
dress-up box was a powerful thing, capable of transforming and
transporting us. Donning our mysterious, grown-up garb, we'd go from
being giggly 6-year-olds to embodying our ideal of sophistication,
glamour and sexiness. Which, at the time, meant that we'd pretend we
were guests on the “Love Boat.”

Ah, Capt. Stubing and his
lucky crew! To young Sarah and me, there was not a more enchanting,
romantic, sartorially significant existence than that of the women who
graced the Pacific Princess.

The way they'd sweep into the
ship's dining room in floor-length evening gowns, dripping in diamonds,
poised to fall madly in love – I still swoon just thinking about it.
Sarah and I wanted nothing more than to turn “older,” and take to the
open seas with our consorts and our fabulous clothing.

In the meantime, we'd have to make do with the dress-up box.

I
loved playing make-believe, but I was always acutely aware that it was
a game. I was swimming in those clothes, after all. Half the time, we
probably looked like participants in a very strange potato sack race.
Eventually, though, we just knew we'd grow into those clothes – and
into the mature women we saw at the Captain's table.

Well,
I'm finally “older,” but those clothes aren't any more natural on me
now. At the club the other night, I fretted that my skirt was too
dated. For one thing, it covered my butt, which meant it was by far one
of the longest skirts in the bar. I also doubted my choice of earrings.
And my Spanx struggled to suck in that enormous dinner we all wolfed
down earlier.

Too self-conscious to get up from the table,
I watched some of the other women walk by – the ones who looked dressed
to kill, and the ones who looked as though they had killed their own
dress. It struck me that many of us – maybe most of us – still feel
like we're playing dress-up when we wiggle into formal gowns and
nightclub wear.

No matter how good they looked, women
tugged at their hems and applied coat after coat of lip gloss. They
shifted their weight in a silent complaint about their high heels.

Is
this really all there is to adulthood? I think the reptilian part of my
brain still believed that truly “grown-up” women dress in formal wear
at all times and always look perfectly put together. But reality caught
up with me that night: The women on “The Love Boat” probably slipped
into sweatpants at the end of the evening.
 

I got home after
2 a.m., peeled off my heels and snuck as quietly in the house as I
could so as not to wake up Hubby and Zev. When I woke up the next
morning, I found my clothes piled on the floor. They reeked of
cigarette smoke and sweat, and they looked more like they'd been thrown
away than removed.

Looking at them, I smiled. All these
years later I figured out how Sarah's mom chose which clothes to toss
in the dress-up box. It probably had nothing to do with fashion or how
worn out the clothes were. It was probably much more psychological than
that.
 

At the end of a night on the town, she probably
tossed the outfits that made her feel as though she was wearing
somebody else's clothes.

I've Got A Secret

My stomach hurts.

My stomach hurts, my palms are sweaty and I can’t sleep.

I’m as tweaked as a heroin addict, and every time my phone rings I jump, nervously checking caller ID before I dare pick up.

Years ago I decided to work on my ability to keep a secret. I hated being the girl who ruined everyone’s surprise party. I couldn’t see movies before anyone else without giving away the ending. I was a complete buzz kill at holidays, always blurting out what someone’s gift was  while they were opening it.

So, I worked on it. Practiced biting my tongue. Perfected my poker face. And now I can honestly say that I am able to keep a secret.

But it’s killing me.

By the time you read this, Keren’s birthday will have come and gone.
Her husband’s lavish celebration plans will have been executed, and
good times will be had by all.

But as of this writing, there are four days left until the party, and
I’m about to collapse from the weight of all this privileged
information.

I get all twitchy around Keren. When we hung out recently, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: I looked downright green.

It’s so bad, that I can’t make eye contact with her. In fact, I can
barely make eye contact with anyone. I feel like a criminal. Like prey.
It’s as though I can sense that at any given moment Truth-Seeking
Ninjas are going to crash through my front windows and fight me until I
finally blurt out: “We’re going to have a spa day. Then dinner. Then
clubbing. There, I’ve told you, now please, spare my life!”

It takes most of my energy to rein in my natural
reporter-must-tell-the-world instincts. But the thing that eats at me
the most about keeping someone’s secret is the fear that I’ll let the
news slip accidentally. I already almost ruined the surprise once.

“Why would your husband be calling me?” I asked Keren on the phone, as
my call-waiting caller ID announced Mark on the other line.

Idiot! I realized as soon as I said it. Maybe because he’s trying to tell you something about the
super-secret plans.

“Hang on,” I said to her, as I moved my thumb over to the “Flash” button.

But then I panicked. What if she asks what Mark said? What’s my alibi?

With my thumb still poised over the button, I thought it over: I could tell her that Mark wanted Hubby’s cell number… but
then, why would he need that? Maybe I could tell her he called me
accidentally. That’s it! That’ll work!

By the time I came up with my genius plan, Mark’s call had been sent to
voicemail, Keren moved on to a new thought, and disaster was averted.
But I got off the phone completely wiped out.

I think Keren can sense my weakness because for the last few weeks, she
keeps bringing up her birthday to me – telling me what she’s like to
get for her birthday, asking if I know what Mark is doing for her
birthday. I’ve begun to suspect that she sadistically drops the word
“birthday” into a conversation, like it’s a bomb, just to watch the
veins pop out on my forehead.

“When is your birthday, again?” Boom! “Did Zev have fun at his birthday
party?” Bam! “Did you know that this year my birthday will be on
7/7/07?” Ker-Pow!

I think I need to take out temporary restraining orders on all my friends around their birthdays.

Either that, or get their significant others to stop including me in
their secrets. It’ll make surprise parties harder, sure. And it might
make for a few awkward conversations: I can’t believe
you’d sit here with your wife right in front of you and say you don’t
want to do anything for her birthday! Doesn’t it fall on a Saturday
this year? Hey, why are you shoving that sock in my mouth?!

Difficult, sure. But I have to do something: I shed years off my life
every time someone plans a soiree.  Yes. Staying out of everyone else’s
plans is definitely the way to. I’m going to alert my friends – after
Keren’s birthday. Until then, I don’t have the energy to talk to anyone.

I’m going to lie down. My stomach hurts.

An Open Letter To China

Dear China,

Stop trying to kill me. 

It seems like
every day, I read a new story about how you're pumping up my food,
medicines and hygiene products with antifreeze. First, you have me
frantically reading the ingredients on my dog's pet food to make sure
I'm not feeding her tainted wheat gluten. Then, you target my
toothpaste.

And recently, I had to rummage through all of Zev's
toys to make sure my toddler's favorite choo-choo trains weren't
covered in lead paint. Next, I hear you've slipped unsafe food color
into my juice. 

What gives, China?

Sure, it's possible
that the dissemination of toxic substances is the result of lax
government oversight in the face of cutthroat global economic
realities. But, I prefer to think of this as you trying, very
specifically, to kill me.

After all, the recent recall of
Thomas the Train cars went into effect the very same day I bought my
son a huge train set for his birthday. Coincidence? I think not. And
when did all those Panamanians keel over dead from poisoned cough syrup
manufactured in China? The same week I developed a respiratory
infection! Case closed: You're trying to kill me. Now, stop.

You
have no reason to target me. I'm not a terribly powerful person
(despite the affirmations I tell my mirror each morning), and once you
get to know me, I'm actually kinda nice. I'm certain that if you and I
enjoyed a few beers together, you'd realize you don't really want to
fill my mouth with kerosene.   

You'd know that all I want to do
is to be able to buy ridiculously cheap cough medicine produced through
the toil of impoverished laborers in your country without having to
feel bad … about what might be lurking in the syrup.

I harbor no ill will, China. Can't we just be friends? 

I've
considered the possibility that it's not just me you're after, that
these toxic products are part of a larger plot to bring all Americans
to their knees. But there are two things wrong with this idea: 1. It
takes the focus away from me, and 2. It would never work.

Last
month in Alabama, 11-year-old Jamison Stone unloaded eight shots from a
.50-caliber revolver into a 1,060-pound pig, then chased it for three
hours in the woods, before walking right up to the hulking
9-foot-4-inch beast and shooting it dead with a point-blank shot.   

You think your little red choo-choo trains are going to take down a nation of Jamison Stones? No. Clearly, it's me you're after.

I
think I know why, too: It's because I'm on to you. When the history
books about modern American culture are finally written (in Mandarin,
no doubt), it will be clear that terrorist attacks and diethylene
glycol didn't topple our nation. Britney Spears did. 

I was at
an improv comedy class the other night where actors had to riff on
different celebrities. When given the suggestion "Barack Obama," half
the actors stared at each other blankly.

"Barack Obama is a presidential candidate," the instructor had to explain. 

Another suggestion came in from the audience: "Paris Hilton."

"Yeah, OK," the actors said. "Let's just go with Paris Hilton." 

When
we do bother to pay attention to current events, it's only for the
purposes of exploitation and personal profit. Have you seen Maxim's
July issue featuring Women of the Israeli Defense Forces?

Of
course you have. I have your number, China. Now that I hang out with
stay-at-home moms I have a better grasp of how pervasive – and toxic –
celebrity culture is in America.   

It seems we gobble up more
gossip than cola, cookies and candy combined. There is no way that
anything we consume this much of could possibly be made in America – we
couldn't afford it if it were. So that means, somehow, celebrity
obsession is made in China.

I'm not entirely sure how it all
works, but I'm certain that you want to snuff me out before I get close
enough to Lindsay Lohan to check for a "Made in China" label on the
back of her neck. 

Let me assure you, China, that I have no
intention of foiling your plot. I have completely succumbed –
surrendered – to your mass-produced celebrity obsessions. I'm even
planning on TiVoing Paris Hilton's first post-jailhouse interview.

So
put down the toothpaste, and let's declare a truce: Grab a seat on my
couch, China, click on the tube, and we'll watch what they say about
Rosie on "The View." You can bring the popcorn.   

On second thought, I'll handle the snacks.

Paris Hilton vs. My Husband's Penis

This week, I will delight you all with musings about Paris Hilton.

I
will write about Paris Hilton because I am not allowed to write about
how my husband fell on some jungle gym equipment at the park, tore 40
percent of his urethra and has been catheterized and bedridden for the
past 32 days.   

I would write about how my husband fell on some
jungle gym equipment and tore 40 percent of his urethra, but Hubby says
he can't stand to relive the accident and would prefer that I not tell
the whole world what happened to him. So, in deference to him, here are
a few words about the convicted heiress: She's facing a rough, rough
time. The media are cracking crude jokes at her expense, mocking the
Carl's Jr. spokesmodel for her In-N-Out jail stay. Being downright mean.

But at least she has a perfectly intact urethra.

I'm
sorry. I am trying really, really hard to care about Paris Hilton's
jail scandal. I'm told (by the guy who has been convalescing on my
couch for the past month) that such trivial fluff will get my mind off
my husband's injury.

So here goes: I feel for any girl of
privilege who is suddenly jolted awake with a bucket of ice-cold
reality. Mock her all you like, but she didn't choose to be born into a
bubble of wealth and ignorance.   

Her problems with the law are
likely going to have some long-term effects on her public image – think
of all the sex videos she's going to have to make just to get people to
stop talking about this! Of course the whole experience would have been
a lot worse for her had she, say, fallen on the red carpet at the MTV
Movie Awards and torn her urethra, and then gone to jail. That would
have been lousy.

It would have been worse, still, if she had
been sentenced to 30 months in prison for obstructing a CIA leak
investigation – and then torn her urethra. Because, even if she got a
presidential pardon for part of that, she'd still have a torn urethra.   

As it is, Paris' urethra is in good shape. And, I hear, one of her fellow inmates even made her an origami butterfly.

Hubby
does not have an origami anything. Not only that, but he so far has
been confined to bed for almost as long as Paris' sentence. So on the
face of things, I'd say Hubby has it much worse. Not that I'm writing
about Hubby's situation. I promised I wouldn't.   

So … Paris. Yes. Paris. Paris, I'm guessing, hates her life right now.

She's
stuck in her cell, missing her dog and feeling whatever pain it is she
feels from the "medical condition" that hastened her short-lived
jailhouse release. 

In this way, she's a lot like Hubby. Hubby,
too, is in pain and misses picking up his son. But, unlike Paris, he's
surrounded by his dog and his distractions (mountains of comic books).

Come
to think of it, Hubby is even encouraged to take narcotics, which I'm
pretty sure is currently off-limits for Paris. So, in that way, he's
got it better.   

Also, our extraordinary friends have been
amazingly generous with their books, culinary skills, DVDs and visits,
lifting Hubby's spirits higher than Paris Hilton's skirt … which
reminds me: This column is about Paris Hilton.

I pity poor
Paris. Since she's a celebutante, the First Amendment allows people to
flap their gums about her dealings with the penal system all they want.
Same can't be said for Hubby and his penile system. 

Oh, who am
I kidding? I can't care about Paris Hilton when there isn't a 400-pound
gorilla sitting on my brain. Heaven knows I can't care about her now.

I'm
tossing my Us Weekly, shutting out of TMZ.com and heading back to the
couch to hang out with Hubby. I can't get my mind off of his ailing
state, so I'll leave the Paris parsing to the rest of the pundits. 

But, if she happens to tear her urethra, give me a call.

More Show

I was 5 when I got my own TV set. Maybe I was 4. I could watch
whatever I wanted. There weren't that many stations back then, so there
was little worry that I would be corrupted by Fox News or some other
smarmy filth.

I loved my TV set. For nearly 10
years, I was an only child; but what I lacked in siblings I made up for
in fictional friends: Kermit, Danger Mouse, Jack Tripper, and my first
crush, Fonzie. All of these friends lived in the warm, glowing innards
of my constant, reliable roommate. It was a happy childhood.

So why, my mother wants to know, am I denying my own child the same joy?

When
my son was born, I horrified Mom by declaring two things: That I would
nurse, and that Zev could not watch TV until he was 2. I was giving him
the boob, but not the boob tube. Mom was outraged.

Kids need TV, she told me. How was he going to learn anything?

I
found the argument curious, since my mom had been a teacher for more
than 30 years, but I decided not to debate her. Kids under 2 learn by
doing, hearing, touching – and, of course, by sticking things in their
mouths. Grandparents learn by seeing.

I figured she'd
see what an engaged and intellectually curious baby he'd turn out to
be, and she'd drop her TV demands before the first year was through.

I smiled patiently during the early arguments: Zev
would be the only kid in preschool who didn't know Elmo. How will he
learn to talk? "Baby Einstein" teaches the kids classical music. 

I
showed off Zev's first Elmo doll, pointed out his remarkable mastery of
language and bragged about the always-running iPod in the baby's room
programmed with everything from classical to rap (He has shown a
preference for Tchaikovsky over Mozart and Busdriver over the Beastie
Boys – beat that, Einstein.).

This failed to move Mom,
who believed I was somehow doing injury to my son by denying him the
joys of "The Wiggles." She'd call to tell me about all the fabulous
children's programming her friends' grandkids were consuming. Why, oh
why, couldn't Zev join in the fun? 

She went so far as to suggest – based on something she'd seen on "The Tonight Show"– that if I exposed Zev to the "Baby Einstein" video series, he'd become an instant music prodigy.

Mom
even said I was likely damaging Zev's attention span. When he finally
does get to watch TV, she said, he won't have the discipline to sit
still for 20 to 30 minutes at a time and reap the full benefits of
those cathode rays.

I'm sure at first Mom thought I'd
break. That I'd see how difficult it is to raise a child without
television, and I'd cave to the reassuring baby-sitting abilities of
Barney. When I didn't, she called me "too strict," and warned me that
my son was going to rebel one day. I tried to picture what this would
look like. He'd spend his 20s binging on "Max Headroom" reruns? Marry a
Philo Farnsworth descendant? Run a network?

We'll
never know. Last week we introduced Zev to television – one month to
the day before his second birthday (See, Mom? I'm not strict.). Hubby
and I TiVo'd a few episodes of "Sesame Street" and sat down to watch
one with him. Perhaps you've seen it? It was brought to you by the
letter "V" and by the number 16.

Zev took to TV with
aplomb. He confused Grover with Cookie Monster – a common rookie
mistake – but other than that, my mom's worries have proven unfounded.
Even with a two-year delay, Zev managed to laugh at everything Elmo
did. He looked deeply concerned for Telly Monster when Telly expressed
trepidation about trying a square-shaped sandwich. He even counted
along with The Count.

His gaze didn't wander, and his comprehension of the various story lines didn't falter. Zev didn't just watch TV, damn it, he understood it.
And when the final credits were running, Zev said something that I'm
sure I'll hear time and again. Something that will make my mom proud.
After we turned the TV off, Zev pointed to the screen, and like every
normal television-watching toddler everywhere, he demanded: More show.

Gender Politics 101: Or Why Hillary Won't Win

My husband thinks I hate women.

Not only do I hate women,
according to Hubby, but all women hate women. In his view, we double-X
chromosomed creatures arise every morning in our feminine loveliness,
look at ourselves in the mirror and say, "What a beautiful, smart,
wonderful woman I am. I hope my husband's pretty co-worker gets a skin
disease." 

This, apparently, is the only way Hubby sees fit to
explain my belief that a woman will never be elected president. When I
– and all my girlfriends (I have girlfriends, despite Hubby's
assertion) – say that Hillary won't win, Hubby gets apoplectic and
claims, "You're the one keeping her down.

"If she doesn't win, it's because women hate her," he says. 

It
is true that women have the capacity to despise other women. We are
also pretty good at excoriating men, not to mention vermin and certain
species of mold. But to say that the only thing keeping a woman from
being elected president is other women completely baffled me.

When
Brill heard Hubby's theory, she said, "But I'm going to vote for her. I
still don't think she'll win, but I'm going to vote for her anyway."

Hubby's
eyes practically popped out of his skull: "By saying that you don't
think she could win, you're spreading the kind of negativity about her
that will make her not win."
 

Brill and I blinked at him a few
times, both wondering whether he'd secretly been watching Oprah and was
quoting to us from "The Secret."

My friends tried to explain
it to Hubby, get him to understand that our calling other people sexist
doesn't make us sexist. We just believe that, unconsciously, most male
voters want their presidents to possess certain pendulous organs along
with strong resumes.
 

Hubby wouldn't hear any of it. The only
thing keeping Hillary – or any woman – from the presidency is the
cattiness of other women.

I had no idea that Hubby had this
view of gender relations. He must think girls' night out is like one
long scene from "Heathers." That the Red Tent got its name from all the
back-stabbing he imagines goes on inside. Women hate women, and our
disbelief in the possibility of a woman getting men to vote for her was
all the proof Hubby needed.
 

Ha, ha, ha. Isn't Hubby silly? Oh,
wait, what's this? Shortly after Hubby began calling me a sexist,
stories emerged from France's election – the one in which Ségolène
Royal lost.

At the time, I had figured gender had nothing to do
with Royal's defeat. She's a socialist. She was up against a
right-winger. I had figured Nicolas Sarkozy's win was all about
ideology. But in the days following the election, stories were written
with headlines like "Women shun Royal," and "Sarkozy gets the women's
vote." 

None of the stories suggested that women voted for
Sarkozy because they preferred his policies. Instead, the pieces
focused on how much women really didn't like Royal.

One paper
quoted a female Sarkozy operative saying, "Her 'I'm beautiful, look at
me, I've got four children' might impress a supermarket checkout girl,
but we don't use that card."
 

Meow.

The stories left me
wondering: Is Hubby right? Are women the only thing standing in the way
of a female president? Do women hate women?
 

No. Of course not, Leslie assured me.

Saying that the country is too sexist to vote for a woman doesn't make me a woman-hater.
 

"He
is basically arguing that we're making things worse via the so-called
soft bigotry of low expectations. Incorrect. We're just commenting on
the current state of the playing field," Leslie reassured me.

Phew.
Thank you, sister, for helping me through a critical moment of doubt. I
will no longer question whether my fatalistic view of gender politics
is a kind of self-fulfilling prophesy. I will not wonder whether women
inevitably turn on each other. Whether we're our own worst enemies. I
will rest assured in the knowledge that women evaluate each other based
on our qualifications and experience – not on petty jealousies or weird
Darwinian dictates.
 

But I still kinda hope Hubby's pretty co-worker develops a skin disease.

You Can Just Call Me "Mayrav"

I'm in a bar with three men. Three very masculine men who refer to
each other by vaguely vulgar nicknames, drink copiously and talk about
their fondness for "fun-loving women."

I haven't come to San
Francisco to be drunk under the table by a guy named "Golden Flow." I
have come to San Francisco to attend a lesbian couple's baby shower.
But I'm staying with Lisa, and she's clearly in love with one of these
fellas, so, I'm happy, at least, to toast to that.   

The guys
we're drinking with go way back: They served in the military together
in Okinawa. Lisa and I go way back, too. So much so, we know intimate
details about each other's lives. Like our names. The same cannot be
said for the drinking buddies.

The men are all "hashers,"
members of a mostly military social club that – as they explain it – is
known for hosting biweekly races that end in excessive drinking and the
occasional life-threatening vehicular stunt. The only other detail I
learn about hashing is that every participant is benighted with a
nickname.   

No one questions his nickname. No one uses any name
other than his nickname (Lisa's man honestly couldn't tell us the real
names of the men we were meeting that night). And no one really answers
questions about his nickname.

In fact, each time I inquire about a name – I take it you weren't named "Golden Flow" because you rock the mic– I'm shrugged off.   

There's
something sacrosanct about the nicknames, and it becomes clear that I'm
annoying everyone when I keep asking the guys to explain each one.

I
don't normally hang out with men like this. I should say Men like this.
My guys are more likely to launch into a debate about "Lost" than pick
a fight at an Irish bar in Japan. They throw punch lines, not punches.
And none of them have nicknames.

With few notable exceptions, I
have never hung out with men who ascribe nicknames to their friends,
and now I know why: It's an impenetrably elite, masculine thing to do.
"Hulk Hogan," was likely not his given name. And he'd probably ignore
me, too, if I prodded him about it. A nickname is not just about the
moniker; it's about branding someone as a member of your group – and
keeping your Average Joes out.
 

The monikers I have had as a
kid have all been derivatives of my actual name. I've never been a
"Pinky" or a "Flashdance" or anything cool like that. One of my former
Register colleagues occasionally calls me "Pinhead," but – I think for
HR reasons – it never caught on 

Listening to stories about
"Slap" and "Care Bear," and other racier nicknames, I suddenly feel as
if I've missed out on a significant social bonding experience. Women
don't give each other nicknames. We pour our hearts out to each other,
offer advice when it's needed and support even when it's not. But I
can't imagine Lisa ever turning to me and saying, "Hey, Curly-Que,
how's it hanging?"

When I find myself nodding off in my brew, I
signal to Lisa that it may be time to leave the cast of "Top Gun" at
the bar and head home. The whole way back, I think about how ridiculous
the monikers are – and how badly I want one.
 

Best way to get
a nickname, I figure, is to give one, so I work on creating a handle
for Lisa. She's a horseback-riding, museum-curating, animal-loving
artist. It should be easy to come up with a name, but all I can think
of are funny, fond memories.

Like the time we showed up to
breakfast wearing the identical outfit and having ordered the exact
same meal. The all-nighters we pulled. The way we can never remember
each other's birthdays – even though they're only a few weeks apart.
 

I
go to bed, calling out, "Good night …" searching for something to say,
and coming up with nothing funny or clever or goofy. Lisa isn't a
"Slap" or a "Toad" or a "Golden Flow." She's a real and legitimate
friend. So I settle for what she's always been to me … "Good night,
Lisa," I say.

"Good night, Mayrav."
 

No, I didn't get a nickname. But I guess I don't need one.