Sex and Suburbia, Vacation Vixens

Sex and Suburbia, Vacation Vixens
By Julie Stankowski

I’m all about cruising. Cruise ship cruising. From L.A. (where I live) to anywhere. Don’t care where the ship goes, as long as I don’t have to fly to get there. I will no longer have to deal with airports and airplanes and mean people taking a small snow globe out of my bag and throwing away my little present for my daughter because it probably contained more than 3 ounces of fluid, which I might use to commit a terrorist attack on my airplane home from Mexico. I will no longer spend 3 hours on the telephone with American Airlines trying to use the millions of frequent flier miles we have accumulated because regardless of how far in advance I call, there are never any frequent flier seats available to wherever the hell I’m going. I will no longer spend an entire day getting four overstuffed suit cases and four ultra-heavy carry-ons to and from my destination (which is typically only a two-hour flight away). I will no longer have to perform a strip-tease act taking off my shoes, my belt, my jacket and my jewelry just to get to my gate. Yes, I have had enough with air travel. Boat travel, here I come.

Nevertheless, whether traveling by boat or by air, I would like to introduce my fantastic idea for a new business: The Vacation Vixens. I think I have come up with a great business plan for some entrepreneurial mom out there (definitely not me, but my mom could run the business with her eyes closed). No need to go to law school, get an MBA or even have a college degree for this profession. A Vacation Vixen knows her craft inherently. As if she was born with the knowledge and sense to succeed at this career. Vacation Vixens are travel experts who know how to pack properly, organize appropriately and happily stroll through an airport as if it were an easy-breezy Cover Girl day. Vacation Vixens can handle all of their clients’ needs in creating a stress-free vacation, from planning and preparation to getting there to returning home. They greatly reduce the need for the traveling mom to indulge in too much alcohol and Ativan before, during and after the trip. Yes, I think the market is wide open for Vacation Vixens to become wealthy, wealthy people. I would hire one.

The target demographic: disorganized moms who, after 40+ years of living, breathing and traveling, still cannot figure out how to appropriately plan and pack for a family vacation. Why is this phenomenon so difficult to master? Well, apparently, an educated, generally got-it-together mom like myself cannot, despite sincere efforts, figure out how to go on a damn vacation without over packing, fumbling through the airport trying to find the passports in her humumgo bag with 5 million things to keep the kids occupied and having to do at least ten loads of laundry when arriving home because she packed two outfits a day for everyone, which were never worn, but nonetheless need to be washed because of the tropical suntan lotion smell that seems to have permeated all the suitcases.

Having just returned from celebrating the 12th anniversary of my 29th birthday in Mexico with my husband, kids and parents, I am awestruck by my mother’s ability to travel successfully. She typically has only one suitcase which is never over the airline weight limit (mine is over every time and I have to juggle clothes and shoes from suitcase to suitcase until we get it right and don’t have to pay a $1,000 fine for an extra 3 pounds of clothing). She has a small rolling carry-on bag which appears as easy to maneuver as her own arm. She wears a necklace-type thing on her neck which houses her passport, airline ticket and a pen for her to fill out customs forms etc. I used to make fun of her for this - - didn’t think it was very cool or Carrie Bradshaw-ish. I now eat my words. On this last trip, I was so jealous of her un-cool, un-Carrie-like necklace (which I had previously told her only old people use) that I really wished I had one! And another thing, as light as my mom traveled, she magically pulled out any strange thing anyone needed at any given time. My daughter said her stomach hurt and my mom just whipped out a special chewing gum made to ease stomach pain (I didn’t even know that existed!). Someone had a ripped nail, my mom pulled out a clipper. I spilled red wine on my shirt, out came the Tide-To-Go Pen. Where does she stash all of this stuff? I have a gazillion bags that are ridiculously heavy and I can never find a goddamn thing that would benefit anyone. Well, I take that back. The marshmallow peeps always seemed to be at my fingertips and would always placate one kid or the other. But, still . . . .

Unless I am the only loser who has yet to figure out how to travel practically, I recommend hiring a Vacation Vixen. (And by the way, Mom, I think you should start this business!) The Vacation Vixen will assist you from the get-go. She will magically get the airlines to accept your frequent flier mileage, saving you thousands of dollars right off the bat. She will also make sure you have the best seats on the plane, with the most leg-room and in close vicinity to exit doors in the event of an emergency. Or, if you prefer and have the funds, she will arrange for a private jet. She will assist you in canceling the mail, the newspaper and any other services you will not need while on vacation. She will make arrangements for Fido and make sure he/she is enjoying a pet Shangri-La while you are gone. Fido will be picked up and dropped off exactly when you request and will be fully cleaned and groomed when she gets home.

The Vacation Vixen will pack your entire family’s suitcases and carry-ons, weeks in advance so you need not stress. She will arrange for your bags to be at your destination prior to your arrival via FedEx (or something like that) so that you need not worry about losing luggage and you need not haul what seems like an army platoon’s bags along with you through airports, security, shuttles, etc. She will make sure that your luggage contains every possible thingy or gadget you may need in the event of an emergency or a child throwing a temper tantrum, or simply throwing up. She will also ensure that your lipstick, gum and passports are easily found. She will arrange limousine transportation on all ends where there will always be a tuxedoed man holding a card with your family name. She will arrange for the resort at which you are staying to wash and dry clean all clothes just prior to your departure. Those same folks will pack those clothes for you in such a manner that when you arrive at your home via your personal limousine, your baggage will be awaiting you at your front door and will be ready to open with clothes that go right into the closet and right into the drawers, no washing machine required.

And the Vacation Vixen will also have hired and supervised an out-of-this-world cleaning crew to make sure your house is in tip-top shape when you get home. They also will have cleaned out your refrigerator and cabinets and stocked the same with fresh milk, bagels and cream cheese and produce so that you are completely set to get on with your life, as if you had never been gone in the first place.

There are only a few things the Vacation Vixen won’t do: foot the bill; give you a massage when you get home and redo your manicure/pedicure that got thrashed on the beach during vacation. But, you know how you always need a vacation from your vacation? Well, the Vacation Vixen has an “in” at all of the Adults-Only Four Seasons, One and Onlys and Ritz Carltons out there and will hook you up! Worth it, huh? Well, I just want to say to my mom, “Mom, if you do start this business, which clearly I believe will bring in loads of moolah landing you a spot on the Forbes top ten most successful female entrepreneurs, please leave it to me in your will. Although I am completely incapable of independently acting as a Vacation Vixen, I am quite capable of making sure I hire the right people to carry on your legacy!”

Sex and Suburbia, Hormone Monsters

Sex and Suburbia, Hormone Monsters
By Julie Stankowski

Ummm, where do I start? My life is a sitcom, when I am in the viewing the glass as half full mood. Or, my life is a horror movie, when I am in the glass half empty mood. These days, I never know what mood I’ll be in when I wake up. I don’t think I have any control over it. I think my body has been taken over by the hormone monsters. I think that when I fall asleep each night, the hormone monsters gather in some imaginary saloon somewhere, have a few beers, play a little poker and then decide if they are going to bless me with the happy hormones or curse me with the horrible, yucky, hot-flashy hormones. The hormone monsters do this each and every night; they never seem to get bored with it. I wonder whether the hormone monsters realize how very much power they have and that their little decision during their stupid poker game affects every person that comes into contact with me. I wonder whether they realize they are making me look like a crazy person to the outside world. I think the hormone monsters are all male.

I bet the male hormone monsters are also contentious lawyers who would argue that they are innocent of my accusations and then try to create reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury by pointing the finger elsewhere.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, let us start out by saying that we are completely innocent of the charges alleged against us by the obviously unstable and loony plaintiff in this matter. During the course of this trial, we will show that said plaintiff lives a crazy, nutty overscheduled life and is surrounded by people and circumstances that clearly are the culprits of said plaintiff’s excessive moodiness. We will provide witness upon witness who will testify that he or she has actually caused this plaintiff to become a certifiable nut case. And by the end, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will have no choice but to find us “not guilty” of these charges. And for your own safety, you may also want to ask the judge to commit this plaintiff to a mental institution for an indefinite period of time.

Your Honor, the Hormone Monsters (HM) call their first witness, the plaintiff’s son.

HM: Please state your age for the court.

Son: I’m 4.

HM: Have you done anything recently that you think may have upset your mommy?

Son: Well, last night I hit my sister. I wouldn’t stop playing Wii when my mommy asked me to. I cried a lot because I didn’t want to take a bath. I threw a temper tantrum because mommy was making me go to bed and I wanted to play Sandman Tower on the computer. I pulled the dog’s tail because I was really, really mad. Then after mommy tucked me in, I got out of bed and ate a whole bag of Skittles. My fingers got really sticky from holding the Skittles in my hand, but I wiped them off on my sheets, so I’m pretty sure my mommy doesn’t know I ate the candy. Then, I called for my mommy to come into my room in the middle of the night because I had an accident in my bed. Mommy took care of it, put me back to sleep in her bed because my daddy is out of town and then went downstairs to wash my sheets and my night-night. Then my mommy went back to sleep, but the smoke alarm went off because of a problem with the vent or something on the dryer and mommy had to find a broom and stand on a chair to bang the alarm down from the ceiling so that it would shut off, but that wasn’t my fault.

HM: Thank you, son. No further questions. We call our next witness, the plaintiff’s daughter. Please state your age for the court.

Daughter: I’m 8.

HM: Have you done anything recently that you think may have upset your mommy?

Daughter: No.

HM: Okay, can you think really hard about anything that may have happened recently that may have bothered your mom a little?

Daughter: Well, just that my little brother can be a poo-poo-dumb-head. But my mom never gets mad at him because she says he’s so cute and funny.

HM: Thank you. No further questions. We call our next witness, the plaintiff’s dog. Please state your name and age for the court.

Dog: My name is Sonoma and I am 8 months old.

HM: You’re with the plaintiff a lot. Have you witnessed anything recently that may have caused her to become upset?

Dog: Uh, maybe. First, I barked at the door because I had to go potty, but nobody opened the door so I peed on the floor. Then I was hungry so I chewed on the couch for a while. Then I had to have an operation so I wouldn’t have puppies. Turns out I also had an ear infection. I am home now, but, as you can see, I have a huge cone on my head so I can’t bite my stitches and my mom has to put 8 drops in my ear every day. I hate that so I make it very hard for her to get anywhere near my ear. It’s kind of fun. Then I heard her talking on the phone. She said she was at the doctor every day last week, but she’s fine now. She said that on the way to her doctor’s appointment she broke a tooth and had to go to the dentist. I think she was really unhappy about that because I heard her say that she would rather have a pap smear, a mammogram and a colonoscopy all in one day than go to the dentist. I also think she had an argument with my dad because all of the sudden I heard her say hello, hello, hello and then she hung up the phone. It appeared the person on the other end of the line was no longer there. Then I heard her say some pretty bad curse words. Then I followed her in the bathroom and saw her take out a kind of long skinny thing I think she called a tampon. Then I saw her take some Advil. Then she washed her face because she was sweating a lot, like she was really hot.

HM: Anything else?

Dog: Yes. Then I heard her say that she had to make an appointment with her gynecologist because the goddamn hormone monsters were making her crazy.

The jury found the hormone monsters guilty as charged. The jury further found the hormone monsters had to pay restitution in the form of sending plaintiff on an all-expense paid Crystal Cruise vacation including all spa services. The jury sentenced the hormone monsters to life in a girls’ sorority house where they can’t get anywhere near any pre-menepausal-40-year-old-women, without the possibility of parole.

Sex and Suburbia, Mongolia, Anyone?

Sex and Suburbia, Mongolia, Anyone?
By Julie Stankowski

Are there any reasonably priced hotel rooms in Mongolia? Or Madagascar? Or maybe on Mars? Yes, I think far away Mars would be the best choice. Because right now, I feel like I need to pack a little suitcase and get the heck out of dodge! A Calgon bath is just not going to cut it this time. Everyone’s bugging me. And I am quite sure I’m bugging everyone. And I think at this moment the world may be a happier place if I just shacked up by myself for a while on another planet (at least until my cycle passes).

I thought I had recovered from dealing with the “room,” but it seems I have not. I am still uptight, irritable and basically unpleasant all the way around. I don’t know, maybe I’m just becoming a crotchety old lady. Or maybe some kleptomaniac psycho patients stole my patience, but all I know is I have none (I thought I did, but apparently, I was delusional). Or maybe I’m just a non-meditating, non-yoga-going, overscheduled, PMS-y stressed-out bitch. Or maybe I’m just having a very bad reaction to the bathing suit allergy I have, knowing that in less than two weeks on Spring Break, I’ll have to wear one. And did I mention everyone is bugging me and I’m bugging everyone?

On that note, does any one know where to find the person who coined the phrase, “Don’t sweat the small stuff?” Do they have a course on some college campus somewhere that teaches you how to live by this motto? Because I’m sweating, man. I’m sweating like I’ve been living in a sauna. Soaking, dripping-wet-sweating. I know the Hormone Monsters are my roommates, but geeezzz! And sweat is gross and sticky and generally a people-repellant. I need to get rid of the sweat, or at least get some better deodorant to mask its odor. I wonder whether there are any products on the market that permanently remove neurotic women’s sweat glands. Because my people are being repelled by my excessive sweatiness and desperately need for me (and my Hormone Monster entourage) to be in a place where I am blocked from any and all types of communication. My people really, really need to be Julie-free for a few days. And I’m willing to give them what they need (I’m so considerate). I just hope I don’t die up there on Mars. Not sure if I know how to survive without Trader Joes, hot water, an actual toilet and wine.

Do you think maybe there’s a Four Seasons or a Ritz Carlton on Mars that we just don’t know about yet? Like a hidden oasis that aliens keep to themselves in order to avoid the company of crazy American moms. Well, probably not. For the sake of my family though, I should go. But I will only go if I can somehow know for sure that I will come back alive and if I can somehow manage to get there using George Jetson’s sky car (or whatever it is he floats around in). That would be cool.

And here’s how my loved ones would benefit:

For my husband, he would not have to deal with my moodiness, my nagging or my blogging and what he sometimes considers to be insulting depictions of him (even though I totally love him and don’t ever mean to offend him). For my children, they would not have to take baths, brush their teeth, eat their vegetables or do homework. Mean mommy would not be here to make sure they refrain from beating each other up. They could eat chocolate cake for breakfast, wear shorts and flip-flops to school in the rain and play Wii Fit until 3:00 a.m. They could fight to the point where they have blood spurting out their little bodies, but at least they wouldn’t hear mommy yelling at them! What fun! For my friends, they wouldn’t have to deal with my bitching and complaining. For my puppy, well hey, she could just chew the whole house apart and have a big-old-pee-fest and not be sent to the dog house. Yippee! And for all of the wine lovers in Ventura County, the shelves would be fully stocked since I’d be gone. Like I said, I think everyone would be happy if I vacationed on Mars for a little while.

And for me, well, I am obviously tired, cranky and hormonal. A little alone time may do me good. And bonus, I wouldn’t have to shave me legs! And hopefully, the Hormone Monsters are too stupid to find a way to get to Mars and I could get a much-needed break from those yucky, yucky meanies. And I could spend all of my time trying to invent some sort of something to keep women from sweating (the small stuff and the big stuff). Because sweating is not okay: for you, your husband or your kids, unless you’re in the middle of a work-out session with your hotter-than-hot personal trainer.

Sex and Suburbia, The Room

Sex and Suburbia, The Room
By Julie Stankowski

Am I the only one who has the “Room?” You know, the one that you can barely walk into, that’s full of junk and crap and tootsie roll wrappers and popcorn remnants behind the couch. The one you throw all of your stuff into when company is coming over and then just keep the door shut and pray nobody opens it. The one that has boxes of paperwork that have been sitting there since 1990 and you are afraid to even look at. The one that has 517 Ziploc baggies with different pieces to different kids’ games, but nothing goes together. The one that has the old TV that’s as big as the fat lady who sings. I hate that room! It gives me anxiety, angina and angst all at the same time.

I must clean up the “room.” I can no longer live with it. But the thought of tackling this project is so overwhelming that every time I even contemplate it, I think I need to hit the booze instead. How could this possibly have happened? How could I have let this small space become so out of control? Is it a metaphor for my life? Messy cluttered room, messy cluttered head? Can’t be. My life is good! So the “room” should reflect that, right? But where do I begin? And how do I begin without feeling like I’m going to throw-up? Maybe I should put on a suit of armor and pretend like I am on the attack and Not-No-One-Not-Nothing will stop me because I will be protected by impenetrable steel. Okay, that’s ridiculous.

But now that I’m 40, I’ve decided it’s time I grow up and start living like a responsible adult. That means that regardless of my extreme trepidation not only about what I will find in the “room,” but also about what I will do with all of the crap in the “room,” I nevertheless must deal with the “room.” I wish I could say it’s the last remnant of my forever childlike habits, but it’s not. I still throw my clothes on the floor, hit the snooze button 7 times and wake up at the last possible second to still have enough time to get ready and get out the door, buy birthday party presents an hour before the actual party, pout like my 4-year-old when I’m upset and, I still sometimes eat cereal for dinner. I procrastinate, I’ve been known to whine from time to time, I indulge myself with too much ice cream for a little person and I still occasionally change my outfit 15 times before I feel like I look good enough to leave the house. I think I still have about 1 million childlike habits. But I can only deal with one at a time. Today (and probably for 10 hours a day for the next two weeks) I will deal with the “room.”

I feel like I need some sort of stretching, strengthening or exercise routine before I cross through the doorway to hell and begin the long, tedious journey of turning the “room” into heaven instead of hell. I hate exercise, though, so that won’t work. Instead, I’ll have a glass of wine, put on a Natasha Bedingfield CD and just dive in. I’m scared . . .

Okay, I have been in the “room” for two weeks, I am still alive and kicking and I have managed to avoid having a nervous breakdown! Hooray for me! And hooray for whoever it was that first came up with the concept of smushing grapes and fermenting them into big barrels of wine. If not for that person, I may not be here to finish this epic story about the “room.” In fact, the next time I have to tackle some project that makes my stomach do somersaults, I will first buy stock in Robert Mondavi.

So it wasn’t easy, but I now have an almost bare room in which to create the fantasy playroom I always imagined for my kids. Getting to this point almost caused my husband (and my kids) to divorce me because of my absolute sour mood that lasted the entire two weeks of sorting, tossing and donating. I was mad at everyone (including myself) and everything for creating this monster of a space. Question: am I the only stupid person who, for the last 41/2 years, has continued to employ a nanny who is so lazy that instead of putting toys away in their proper places, dumps everything into red plastic cups from Costco, shoves the cups in a corner and then somehow thinks that leaving a room full of 87 red cups was actually doing her job? Finding all of these red cups made me see red and I was ready to kill her. This murderous feeling became even more intense when I had to start searching the house for the probable existence of additional red cups undoubtedly containing the missing cube from “Don’t Break the Ice,” the missing person from “Candyland,” the missing pieces to “Connect Four,” and the little white balls for the “Hungry Hippo” game. What was she thinking? I could not get one whole game together with all of its parts until I looked through the entire house! Put the contents of 6 red cups together and voila, you have a complete game. Wouldn’t you have wanted to kill someone? Especially someone you pay to help keep your house tidy? Are you getting the picture of why I needed my new best friend around, Robert Mondavi?

And then there was the issue of my husband (love him dearly, but . . . ). As I have mentioned before, I do not think the man has thrown anything away since he made enough money to purchase it in the first place. What is up with that? It drives me crazy (okay, I know there are probably 10 million things about me that drive him crazy, but if he wants to complain about it, he’ll have to start his own blog!). And even though I was single-handedly taking on the monumental task of dealing with the “room,” you would not believe what my husband said to me, “Honey, the only thing I ask is that you don’t throw anything away before showing it to me.” Are you frickin’ kidding me? Oh yeah, I’m just gonna lay all the crap out all around the house so when you happen to get a minute, you can give me the okay to throw away the empty Wii box, the 10-year-old $2.00 mouse pad coming apart at the seams and the 1992 issue of Fantasy Baseball magazine. Not. How am I supposed to do this with my husband, the hoarder? Not to mention an 8-year-old and a 4-year-old who are completely unwilling to part with any of their things. “It’s special to me,” they say. “How is a Goddamn toilet paper roll special,” I think to myself, but don’t say out loud.

So that’s when I decided that I had to do most of the work in the “room” when my kids were in school and my husband was at work. What’s the saying, “What you don’t know won’t hurt you?” That became my little motto in my head and during the day, I threw away and donated like there was no tomorrow. I saved a few things here and there to show my husband for approval before they got trashed, just so he wouldn’t think I was actually doing what I was doing and sneaking everything out of the house. Task accomplished.

Next obstacle. Obtaining storage-type furniture to house the toys, art supplies, DVDs, books etc. Also must buy a new TV that is thinner than the big fat lady TV. No big deal. That’s what Ikea and Costco were created for, right? Wrong, according to my husband. He doesn’t want “cheap” stuff. Okay, shall I go to the Pacific Design Center and spend $10,000 for a kids’ room cabinet? I think not. And if I waited for my husband to shop around for cabinets and TVs, it would be 2010 before the “room” would actually be useable.

So again, devious girl that I am, I decided to buy the furniture, buy the TV and have everything installed and looking like a fabulously rich play room before my husband got home from work. Because the fact of the matter is, when he sees a finished product I managed to put together in the house, he actually likes it! But, oh my God, all of this sneaky-get-it-done-surprise-the-husband-and-not-wait-4-weeks-for-him-to-find-the-best-TV-for-the-best-price stuff can literally put me over the edge. It’s quite a task. And stresses me out to no end. And if people thought I was bitchy for the past two weeks, on this particular day, people would have thought I needed to drink an entire bottle of smushed grapes, ingest an entire bottle of Ativan and eat an entire pint of coffee Haagen-Dazs in order to calm down and let go of the complete raw nerve and crankmeister I had become.

Well, I’m happy to report that today, I have an awesome, neatly organized, very cute and totally functional playroom. The whole family is happy, including my husband! And I am no longer a raging lunatic mom with no patience. And I managed to avoid becoming a devil in the hell “room.” But I do feel like I need a vacation and three full days of sleep. So, I will go put on my PJs, throw my clothes on the floor, have a bowl of cereal for dinner and watch the Real Housewives on Tivo with my new BFF, Robert. At least I know my kids will be happily entertained in the heavenly playroom, where any and all red cups and any and all sizes of Ziploc baggies have been banned. And at least I can be proud of myself for growing up a little. I just hope I’m not 80 before I have enough energy again to deal with the other 999 childlike behaviors I still exhibit.

Sex and Suburbia, Tweezers and Vasectomies, What?!!!

Sex and Suburbia, Tweezers and Vasectomies, What?!!!
By Julie Stankowski

So, what should I write about today? Here’s what’s on my mind: tweezers, vasectomies and why I think God created Sundays.

Tweezers. A fantastic invention. For 40-somethings with hair growing out of the oddest places, this invention is right up there with the light bulb, Tivo, cabernet, Haagen-Dazs and babysitters. Without tweezers, you would be astounded by how many women would be strolling by you in Target with a 5-inch hair growing out of their chins. Seriously. I thought I was the only weirdo that kept a tweezer in my car. It was a secret, like I had some bizarre habit I couldn’t tell anyone about. But I got sick and tired of driving down the street, opening my little lighted mirror to put on some lip gloss and then being mortified by what I saw making its way out of my neck (ummm, why didn’t any of my friends mention this to me?). So, I decided to keep my secret weapon in my glove compartment (like purses and bathroom cabinets, I think women’s glove compartments contain a lot of personal information about them). Now, you will never see me at the grocery store with an unwanted goatee. I pull out of my garage and, in the sunlight, armed with my invention of the century, pluck away until my skin is entirely hair-free. I decided to come out of the closet and admit I’m an automobile-hair-plucker because in the last several days I have come to learn of four other women who are as a crazy as I and they too carry the same secret weapon in their glove compartments. So nice to know I’m not alone. Enough about tweezers.

Vasectomies. Another fantastic invention. That is, if your husband will even contemplate some surgeon messing with his special package! If your husband has had one, kudos to you. You are a lucky, lucky woman. But if your husbands are like mine, the second they hear the word, “vasectomy,” they get a look on their face as if they were being attacked by aliens, bitten by snakes and handed an extraordinarily high AmEx bill, all at the same time. They don’t want any more kids, but they refuse to have sex wearing a raincoat. As someone recently said to me (can’t remember who, but she must be one of my very smart friends), “It’s two damn days with a bag of frozen peas and you’re done!” Have we women not endured enough physical pain down there popping out 7+ pounds of flesh per baby to warrant us asking our husbands to spend two days with peas? They can mentally block out the peas and watch ESPN, Turner Classic Movies and do continuous mock baseball drafts on the computer. And for two full days they can be waited on hand and foot by their oh-so-appreciative wives. But I don’t think this stubborn group will budge. And once again, we wives have to take charge and deal with the preventing pregnancy thing. And explain to our grown-up husbands why the pull-out method doesn’t always work!

Moving on, let’s talk about Sundays. And forget religion. This has nothing to do with what religion you are. I believe God created Sundays for nutty, over-scheduled and exhausted moms. I believe that soccer games, baseball games, birthday parties and every other Sunday happening should be banned. I believe moms should have an absolute right to stay home in their pajamas on Sundays and do nothing but watch sports (or HGTV and the Food Network), read the L.A. Times from cover to cover, slave over the crossword puzzle, nosh and occasionally doze off. Yes, I know we’re not single anymore and I know we have children, but hey, even a mom deserves one day! One day! That’s it. Can’t we have a day?

Here’s how it goes. The fact that we moms must constantly “chit-chat” with other people is exhausting in and of itself. When you bump into someone you know, doesn’t matter whether you are at drop-off, pick-up, the grocery store, the gym . . . the routine is the same, “Hiiii! How are youuuu?” “Oh, I’m greeeaattttt! What’s going on with you???” Can you imagine what would happen if you deviated from the routine and when you saw another mom at drop-off, you completely ignored her because you weren’t yet awake enough to move your mouth and make sound come out? And when those moms saunter over to you and say, “Good morning, how are you, what’s new?” I’m thinking it may be considered gauche to reply, “Hi, well actually, I’m tired and cranky and I just don’t feel like ‘chit-chatting’ right now. I have a million things on my mind, my kids had what appeared to be a world championship wrestling match this morning which left both of them crying, I have to go home and clean-up my dog’s throw-up, I feel fat, ugly and bloated and like a big crab-apple that’s about to pop, and at this moment quite frankly, I don’t give two flying hoots about how you are or what’s new with you!” No, we cannot say how we really feel or what we really think. That would be rude and obnoxious. And someone would report us to the manners’ police. And we’d probably have no friends. And wind up on the preschool Black List. So, we must keep the smile pasted on our no-longer-wrinkle-free faces and provide the expected response, “I’m good, you?” Exhausting, I tell you. Simply exhausting.

I believe God knows this. And I believe this is why God created Sundays. A day where we moms should not have to dress and put on make-up. A day where, left alone with our families, we can say exactly what’s on our minds and not pretend to be Happy-Happy-Happy, La-La-La, 24/7. A day where we can sit on our butts and not feel like Lazy Lucys. A day where we can order in Chinese and not cook. A day where we can casually play with our kids and not have to rush off to ballet class or football practice. A day where we have all the time in the world to take advantage of tweezers and vasectomies.

Thank you, God!

Sex and Suburbia, The Not-So-Secret Secret

Sex and Suburbia, The Not-So-Secret Secret
By Julie Stankowski

I’m very open about it. In fact, I tell everyone. The moms in preschool, the moms in elementary school, the rabbi, the neighbors, the grocery store clerk . . . I tell anyone and everyone who comments. I have a new fashion accessory. This accessory has become my new addiction. I just can’t get enough. I have many different styles and colors (more than I care to admit). Each day, I decide what mood I’m in (well, actually, the Hormone Monsters decide what mood I’m in, but that is a whole other story coming in another post) and I choose the perfect accessory to match the mood. Who should I be today? Roxanna, Danielle, Ginger or Faye (my personal favorite)? Just as some women can’t get enough Jimmy Choos, I can’t get enough wigs!

Okay, please don’t judge me or think I’m crazy (I am crazy, but in a normal crazy kind of way). And NO, THANK GOD, POO, POO, POO, KAYNAHORAH, I am not sick (at least not physically, mentally is up for debate).

So here are (the not-so-juicy) details about how I happened into the wonderful world of wigs. For most of my life, I had great, thick long hair (dark brown since law school when I couldn’t afford to color it any more) that I really liked (an absolute pain in the ass to blow dry and straighten, but totally worth it). About 3 and a half years ago, six months after my son was born, I started losing a lot of hair. Normal after having a baby, but it never stopped. It was raining hair in my house. Raining men: good. Raining hair: not so good. To make a long story short (as short as someone with chronic oral diarrhea can possibly make it), I felt like my thick hair had become as thin as a wafer cookie. I hate wafer cookies! Anyway, most people didn’t notice, but I was extremely self-conscious about it. So, I went to a wig store to buy those really expensive “real” hair clip-in extensions and then took them to the really expensive hair dresser so they would match my color perfectly. Okay, way too high maintenance, even for me. Back to the wig store - - didn’t know what I wanted to do about it, but ended up leaving the store wearing Mandy, a long dark brown wig that looked exactly like my hair. When I got home, my husband said, “Your hair looks great! Did you go to the hairdresser today?” And he was only standing a few feet away from me! My best friends said the same thing. Nobody had any idea it wasn’t my hair until I told them! I was shocked! They were shocked!

Well, what began as something I was totally freaking out about became something frivolously fabulous! By the way, no one could ever figure out why I lost so much hair (I think I now know every doctor in the state), but I’m happy to report that my hair is nice and healthy again! So that means no need for wigs, right? Wrong!

You have no idea how great wigs are! After Mandy, I bought Ginger, a very stylish and sexy bob, shorter than I would ever dream of cutting my own hair. The first time I wore Ginger in public, I got soooo many compliments; it was unbelievable. But I didn’t want to wear it all the time and my own hair was long. What to do? Tell people that I was wearing a wig. I’m too old to care (pretty much) what people think. Again though, nobody could believe it. I was asked who my hairdresser was more times than my kids scream, “Mommmmm” in a 24-hour period. I took “her,” as the wig store people refer to the “girls,” to Cabo on vacation. Who has to worry about humidity now??? Not me! My hair (well, Ginger) looked perfect every night.

I think it is the Carrie Bradshaw in me that has me hooked. Gotta be fresh and fun and stylish and sexy. I even bought a long blonde wig one day (think Jessica Simpson). The problem with that though, was my husband’s concern that if I wore it out with him, people would not recognize me and the rumor mill would fill up with stories about how people saw my husband out and about with some blonde! All of my other wigs, though, look like they could be my very own hair. And I think it’s fun for my husband. He never knows who he will come home to or go to bed with! How Sex and the City of me!

So now, when the Hormone Monsters strike, I can decide between my plethora of wigs or my now healthy real hair. Did I get up early enough (remember, I don’t play Name that Minute anymore!) to blow dry and iron my own hair or should I plop on a wig? It’s so fun. And a major topic of conversation. People stop me and ask, “Who are you wearing?” as if I were walking the red carpet. And every day, at least one person looks at me and asks if it’s my hair or a wig. “I can’t tell anymore,” they say with a look of sheer surprise. I have friends who ask me to go to their hairdressers with them so they can cut their hair exactly like a particular wig. And if you can believe this, I actually started a trend! I have five friends who have actually bought wigs too! But they don’t tell the world like I do, so I will keep their identities secret. You know all of the moms who are having clothing parties at their houses? Well, I think I should have a wig party! I’ll send invites entitled “Wigs and Wine!” Woo-Hoo!

And today, my daughter’s (totally adorable) teacher asked me if I had a room full of bald-headed mannequins wearing wigs. Noooo! That would be scary and creepy and weird. Noooo! Even I’m not that weird. “My wigs are in shoe boxes,” I told the teacher (with a few other moms around participating in the crazy wig conversation that seems to take place on a daily basis). We crack up about it all the time. And then I shocked the totally adorable teacher when I said that Mandy was in a Hello Kitty shoe box and Ginger was in a Spiderman shoe box and Faye (appropriately) was in a Hannah Montana shoe box. “No way!” she said laughing. “I thought for sure they’d be in Manolo Blahnik boxes all neatly lined up like a Barney’s display.” Well, bottom line, it would be fiscally irresponsible (and potentially pose a health risk to my husband, and in turn to me, upon the arrival of the AmEx bill) if I were to combine my wig addiction with a designer shoe addiction. And as much as I love Christian Louboutins, I love my “girls” more, at least for right now. Tomorrow who knows; I’m very fickle with my accessories. But today, I hope the “girls” are happy living in their Target bought kids’ shoe boxes.

And there you have it. The Not-So-Secret Secret!

P.S. The Hormone Monsters are real! And they will be highlighted in future posts! I don’t want to piss them off!

Sex and Suburbia, Name that Tune, Mommy-Style

Sex and Suburbia, Name That Tune, Mommy-Style
By Julie Stankowski

I can name that tune in 10 notes. I can name that tune in 7 notes. I can name that tune in 4 notes. Okay, name that tune!

Maybe I’m showing my age a bit, but do you remember that show? Name that Tune? Well, when I was getting out of bed this morning and getting my kids ready for school, that show popped into my head. Weird, I know. But I’ll tell you why. I think I’ve been playing Name that Tune with myself since my daughter started school. In my crazy life, however, the show would be called Name that Minute.

I can get my daughter ready for school in 90 minutes! You see, I used to set my alarm for like 6:00 a.m. I would get up and take a shower (a rare occurrence these days; no, I don’t mean showering in general, but rather showering before drop-off). I would do my hair (straightening iron and all) and do my make-up and get dressed in my “nice” sweats. I had to look decent for drop-off (okay, cut me some slack. I was a first-time mom and didn’t realize that no one gave a shit but me). So I was primped and perfumed before I even got Ally out of bed. At that point, I would still have 90 minutes to wake up my baby with sweet little kisses, pick out a cute outfit with matching accessories and do her hair in some adorable style that would take me almost 30 minutes to perfect (I’m not good at the little girl hair thing). Then, we would have a healthy and hearty breakfast, hang out and chat while I made her lunch, meander for a bit and casually head to school for a timely arrival.

Ummm, that was then, this is now.

I can get my daughter ready for school in 60 minutes! A couple of years, another child and a puppy later, I was getting really good at this game. No sweat! And humbleness notwithstanding, I eventually became a master at Name that Minute. So, I kicked it up a notch (kudos to Emeril).

I can get both kids ready for school in 45 minutes! Yep, I could. A little more rushed, a few less accessories on my daughter, but at least the kids were clean, dressed, fed and on time. Too simple!

Not one to take the easy way out, I had to challenge myself. Not to mention I needed more sleep. A lot more sleep! Being a mom is more tiring than watching the History Channel.

I can get the kids ready for school in 30 minutes! Okay, get them ready! Okay! Yeah right, here’s what it looked like:

Oh shit! Oh, crap! It’s 7:30! Oh, SHIT! Oh my God! I jump out of bed. I run into my daughter’s room, grab some clothes for her (apparently the extra sleep I had left me color blind and my raging hormones made me somehow believe it was summer and not winter and my daughter was handed a pair of plaid green capris two sizes too small for her and a pink polka dotted tank top) and I tell her to get dressed FAST! We’re gonna be late! I run into my son’s room and grab some more mismatched and inappropriate clothes and tell him to get dressed FAST (he’s only 4)! We’re (I mean “I’m”) really running late. I sprint back into my room, trip over the half-eaten doggy toy lying on the floor and brush my teeth (literally the only hygiene ritual I could possibly perform in the time allotted). I put a jacket on over my pajamas and a hat on over my bed-head hair (I looked like Ozzy Osbourne after a major relapse). I go back into my kids’ rooms and they are still in bed. Oh, crap! Shit! Fuck! (I think I may actually have said these words aloud at that point.) Ally’s going to get a tardy even if I drop her off in the carpool lane (like the loser parents who are too lazy to get out of their cars and actually walk the two minutes it takes to escort their second graders into their classrooms). I’m such a bad mom! My kids are still half-asleep zombies as I put their clothes on, brush their teeth and do their hair.

We make a bee-line for the kitchen where I grab two pop tarts and two water bottles for an elegant breakfast in the car. I’m such a bad mom! I haul ass to school (in my oversized Jackie O sunglasses to complete the haggard mom in PJ’s and hat look), pray that there is no motorcycle cop hiding in the bushes and realize I didn’t make lunch for either child. I’m a REALLY bad mom and I SUCK at Name that Minute! I get my daughter to school two seconds before the bell rings, give her a huge hug and kiss, a five dollar bill which is enough to buy lunch and some stupid piece of crap they sell at the student store (guilty mom must let poor daughter buy some worthless junk she somehow thinks is awesome) and tell her to have a great day! Oy, I feel terrible. My kids must be the only ones who did not have a nutritious breakfast and who had only minutes to get ready for school and who had to eat in the car and who had to wake up to a crazy, frantic, scary-looking mom whose ego got too big for her britches playing Name that Minute. What the hell was I thinking? LOSER! BAD MOM!

So now, in order to right my wrong, avoid a nervous breakdown before 8:00 a.m. and become a good mommy again, I am playing a new game.

It’s called Mommy Wheel of Fortune. In this game, there is a big, blingy-looking wheel with a rhinestone pointer as the spinner. Each slot on the wheel contains a different prize, all designed with the pampered mommy in mind. Here’s how the game works. You only get a chance to spin the wheel on the days you get up early (bright-eyed and bushy-tailed is also a requirement), get the kids dressed in color-coordinated, weather-appropriate outfits (that may be from Target but look like they could be in the Gap window display), make a yummy breakfast which is eaten in your very own kitchen, have quality morning interaction with your babies and make it to school on time, even if you drive under the speed limit. It’s the honor system. Oh, and I forgot, you must also have made a delicious and nutritious lunch which would not only taste good, but would not embarrass your child in front of his/her classmates (I still don’t get why fruit cups with fake cherries are embarrassing . . . but, anyway).

Should you accomplish the above task, you’ll feel like a great mommy again and will have earned the opportunity to spin the wheel. Will you land on: A day at the spa; A deluxe pedicure including a foot massage; A pass to order dinner in and not cook; A pass to take a nap; A one-hour shopping spree at Nordstrom; A Babysitter for Saturday night? (It’s your wheel! You make whatever prizes you want!)

Today, I hope I land on my personal favorite prize, a priceless Mom of the Day Necklace made by my talented children out of a piece of string and a huge construction paper star on which the kids wrote in pink and blue crayon, “WRLDZ GRAYTISSD MOMY.”