I'll be blogging at some point

Here's another xojane post from me. Have at it.

Also, for those who care, I had some technical difficulties (spilled water on my keyboard, once new keyboard arrived and I figured out how to work it, Blogger was messed up). And also a crisis of confidence initiated by a person who does not like my writing. Because, why believe any positive feedback when you can wholeheartedly agree with the negative?

My first post for xojane is up!

Click here to read it. Thanks.

A Fashion Shoot Waiting to Happen

As I was reading my Tuesday New York Times this
morning (we're really on top of things at Fallen Princess this week), I was transfixed by this picture. This sweet dude is just killing it with his look. Everything is working, from the unbuttoned shirt to the vertiginously high-waisted trousers. I mean no disrespect to the dead. Quite the contrary.

Tina Fey and ME

My husband bought me Tina Fey's Bossypants for Mother's Day. (Petite digression: Anyone know why the type is coming out wonky and in blue? I think it's because I stole this picture from the internet. I had to, because the cover of Bossypants is too freaky for me with the hairy man torso.)

So, Dalton got me the book, which I read in 24 hours---oh, good, the type is normal again--- because I'm obsessed with Tina Fey. I've written about her before. I wanted to express annoyance that the press always connects Fey's weight loss with Lorne Michaels' decision to put her on the air.

What I didn't admit in that post is that I am jealous of Tina Fey. I relate to Tina so much, and feel that we have so many similarities that it leads to full-on career envy. We're both writers, we're both sarcastic, we both have brown hair and wear glasses. We are both moms. Yet there she is ruling the world, running a tv show and writing a book that was excerpted in The New Yorker. Damn, I have always wanted to be in The New Yorker. In contrast, here I sit, still in sweaty yoga clothes, trying to finish this post before the school bus arrives and I begin the unglamorous work of keeping my children from killing each other, while getting everyone to soccer on time, homework done, a reasonably healthy dinner cooked. And on and on. I wonder what special gene Tina has that makes her super successful?

"She is a workaholic," theorized my close friend Heather. "She would go home to put her kid to bed and then make everyone from 3o Rock come to her house so they could write all night." I am definitely not a workaholic. I am a hard worker, and was once an overachiever but I burned out around age 44. And I've never been one to work late into the night, not unless you count going to rock shows for live reviews as "work."

Heather also relates to Tina, though H. has short blond hair and no glasses and is not that sarcastic. Aha! Maybe that is why Tina has done so well for herself! Many women feel a kinship with her! Not just those who can dress up as Sarah Palin for Halloween. (I wanted to post my picture in my SP costume here, but iphoto was being weird and, as I said, the school bus will be here any minute.)

Tina is also pretty fucking funny. I found myself laughing uncontrollably, more in the first half of the book than later. And she was hilarious as a Jersey Girl on Jimmy Fallon.

From the book, I have analyzed five similarities, and five differences, between myself and T.F. This is interesting to no one, except myself, so talk amongst yourselves for the next bit.

Similarities:
1. Name: Tina/Christina
2. I can be funny too, sometimes
3. Both got pregnant with second baby at 40
4. Can't drive; lost virginity at age 23. (These seem related.)
5. Long-suffering husbands

Differences:
1. She acts
2. She did not breastfeed, and wrote some rude things about breastfeeding moms having nipples the size of dinner plates, maybe because she was feeling defensive. I breastfed each kid for 2 years. While working full time as an editor-in-chief. See: "overachiever," above.
3. She's not really a girl's girl, or at least her show isn't very girly.
4. She's very rich
5. She chooses to continue working, while I threw in the towel except for some half-hearted part-time freelancing as well as full-time complaining.

OKAY. The bus is here.

P.S. I guess what I am saying is that Tina represents the road not taken, or perhaps the road not available to be taken. It is possible that me being jealous of Tina Fey is a bit like a karaoke singer being jealous of Christina Aguilera.

Me Me Me: On Narcissism and Yoga

Interesting article about narcissism in today's New York Times. A new study links boastful song lyrics from the '80s through 2007 with the self-obsession of the youth of today. One 50-year-old friend of mine used the article as fuel for his ongoing tirade that the young have too much damn self-esteem. However, the piece was nuanced--it suggested that the middle-aged may be just as narcissistic as the nubile, but the data on the middle-aged doesn't exist.

I had an uncomfortable feeling while reading the piece. Especially when the ubiquity of the word "I" in lyrics was mentioned as a narcissism red flag. Hmmm. During my brief "career" as a song lyric writer I don't think I composed a single song without the word "I" in it. Me and the word "I" are really good friends. Years ago, during a conversation about psychotherapy, my friend Dan said something that I never forgot: "Nothing is more interesting than oneself." I love the first person. It's my go-to point of view for basically anything.

And what is more narcissistic than writing a blog? Or writing anything, really. The very act of writing is an act of ego. If you're a writer, you think (or hope) that people care about what you have to say.

I started this blog partially because I felt that the person I was before becoming a stay-at-home mother had ceased to exist. I wanted her to have a place to live. If that's not narcissism, I don't know what is.

I was contemplating all of this (does worrying whether you are a narcissist implicate you right off the bat?) when I went to yoga class this morning, to attend to the needs of my soul (more narcissism?). Halfway through class, I helped my yoga friend Dina into a middle-of-the-room handstand. Dina is a practiced yogi with a generous spirit. When she told me she was ready for me to let go, I did, and she fell over onto her back and hit her head. I stood motionless, too horrified and lightheaded from my own handstand to act. Dina lay there on the floor, half-laughing. People gathered. Water was brought. "What happened?" asked the teacher.

"She told me to let go, so I did," I said weakly. "When your friend asks you to let go," she announced to the very full room. "Make sure she's really ok first." I hadn't done that. I trusted that Dina knew what she was doing. Dina was still lying on her back at this point. "It's not your fault," she said, looking up at me. But I felt like it most definitely was my fault. I am a terrible spotter, and handstands are really scary for me. I went out to the lobby and lost it, bawling like a little kid.

Another friend came out and comforted me. "People get hurt," she said. "It even happens in advanced teacher trainings." I wanted to leave, but Dina, ambulatory by this point, convinced me to stay and finish the class. "You need to deal with this," she said. "That is why you are here." So I did. At the end of class, I got hugs and kisses and love from my fellow students.

"That's quite a yoga community you have," said my husband when I called to tell him the story.

I sure do.

Breast Implants

The number of breast augmentations increased 39% from 2000 through 2010, according to new data from the gleeful American Society of Plastic Surgeons.

I read about the study the morning after a friend, a breast cancer patient, told me that she had just had her saline sac removed because of an infection. her troubles made me wonder why anyone would put herself through surgery if her breasts were actually healthy and intact. I did some browsing on the web and found another stat that shed some light on the situation: women who get implants are more likely to be depressed and suffer from body image problems than those who don't, and are 3 times as likely to commit suicide, according to 7 studies.

I once hugged a friend and realized with a flash that her unnaturally hard breasts were not real. We exchanged a glance, and that was that, but I never thought of her the same way. Years ago, I knew a girl whose father bought her implants as an 18th birthday gift. He looked at her and said: "You're a little out of proportion. Let's get you some implants." Amazingly, this girl grew up to be a productive member of society.

Not that you asked, but I myself have smallish breasts (34 B). They get the job done with a minimum of fuss. I did enjoy the novelty of wearing huge hogans back when I was breastfeeding, but I never felt like shopping for a permanent set. I have a thing about squandering my children's education fund on paying someone to cut open my body and insert foreign objects into it. But also I appreciate the excellent job my breasts did feeding my children, and I'm grateful that small breasts remain perky for decades longer than is really fair.

Other than the creep who bought his daughter a new pair, I have never heard of a man who likes implants. Listen to my friend Bryan, a known pervert: “Like many others, I think breast implants are sad. For nearly all men who actually touch breasts (as opposed to that greasy cohort whose acquaintanceship with breasts is relegated solely to computer screens and strip clubs), implants are a huge turn-off. I do totally love big breasts. But I also really love small breasts. They're all awesome. Most of all I think that the breasts of adult (rather than 18-year-old) women, post-childbirth, sag and all, fully set the bar for beauty. I am a guy's guy and an authority on this issue."

Mike, a fan of adult entertainment, is also repelled: “I do NOT like breast implants. I just think that after a certain point, bigger is not better. The irony of breast implants is that way more often than not it's someone going from a 34B or C to a 44D or E, and winding up looking like a caricature of femininity. The poster girl for this is, of course, Pamela Anderson, a stunningly beautiful woman who turned herself into a cartoon. Implants just don't tend to look very good or very real. At best, they tend to result in an unnatural roundness, like someone stuck half of a coconut shell under their skin. At worst, and over time, it looks more like a hockey puck.”

Ergo, if you are getting implants to attract men, then it may be an exercise in futility. Although I do dye my hair and apply various creams and potions in part to be more attractive to a man--my husband--so it's not like I exist in some patriarchy-free bubble.

The ASPS didn't release any stats about women getting implants to attract other women. But I'm curious about it. I couldn't really find any studies about this online, so if you're a researcher, there's your topic.

One last thing: don't try and tell me you got implants "for yourself." I'm not buying it.

Middle School Misery

We just chose a middle school for our son. The process was agonizing. He has been so safe and warm throughout elementary school, constantly under adult supervision, lovingly ferried from school to soccer to chess to play dates. The child has no freedom. And that's the way I like it.

Next year, Dale will often be at large. He'll join the unruly pack of preteens that rove through Upper Montclair, playing chicken on the train tracks and generally being stupid. We'll have to buy him a cellphone so we can find him, and he us.

In our town, there are three middle schools. I preferred the crunchy one that is half the size of our kids' elementary school. At this middle school, they believe in a long recess and outside time. Plus, I really liked the earnest language arts teacher I met. It seemed like the public middle school version of the private preschool our kids attended.

Dale, however, had other plans. He wanted to go to the school three blocks from our house. It has two big gyms and offers an architecture elective. It's the math and science magnet, and he excels in these subjects. And, he said, "All my friends are going there."

Long story short, all his friends are not going there. Their parents were able to talk them into the crunchy granola school, while I allowed Dale to make the first really big decision of his life.

And I've been so anxious about the change. I was totally fine about him starting preschool and kindergarten. Of course, at those times I was working full-time and distracted.

Yesterday, I realized why I'm so freaked out about my boy starting middle school. It's because sixth grade was pretty much the nadir of my life. As always, everything is ALL ABOUT ME.

So, anyway, back to me. We had just moved and I started the year at a new school. I walked onto the playground that first day, and a boy took one look at me and said, "That girl's so fat she looks like a Butterball Turkey!" The name stuck.

I don't think that will happen to Dale, and yet. There is a picture of him sitting in his classroom on the first day of Kindergarten. His lunchbox is on the desk, and he looks so small and scared. I can't stop thinking about that photo.