Jogging in Neverland

Two of my favorite women on earth recently gave birth to their first babies. Both women are strong, independent and intelligent. Both have journeyed far in pursuit of their hopes, dreams and ambitions. And both of them seem markedly different since becoming mothers, as if they have moved into a parallel universe called parenthood, while Peter and the rest of us kids are still jogging around Neverland waiting to sprout our donkey ears.

As a best friend, aunt and observer of life, I am the one lacing up my running shoes, wondering what kind of food they served on that Mommy boat I missed, jogging alone in the state of childlessness. Wow, it’s really fun here… I can buy cool stuff like metallic gold eyeliner. I have time to put it on and places to go where I can wear it. But as I jog around and around until my calf muscles merit “hot mama!” praise from Captain Hook, I can’t help but wonder: Do mothers experience a uniquely transforming experience, a trial-by-fire initiation into a level of maturity only a mother can achieve?

Moms? Are you reading me? I need some answers here. For starters, after courageously taking those risks that made you strong and independent, are you now, as it appears from back here in Neverland, completely surrendering your hearts and souls to nurturing your babies? If the answer is yes, does it make you feel connected to the universe by the same long, genetic string that puts sparkle into the stars? Or, (maybe and/or) do you understand why Andrea Yates woke up one morning, made her husband’s lunch and kissed him goodbye as he left for work, then filled the bathtub and methodically ran down all five of her babies?

Moms, now that you no longer are going on auditions, winning awards, slaying dragons, wearing hot pants and looking good in them, do you still know who you are? Are you proud of yourselves?

Alice Walker says that childbirth is heroic and all mothers are heroes. “Look around,” Ms. Walker says. “Every person you see entered this world through a woman’s body.”

Neverland pales.

Jogging in Neverland

Two of my favorite women on earth recently had their first babies. One of them is pregnant again. Both women are strong, independent and intelligent. Both have journeyed far in pursuit of their hopes, dreams and ambitions. And both of them seem markedly different since becoming mothers, as if they have moved into a parallel universe called parenthood, while Peter and the rest of us kids are still jogging in Neverland waiting to sprout our donkey ears.

As a best friend, aunt and observer of life, I am the one lacing up my running shoes, wondering what kind of food they served on that Mommy boat I missed, jogging alone in the state of childlessness. Wow, it’s really fun here… I can buy cool stuff like metallic gold eyeliner. I have time to put it on and places to go where I can wear it. But as I jog around and around until my calf muscles merit “hot mama!” praise from Captain Hook, I can’t help but wonder: Do mothers experience a uniquely transforming experience, a trial-by-fire initiation into a level of maturity only a mother can achieve?

Moms? Are you reading me? I need some answers here. For starters, after courageously taking those risks that made you strong and independent, are you now, as it appears from back here in Neverland, completely surrendering your hearts and souls to nurturing your babies? If the answer is yes, does it make you feel connected to the universe by the same long, genetic string that puts sparkle into the stars? Or, (maybe and/or) do you understand why Andrea awoke one morning, made her husband's lunch and kissed him goodbye, filled the bathtub and methodically ran down all five of her babies?

Moms, now that you no longer are going on auditions, winning awards, slaying dragons, wearing hot pants and looking good in them, do you still know who you are? Are you proud of yourselves?

Alice Walker says that childbirth is heroic and all mothers are heroes. “Look around,” Ms. Walker says. “Every person you see entered this world through a woman’s body.”

Neverland pales.

Trusses and Knee-High Boots... Dressing for One's Age

To dress appropriately for one’s age, one must first be willing to dress appropriately in general. This has never interested me.

Oh sure, I can climb into corporate drag with the best of them: ruffled white blouse, black suit, pearls, pantihose and high-heeled pumps. But this isn’t dressing. It’s earning a living. Functionally, it’s no different than the attire of young ladies strolling on Sunset Boulevard after midnight.

I dress to express myself, not to avoid offending someone else’s standard of what I should or shouldn’t wear. I do not, however, dress to shock, embarrass, or make anyone uncomfortable. For example, I wouldn’t attend a party with one breast draped in velvet burnout while my mastectomy site is exposed because hey, I can’t be arrested for indecent exposure when there’s nothing there to see, can I? I’ll leave that one to performance artists.

What can one expect to see me wear? Black. It’s a perfect foil for purple, flaming coral, fuchsia and all the other colors of passion. You will never see me wearing navy blue, however. Too may bad memories of Catholic school uniforms and prissy girls on the playground, who twirled their full, expensive skirts for no other reason than to ridicule my modest pleats. I haven’t worn pleats since then, either.

At this year’s Oscar soiree I wore a white eyelet tunic over black leggings and high-heeled white leather knee-high boots with lacy cutouts and scalloped cuffs. I felt like I was swooshing through a half&half surf in heaven... I felt like an avant-garde art exhibit on loan from Shag’s studio.

My friends oohed and aahed over the boots and gushed nonstop about how fabulous I looked. Maybe they were humoring me because I brought pastries... but at the bakery where I purchased them on my way to the party, two older women couldn’t stop staring at me. They didn’t look impressed. They looked judgmental. Apparently, unlike them, I wasn’t dressed appropriately for my age. Or maybe it was just that, long before the month of May, I was wearing white boots.

Broke-Back Mall: Hear those PURs A-Jinglin'

I confess, I’m a fashion magazine junky. What could be more fun than curling up with glossy spreads of anorexic middle-schoolers wearing lime-green mink jackets over see-through blouses and no underwear?
Well, it used to be fun. A few years back I could convince myself that, with the right concealer, I, too, could wear shades of green that naturally occur only on fish scales and insect wings. So what if my trendy green duds went out of style before I paid off the credit cards used to purchase them?
Then, last summer, something ominous happened: the clothes, shoes, belts and bags in fashion magazines started sprouting zeros.
“Yikes! $35,000 for a handbag?” I shrieked after seeing it listed as a New York working woman’s “must-have” in Vogue. Must be a typo, I thought. $3,500 is a mortgage payment, but $35,000? That’s a brand-new C-Class Mercedes.
It got worse. Over the next year, prices for shoes, belts and bags continued to sprout zeros, raising prices for these items so high that not even the wives of retired Exxon executives could buy them with a straight face.
Not that it’s any of MY business. As if to drive home the point that fashion is no longer accessible to working-class women, a new phenomenon has emerged in magazines like Vogue, Elle, Bazaar, Lucky and Shop: “Price Upon Request.” As of current June issues, “PURs” have proliferated like page lice. Is this what happens when the wealthy one percent get so many tax breaks they have nothing better to do than bait the middle class? Forget the literal translation. “PUR” is code for: “Don’t even think about buying this, you Walmart-shopping untouchable.”
For those who think I’m too sensitive about my socio-economic status, let’s see what Amy Larocca had to say in her article, “Double Your wardrobe” in the February, 2006 issue of Bazaar: “Some women are so resourceful that they split the cost of big-ticket items, devising time-sharing schemes whereby a few friends go in on, say, a handbag and then work out who gets to flaunt it when.”
Yes, I know, there are plenty of other outrages to get worked up about, but while I’m planning a strategy for those, I will go to Neiman Marcus carrying a rolled-up brown paper bag and annoy the sales staff with inane questions about cost. I will shoplift my fashion magazines (get over it). And I will wait for the day when, like SUV owners who have begun torching their gas-guzzlers because they no longer can afford to drive them and can’t resell them, former manufacturers of $35,000 handbags will sit on street corners holding signs that say, “Will accessorize for food.”

Derby Day, No Ticket No Hat

Think back. Remember when you werea kid and your parents had a party and they put you to bed in a dark room with yellow light shining through the cracks of the closed door and you could hear the laughter and the party noise but you weren't invited so you felt sorry for yourself until you fell asleep? That's what it's like to be in Louisville on Derby Day with no ticket to the Downs and no hat.

My Dad lives in Louisville. His birthday is May 4th and the Kentucky Derby is the first Saturday in May, so every year we have a family reunion when the horsies run for the roses. My beautiful nieces and their husbands attend the Derby. I babysit for their kids.

Every May I swear that, next year, I will not be among the pregnant women, AA members on their way to meetings, fundamentalist Christians and others who cannot drink and therefore have no interest in attending the Derby. I also swear I will not be among the ragtag few who, if not actually at the Derby, don't at least have a kick-ass party to attend.

There are three ways to do the Derby, not counting those who qualify to enter Millionaires' Row. College kids and everyday drunks pop for $40 to enter the Infield. If it rains they take turns sliding in the mud, Woodstock style. If it doesn't they suffer second-degree sunburns. Either way, they get drunk on their asses and lose their money.

Then there's the Grandstand, where the price of admission is $60. This buys a hard, unreserved seat in the blistering sun, pelting rain or whatever other elements Derby Day conjures. Grandstand views vary from worthless to nonexistent, but Mint Julep vendors circulate every 15 seconds, enabling those seated in this section to get just as drunk-ass and broke as revelers in the Infield.

There is a sub-set of Derby goers. They dress up like the box-seat elite, complete with gloves and hats, and walk around the cobblestone courtyard as if they're on their way to place bets, find the Ladies Room, or anesthetize the balls of their feet after the third consecutive hour of walking in stilettos.

But to really do the Derby right, to glimpse B-team celebrities and rub elbows with other drunks who sob off their mascara to the smarmy strains of My Old Kentucky Home, one must beg, borrow, steal or actually pay thousands for a box seat ticket. Then one must buy a $500 hat. And pay for over-priced air fare in and out of Louisville during Derby week. And break off one's heels, rip one's bra-straps, sail the high-priced hat into the stands, and stumble into a perfect stranger's limo when the day is over because who the hell can find their car after drinking 19 Mint Juleps?

Next year, to hell with the babysitting, I swear to God I'm going to the Derby.