Category Archives: yikes

My Maiden Voyage in Girdle Top Pantyhose

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photo by Rob Thurman

photo by Rob Thurman

Must they be called that? Geez. I plucked a package from the display rack and quickly slid my thumb over the words Girdle Top, while hunching my shoulders around the cardboard package. The g-word made me cringe. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten myself in this position. It brought back a vision of my grandmother, a hardy, thick-waisted woman who expended considerable effort donning a girdle – the kind with dangling metal clips that attached to thigh-high nylons.

The fact of the matter was I needed a word like girdle. It was unapologetic and assertive. I had no time to waste on sugar-coated euphemisms. They’d just create doubt. I needed a guarantee.

I had three hours to lose twenty pounds. These pantyhose were my last hope.

I guessed on the size, made the purchase and ran to my car to get home. I had to dress fast and be back out the door in a hurry.

When I removed the pantyhose from the package, they cascaded to the floor. Then down the hall. They were at least 8 feet long−no exaggeration. The girdle part alone was 4 feet. A quick inspection of the package confirmed I’d bought the correct size and there was no sign of the word “irregular” anywhere. If I wasn’t late, and panicked that my dress wouldn’t fit, I’d have a real belly laugh over these. Clearly, they were designed for a bloated Yao Ming. Let me clarify, while they were extra-long, they were not wide−by any stretch. Even a good yank at the waistline had me perspiring with fear that I’d never get one leg in, let alone 2 legs (with thighs) and a stomach.

I sat down on the closed toilet seat and took a deep breath. This had to be done right the first time. Once these bad boys were on, I was pretty sure a pair of scissors would be the only way out.

Perplexed by the four foot-long girdle, I examined the back of the package which demonstrated a silhouette wearing them. The waistline was not at her waist at all; it stopped right beneath her breasts. Hmmm? Could that mean that all the unwanted rolls of flesh below my waistline would be pushed and squeezed up to my breasts? That’s freaking brilliant! I started to feel tingly with anticipation.

Of course, if that held true, these supernatural-nylons would need a new name, like tummy flattening-bust enhancing  hosiery? No, not zippy enough. I’d work on that later. Right now it was time to concentrate.

I won’t bore you with the details. There was a good deal of swearing, hopping, sweating, teetering and yanking. It was a blessed miracle that the girdle stretched enough to engulf my entire mid-section.

I thought I might like the new svelte me, but pain obscured any joy. I began to feel tingly again, now, lack of circulation. Even my breathing was hindered. Short breaths only.

No time to pity myself, I was on a tight clock. I’d even have to surrender to the sagging crotch−two inches below its intended position. Short strides for rest of the day.

I grabbed my dress off the bed and wiggled in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a spot on the back of my leg, in my knee pit. It was a small green splotch. Did I burst a blood vessel?!? No, it was a small boxwood leaf squashed against my leg. What the hell? No time for questions. I had to remove it. But not with a quick slip of the hand down the back, because there was no room! My hand, literally, could not weasel into the tight grip of the girdle! I had to lower the damn thing all the way to the knees to get that leaf out. This brought the crotch down even lower. Too bad. Had to go.

I arrived at the restaurant and eased my way out of the car.

Short steps, short breaths, flat stomach, full breasts.

I walked up the path to the door, and noticed the faint smell of newly cut grass. I pinched my nose to ward off what I feared was imminent. Too late. Robust sneezes came fast and furious. The waistband was no match for the third sneeze; it curled in submission. The laws of gravity and physics assisted the curling momentum until my ample tummy sprang from its constraints and rippled over the top. It was free.

I took my first deep breath in an hour. Nonplussed, I continued to inch my way to the door.

Short steps, deep breaths, fat stomach, flat breasts.

My Six Days on Broadway: Crossed by a Golightly Cat

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photo by psyberartist

photo by psyberartist

I really needed the work, otherwise, trust me, I wouldn’t have taken a job as a personal assistant to a cat. Not even if it’s starring in Breakfast at Tiffany’s on Broadway.

First of all, I’m deathly allergic−within twenty minutes of being around a cat, my eyelids will look like cheese doodles. I’m teary, puffy and itchy for the rest of the day. Secondly, I’ve never been a personal assistant to anyone, unless you count my kids. But I must say, when I got the call, I was elated. Yes! A job! A personal assistant for a Broadway star (sort of) how bad could it be? At least I wouldn’t hear whining, bossy, rude condescending remarks, from a cat! Right!?!

Within my first six days on the job I was placed on probation four times. I was told three strikes and you’re out, but, lucky me. Someone from Stage Paws (the casting company that sent all the Holly Golightly-cat-wannabes) told me, none of Ms. DeBórah’s former personal assistants have ever lasted more than a day. Oh, I didn’t tell you her name. Ms. DeBórah. Do me a favor. Please, please, pronounce this cat’s name with three syllables, emphasis on the second. Do not, for the love of God, pronounce it with two syllables, the second of which being a woman’s undergarment. Probation #1: I allowed her to be called De-bra by a stage hand and didn’t have him corrected or put on probation.

As her personal assistant, one of my responsibilities was to stock her dressing room with her favorite foods, special treats, flattering photos of herself, an ipod filled with her meditative music, and the only kitty litter she’ll pee on, the one that smells like wet dog, (imported from France).

Probation #2: The gluten-free red snapper cat food, (the one thing her restricted diet allows) which was made by someone I found in Chinatown, was actually tilapia. Ms. DeBórah turned her pink cleft cat nose in the air, and refused to eat it. The next day her handler swatted me with the NY Times article that cited red snapper as the #1 intentionally mislabeled fish in the food industry. How stupid could I be? The poor Cat nearly starved Herself to death.

During rehearsals, Ms. DeBórah’s handler waited in the wings with a pouch of treats to reward her with after she properly executed her cues. I was told to fill a gold velvet pouch with her favorite treat, dog bones. Listen, I don’t question these things, nor should you. So I commissioned the preparation of the most exclusive, gluten-free Camembert dog bones I could find and gave them to the handler before the first rehearsal. Probation #3: Ms. DeBórah’s favorite treats are dog bones. Not the bones that dogs eat, the bones of dogs.

On the first day of previews I got Probation #4 and was fired. Ms. DeBórah’s call time was 6 o’clock. Giving her two hours for hair and makeup and meditation/visualization. But by 7:13 she was still nowhere to be found. The friendly stage manager pounded on the dressing room door every ten minutes. I called her handler several times. No pick up. Then finally my cell rang. Miss DeBórah was at the vet. She was diagnosed with an incapacitating urinary tract infection from “holding it in.” Probation #4: Ms. DeBórah does not pee in her litter box unless the box is hidden away from public view. Because it sat in the middle of her dressing room, when she “had to go” she crossed her legs and “held it in.”

Sadly, Ms. DeBórah was fired that day, too. The show went on with the understudy.  Unfortunately for Ms. DeBórah, no one told her there’s no room for modesty in the theater, no matter how fine your pedigree.

Writer Separation Anxiety: A Portrait

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photo by Williac

photo by Williac

It’s time to admit Writer Separation Anxiety is a bona fide disorder. I’m not ashamed to say I have it, maybe others will come forward. Remember, there’s strength in numbers. It may not afflict the majority of writers, but that doesn’t make us freaks. Why do you think there are so many sequel authors?

It’s true that most writers are ecstatic to finish a manuscript. When I wrote The End of my novel, I was bereft.

What would become of Caroline, Andy, Lilly, all my characters? We’d been together for so long. I spent more time with them than my real family. What would I do now?

That first morning after The End, was the hardest. It was time to get reacquainted with my LBTB (Life Before the Book). During the third edit our kitchen became depleted of anything edible. Grocery shopping was long overdue. A chore would be good. It would keep me busy. No time to pine.

At the store I strolled down the cookie aisle. Bad idea. There were Oreos everywhere. You can’t dodge a cookie with 17 varieties. I told myself to stop thinking about Andy, he’s not real. Oreos were his crutch food. The night he and Caroline got into a chandelier-trembling argument (Chapter 6) he ate 2 sleeves of Oreos with a quart of milk. Any other guy would’ve gone out and gotten bombed with his buddies. Not Andy; he plopped on the couch (which he’d later sleep on) and ate 28 cookies. I hated that night. I hated when they fought. A friend of mine accused me of being secretly in love with Andy. Which is complete hogwash. I’m married!

I spun the grocery cart around and headed to frozen foods. I’m far less emotional when I’m cold. My internal voice said, “Cheer up! Celebrate! You finished your first novel!” Right at that moment I found myself smack in front of the Carvel Cakes. A sign. A celebration was in order. I felt better already. In fact, I started whistling−which I often do when I’m happy (or need a bathroom). Then I recognized the tune: My Favorite Things from The Sound of Music. I gasped. The very song Caroline hummed on that disastrous night (Chapter 10). If only I could’ve helped her.  

Grocery shopping was not going as planned.

I paid for the cake and pimentos and skulked to my car. My phone rang. It was my son. Thank God, a real person to focus on. “What’s the matter Mom, you sound awful.” I tried to stay light and breezy but I choked up. “Mom, it’s okay to miss them. You’ll be alright, remember when Caroline thought she was having a nervous breakdown−”

“Because she was!”

“Oh god, that’s right. Jeez…”

Before I shifted the car in reverse my phone rang again. My husband reminding me of our neighbor’s party invitation. We declined because I was editing. “We should go,” he insisted. If I wasn’t having fun, at least I could eavesdrop and steal mannerisms and quirks from people to use for new characters. That sounded amusing!

It felt good to wear decent clothes and eye shadow for a change and rekindle with the neighbors−laughing, swapping stories, exchanging recipes. Was it wrong of me to give them a deviled egg recipe that Caroline’s mother, Elaine, kept secret (Chapter 14)? Somehow she’d never “remember” to tell people about the chili paste. That always made me laugh.

Boy was I out of touch with current (past) events of our town (world). A neighbor’s sister miraculously recovered from a near-fatal illness. Everyone reveled in this news−then mid-hoopla, eyes with scrunched brows turned my way. Ripples of “Are you okay?” spilled over me.

I wasn’t okay. “It’s just that Caroline’s sister wasn’t so lucky−” I tried pulling myself together but instead became defensive and blubbered, “…she’s dead.”

My sniffling intensified under a chorus of “Oh my gosh” and “I didn’t know” and an exchange of incredulous glances. Someone asked, “Who’s Caroline?”

My head shot up. I spurted like a broken carburetor, “My protagonist!”

It was time for me to go. I insisted my husband stay. I needed to be alone.

At home I sat in the chair that supported me all those months (years) it took to write my novel. I lifted the manuscript and inhaled deeply to smell the paper and ink. I thought about Caroline, Andy and Elaine, the kids. The triumphs and disasters. It was time they moved on without me. Me without them. They’d enriched my life in so many ways. I’d always have that. I put the manuscript down and picked up a box of Oreos.

Time to ponder a sequel.

Fashion Designers Microbe-Manage NY Fashion Week

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photo by Swamibu

photo by Swamibu

It’s hard to believe, but the same folks who’ve instigated fashion induced bunions, sciatica, sprained ankles, deep vein thrombosis, acid reflux, yeast infections and constipation, have concocted ways to avert colds and flu during NY Fashion Week crunch time.

The fashion industry might’ve been in typical panic mode, but this year the 2013 Fall Collections were smack in the not-so-flat belly of the most serious flu epidemic in history. While designers oversaw the final stitches and selections, models were dropping like busty mannequins due to influenza. This prompted a handful of clever designers to nix the bug with their own personal brand of achoo-voodoo.

Side note: to protect my sources, names will not be disclosed.

If you saw Designer #1’s show, you’d swear you had lied your way into the Cirque Du Soliel tent by mistake. Don’t let the nymphes vertes fool you; it was actually the debut NY show of one notable European designer, who winked to his newcomer status by dipping his models in green from head to toe. While some think he procured tubs of Smash Box Fern, I’m here to report otherwise. This clever designer discovered (by way of his Alsatian great-grandmother) that Absinthe’s stiletto-high alcohol content kills cold and flu germs on contact. Mix a little Absinthe with the adhesive used for fly strips, paint this concoction on the limbs of models and voila! You’ve got yourself a human germ trap. Bravo Designer #1!

What if models are already sniffly? Ask Designer #2 and she’d say: voluminous sleeves. Where else they gonna tuck those tissues? (#obvi.) While traveling for inspiration for her upcoming line, in the Uttar Pradesh region of India, this designer went mad over the abundance of peppermint and menthol, specifically for its varied medicinal benefits. She couldn’t get her hands on enough menthol crystals to bring home to NY. (Unfortunately, since the airline allowed only one carry-on, her supply didn’t last long once metro-side.) Sadly, the folks at Duane Reade are unfamiliar with menthol crystals, so Vicks Vapor Rub will have to do. A bit fortuitous, as she resourcefully discovered when creating the makeup look for her runway models. Unable to locate a tube of M.A.C. Lipglass, she insisted the makeup artist try Vicks Vapor Rub swiped across lips. Not only did it create ice-like shine, it doubled as a super intense nasal decongestant! No cold’s gonna stop her show. #boom. Hey, all you sneezy ladies, Gesundheit!

You may have read about the fashionistas’ current obsession with hand sanitizer (as pedestrian as that might sound). One accessories designer, #3, inspired by her #sociallyacceptableaddiction, commissioned a master Murano glassblower to create vibrant-chic amulets filled with this bacterium-buster, strung on satin cord making it exceedingly wearable. I’m told that when these mesmerizing trinkets caught the light of the cameras’ flash on the runway they became dangerously hypnotic. (#oops.)

To ward off flu juju, Designer #4, the Woody Allen of the fashion cosmos, doled out a daily dose of schmaltz to his staff and models. It’s not exactly clear who makes the huge vats of this thick gelatinous rendered poultry fat and bottles it for the office, but swirling rumors point to his mother. The secret to “her” schmaltz is the minced cloves of raw garlic that go into every shot glass (served with a spoon). The fact that so many models scramble to work for Designer #4, even in the midst of cold season, is a testament to their love and respect for this fashion genius (#mamasboy). Anyway, some of the girls say it’s not too bad after a couple Gailoises. (How ‘bout a shot of Schnapps? I’m just saying.)

Designer #5, of all things haute couture, has always preferred the bold, pull no punches approach and chose to send her models down the runway wearing white paper surgical masks. À la Michael Jackson. Her supporters say it was fashionably irreverent and shouted “I like me!” Others say it was infinitely more modern than last season when her models walked with their head’s stuck out of toilet seats.

There you have it! NY Fashion Week in all its chafed-nose gloriousness! If you found yourself getting caught up in the fever, shivering with excitement and aching for more, call your doctor, you sound terrible. (#purellanyone.)