How Tradition can Doom Your Valentine

Commercialism is killing cupid.

                                                   
  If you are looking to impress some lucky lady this Valentine's day, save yourself and your money.
'Real men' are incapable of gifting a woman at all, says me and every sitcom ever aired on a prime time network.

The following are a list of traditional and not-so-original Valentine's day gifts to beware.

Home-made cards-While there are some that swear it's the thought that counts, unless your under 10 and she gave birth to you that 'home made' card sentiment reeks 'cheap ass'.

Flowers are beautiful, smell nice, but have a short shelf-life.  Is pretty and quick to die the message you want to send about your relationship?

Store bought cards-Although the purchase and selection time shows thoughtful intent, there isn't much written inside that tells her what she means to you.  If you're just going to pick the biggest card and sign your name-save yourself and your money.  Realize she's going to put you on the spot to tell her HOW she makes you feel the way Hallmark or American Greetings has expressed your feelings.

Sexy Lingerie-She may have a great body and appreciate nice undergarments.  Perhaps that's all you think of her-sex-sex-sex-and then as a result of your one track mind... you get none.  Or you get her size wrong and she accuses you of mixing her form with another girlfriend's, still in the end, you get the doghouse.

Stuffed Animals-I don't even almost buy the 'melt her heart with a giant teddy bear' angle.    Unless you're a pedophile looking for a parole violation, or looking to cram more unnecessary clutter into your home. Skip it!


Clothing-most heterosexual men have no idea how to shop for a woman.  If left to their own devices you'll end up looking like a devil in red, a slutty nurse, or a hooker (and it's not even Halloween).  Men are going to gravitate to what catches their eyes, which isn't necessarily something you'll soon see in Vogue or In Style.  To make a bad case scenario worse, you pick the wrong size, either way..... disaster.
Too big-shows you have a poor body image of her.
Too small-gives her a poor body image of herself.
    She's going to bed with a pint of Ben & Jerry's or browsing the Weight Watchers Website on her laptop.  Either way, it won't be you she's be curling up with.

Board Games-  you can go beyond tradition and pick out a naughty board game like:
Naughty Bingo, Sexy Truth or Dare, I Dare You, Sex Stack, or Know your Partner.  After she's done laughing and gives you a hug for originality, after she backs away and asks WHY you chose a board game, after you begin to sweat is when she asks you that question, Why the board game, why THAT board game "Well, ARE you bored with it?" -before you know it you could have saved the $$, because she's already playing 20 questions.

Jewelry-  If you haven't already given her 'THE' ring, don't bother with the jewelry.  My husband once took me to pick a belated anniversary gift.  The pieces he was showing me were so 1980-gold and multicolored stones-that I was half expected a weathered Olivia Newton John to come into the store singing 'Xandu.'  Also keep in mind that if you do propose on Valentines day, that's an eternity of TWO gifts she can expect from you-anniversary AND Valentine's day.

What CAN you do?  What DO you give her?  A good start would be to avoid putting labels on ANY days-Mother's, Father's, Thanksgiving, Earth day etc.  No one day, no single card, no isolated gift is ever enough to tell a person in your life that you're there, you're listening, and all you want to do is be happy together.  The intent should not be that one day makes up for the other 364 there are to express yourself to those around you.  There should be a constant attempt at trying.  These commercial holiday celebrations should be reminders to us all.

That being said, I'd like to take these last few moments to say how important it is to make the attempt. Because the worst possible turnout to receiving a lame gift-is disappointment...but the punishment for making no attempt at all....is self explanatory.

In the Dog house.

Looker or Hooker?

     I'm in Israel for my nephew Ralphie's Bar Mitzvah.  It's been a wonderful trip so far, the Kotel, the Dead sea, the waterfalls in Ein Gedi, Israel is breathe taking....but this morning, I AM NOT.  Just hours before the bar mitzvah, I'm looking in the mirror and a plaster mask is staring me back. 
     My sister Diana had arranged to have my hair and make up done from a few weeks ago, at the time it sounded very convenient.  Diana is not much about details, hadn't spoken with anyone else who used either of these women, saw no photos of their work.  I myself fall short of the follow up, so in truth this is all my own doing.  I was asked to be on time and have my face clean and hair washed by 6am.  The less asked of me the better.
     Who would have thought I'd have to come to Israel to have my make up done by someone from Queens, and hair by a girl from Monsey?   My sister beamed with excitement as the hair dresser curled and put the finishing touches on her locks.  I sat down, introduced myself to Angie.  She complimented my skin tone, coloring, and youthful glow.  She began to massage my face with moisturizer.  It felt great. I told her that I didn't want heavy foundation and concealer, she completely got it. 
     "Do you have a certain look you want me to give you?"  Angie asked.
     "Natural beauty? Nice lashes, etc."  I answered.
     "What color is your dress?"
     She seemed to be asking all the right questions. I took a deep breathe in comfort feeling that even though I was far from home, the language of beauty was universal.  I noticed the color palate for the eye shadow she was using looked like pharmacy counter goods, but I wasn't going to be a snob today.  As long as she knew what she was doing, I'd be fine.
     "Now I'm gonna ask you to do something crazy.  I need you to pucker up like you're gonna suck on a lemon."  Angie said, big and animated.
      In one blink I went from being reasonably confident in this hired professional, to seeing how much she appeared to be like Bette Midler in a sitcom.  I looked around the room slowly, there were no hidden cameras, no TV hosts popping in the window or doors.  It was just me, my sister, Queens, and Monsey.  Apprehensively I stuck my tongue out and sucked in my cheeks, looking like an angry peacock, ready to attack.  Queens took her blush brush and grazed it against my cheeks.
     "WHEW!!   Look at that, look at those cheekbones."  Prided the Bette Midler lookalike.

Neutral is nice?

     I wasn't wearing my glasses, I saw no contrast in bone, I saw no color on cheek.  I couldn't imagine what her excited exclamation was for.  It only confirmed my original theory that I was being pranked live on Israeli tv.  Another fifteen minutes went by with the occasional 'Wow' or 'Look at you,' ...but I'd really rather not.
     Her finished work was the me that walked in at 6am, only I was painted beige.  My coloring was somewhere between ecru and eggshell, an acceptable color for a wall, not a human face.  Apparently Queens didn't believe in the beauty of eyelashes either, because she skipped the mascara completely.
      Angie was American, so a mistranslation didn't make sense.   This must be her idea of a 'party face.'  Now with no confidence in her tools, and even less in her ability to beautify my sleepy face, I was only sure of one thing-that I'd need do my make up once she was done.  I asked for natural, but got neutral.
     My sister watched from a distance, her mouth closed but her eyes belly laughing at me in the mirror.  When I commented that my face could use a little more color, she came back at me with, "You don't want to go walking into one of the holiest place in the world looking like a hooker."  No, I didn't want to walk in anywhere like a hooker, I also didn't want to show up looking like I'd been drained of four pints of blood.

Before or After?

      It was time for step two of my 'Extreme Make Under.'  I told Monsey the hair dresser I wanted my tresses to have full  body,  not the banana curls she had given my fifteen year old niece.   Monsey's personality was  understated and mouse-like, she spoke in a whispered squeak.  These beauticians may have been from New York state, their state of mind (when it came to hair and make up) was more Wyoming.
     When she claimed she had finished and I went to pay her, I ran a hand through my hair feeling damp and wet at the back of my neck.  When I brought it to her attention she looked me quizzically, "but it's near your scalp."  Almost no visible color in my face and wet hair, it was deja vu of coming out of the shower an hour earlier.
     What I've taken from this experience is different people have different ideas.   I say tomato you say a darker color in the eye crease makes one a whore.  I'll respectfully agree to disagree and never use someone abroad if I haven't seen samples of their work.
     Now all I have to do after I stop laughing and calling myself a tramp as I  brush some color on my face....is get the rest of the family ready (by the way, they're all still asleep).

"You don't want to look like a hooker at one of the holiest places in the world."

    

  

Styled by a 1st grader

     I usually take for granted that because she's bouncing on my bed without a care in the world, that my curly girl has no idea what I'm doing when I'm throwing clothing on my bed and mumbling under my breathe.
     I could swear that as I sleep some adoring Lady Gaga and the old school Madonna fans have invaded my closet.  Replacing all of my black and grey, safe and practical wardrobe with fringes, feathers, and sequins.  Tops that don't cover my naval and skirts that one need have a good wax to wear.  For all those times I've made purchases to 'go out' in, it seems that we've stayed home more than I'd like to admit.  I've  become a fashion hermit and only notice it when it's time to get dressed to go somewhere special.
     Everything I attempt to  put together has me looking like I should be serving coffee in a 24 hour truck stop or welcoming passengers onto the next  Jet Blue flight.
      As I hold simple and black top up against boring and off black bottom, something strange takes place. Her ombre corkscrew curls have come to an immediate halt.  Joycee jumps off my bed and darts to the closet with a mission.
     "Why don't you wear this?"  She holds out an airy chiffon skirt with cutout circle flaps that move when I walk.
     "I dunno honey." I say taking it from her and getting ready to hang it back on the rack.
     "Just try it on."  I can hear my mother's influence in her statement.
     In no rush to get ready, I appease her and put on the skirt.
    "Now try on this top." She points to an army green strappy tank with fringes. 
    "This is too much."  I wince.  Too much movement in the top, and way too much in the bottom.
     She then picks up one of the black strappy pieces of confetti strewn across the bed.  "How about this?"
     It was a cute black Tibi top.  An easy throw on piece that dressed jeans up and in the case of the black flying dotty skirt, cooled it down.
      I had gone to a class about vision boards the day before and had still been working on mine.  Part of my board was be adventurous, 'show your sparkle,' and have fun with the kids.  Wearing this out represented all of those categories I was summoning on the large poster board. 
   Had I invited my little cherub into my closet sooner, who knows what red carpet styled outfit she could have put together for me!
     Joe walked in to get dressed and looked at me the way he has countless other times when he wasn't exactly sure if I was serious about a wardrobe choice.
     "You're a little dressy?"  He questioned.
     "This is what Joycee picked out for me, I like the way I feel."  I said into the mirror.
     Joe looked at his choice, his black jeans and cream color ribbed sweater that was lying on the bed and sighed.  Upon hearing my decision, Joycee showed off all 20 of her white Chicklet teeth and began jumping up and down on the bed in victory.
     Before I left the house, I tucked her under the Hello Kitty sheets and asked which pair of earrings I'd be better off wearing.  Definitively, she points to the shinier lobe.
     "Thank you so much my love, this feels beautiful!"  I said.
     "Mommy, do you think I can be a stylist?"  She glowed.
     "I think you could be an excellent stylist!"
     The day I let my daughter pick out my clothes was a win-win for us both.
    
    

Mother Hen

     Today I look like a mommy.

     Not the kind that you see with the perfect manicure and freshly blown salon hair, each and every strand sweeping across the shoulder blades when she walks.  Her alabaster, corn free feet are multi-lingual, today they are speaking French in their Louboutins.
     She doesn't speak in heavy breaths like me, her tone is relaxed.  She did her weights in the morning at the gym.  She has everything on her shopping list delivered to her home.  She pronounces each syllable with a carefree calm that I've only witnessed in preschool teachers.  It is not yet twelve o'clock and her dinner is already done along with everything else on her To do list.  Bitch.
     I am still in the black Sugio leggings that I sweated in on the treadmill at ten.  I smell like fried chicken, every last piece of me.  From my greasy home blown hair to the ankle socks I've been mopping the floor with as I fry.
     Make up was not an option today.  Skin moisturized and pores steamed, once again...by chicken grease.  My leggings and black tank soon turned into a custom body apron. Instead of bronzer and body glitter, I wear flour and cornflake crumbs.
     The combination of Coke Zero and not quite fried (but dipped and baked in oil) breaded cauliflower, would scare the nutritionist that I don't have to death.
     It's twenty to three and my princess has a double play date today.  It's time to change into my old faithful jeans from the Gap.  ANY t-shirt will do.  I already regret picking at the quazi-fried cauliflower.  It's sitting in my chest but won't quite emerge into a burp.
     I have already gone to the arts and craft store.  Painting their own princess mugs and making pictures with dot-dot markers should pass the time without much arguing amongst the three divas in training.
     The familiar toot from the maroon Honda Odyssey reminds me my 'playtime' is over.  She slides off of the vinyl backseat and jumps onto me in a hug.  It is the kind of hug that only a five year old knows how to give.
     It's beautiful, unlike the way I'd been feeling all day.  For a full minute, the rest of the world and all the disruptive sounds from it have muted.  Her warmth has revived me from self loathing chicken lady, to a gorgeous silhouette I see on the sidewalk aside me.
     I am mommy, and with all that I may or may not have in this world one day-my most glamorous accessory in my possession..

is her.

Cake Mistake

     All he asked for was a photo cake.  A picture that he took great care in selecting.  In the photo, Alan  was 10 months old, and  my husband Joe were sitting in a ball pit at a local indoor fun zone.  The photo was monumental if you know Joe, a self proclaimed germifobe who won't drink from a glass outside his  home because he can’t handle the thought of someone else's mouth on it.  I’ve only heard about the nightmarish items that get lost in the ball pit, for that reason alone, this picture exuded a father’s love for his son and the personal fear and disgust Joe had put aside.

Cake One

     On Wednesday I went to the bakery with the photo, selected the cake, and paid for it.  That off my list, everything else was done and I could relax until Saturday. 
     My mother-in-law ran errands on that side of town Friday, I gave her my receipt and asked if she could make the pick-up for me. I swung by her house on Friday afternoon for a cup of coffee.  She told me the cake was in the downstairs fridge.  I smiled just seeing the large white cube taking up the entire shelf. The red and white bakery string was tied so tightly around the box that I couldn’t catch a glimpse.  I’d curb my curiosity until Alan's birthday.

     Saturday afternoon came.  We finished lunch, I went downstairs to the refrigerator, prepared with a knife, cut the string, opened the box, and began to scream.  My sister-in-law came running, peered into the box, and like we were playing a game of Simon Says, her blue eyes widened and her mouth hung open.

     After a minute of screaming at a photo of a Bar Mitzvah boy (and wondering who’s kid it was), I giggled uncontrollably thinking of the expression on the other anonymous mom opening up her cake box to find a photo of my son and husband in a ball bin.  The bakery was closed, I didn’t know whose kid it was, and we had company coming for dessert to celebrate my Alan’s 9^th birthday.  
      I ran outside onto the porch, expecting a panicked mother in a white suit to be running down the block in white patent peep toe platforms with my sheet cake.  But there were just the usuals, a father and son playing catch in the street, skateboarders making their way to the park, and people enjoying the unusually warm December weather.  No crazy moms, just the one standing on her mother-in-laws porch.

     My quick thinking mother-in-law took two prints that were posted up on the breakfront mirror and covered the bar mitzvah boy.  At least the message on the cake was right,  ‘Happy Birthday Alan’, maybe he wouldn’t notice.  It came time to sing happy birthday, my son looked at the cake quizzically, “You know ma, when I said I wanted a picture of me on the cake, that wasn’t what I meant.” 

     I removed the toddler pix that mom was careful to wrap in plastic, and his expression dampened,  his proud chest deflated like air out of an old balloon.  Everyone's first reaction to the cake was the same, wide eyes and dropped jaw.  Here my nine year old stood, tears welling in his eyes as he looked at a stranger in a suit and braces invading his cake.  We sang happy birthday to him, but it may as well have been to  the John Doe surrounded by blue icing flowers. 

     “I want to go home.” Alan whispered to me.

     “I’M GONNA SMASH THAT CAKE IN THEIR FACES TOMORROW!”  Mom said feeling the hurt of her way too serious for his age grandson.  I didn't know who to pray for, the bakery manager or my mother-in-law who was bound to be dragged out in hand cuffs if she didn't get a refund for the cake.

     My ill-timed humor and nervous laughter kicked in,  escaping me as I pictured someone’s Bar Mitzvah dessert table.  Decorated with all different types of cookies, fruit, pies, mousse, Napoleon-Alan and Joey.  My brain cells were howling amongst themselves, it doesn’t get funnier than this!!!

     But there Alan stood, crushed yet standing strong and tall.  The tears in his eyes disappeared.  Now I went into my own mommy panic.  If my nine year old son could be disappointed by a cake, how did he see his future?   If he was older would he have been able to see the comedy in the confection?  In his reality, it was the one thing he asked for, but didn’t get on his birthday. 

    “How could you NOT check the box before you left the store?!”  Joe yelled, more pissed off at the thought that somewhere else an outsider was cutting into his face.

     To add to the confusion of the day, Alan had a friend’s sleepover party to attend that night.          “Maybe you can bring a cake for me tonight.”  He asked.

     “It is your birthday, but it isn’t your party honey.”  I said. 

     “I know that.”  He lied.  A mechanical stare on his face.

      As Alan enjoyed his Saturday night with 20 other boys NOT sleeping, Joe ran to Carvel with the original photo and ordered a cake for Sunday.  I sent out a text to my sisters and sister-in-laws, inviting everyone over for a Birthday redo with pizza and cake.   

     Sunday morning pick up time was 10am, I received a text at 9:24 that Alan had enough.  After rounding up his things and thanking the birthday boy and mother we walked to the car.

     “You know mom,” he began, “all I really wanted was some attention, and now I have to wait a whole year.”

    Until now,  the mix up was funny, I thought it showed a kid how adults make mistakes more often than they believed.  To Alan, that ruined Happy Birthday moment represented his own feelings of substance-not sustenance.  The humor I found just a day ago left me and was replaced by an ache I could not possibly stand a moment longer for my nine year old man.
      Joe took the kids ice skating and I ran to Party City for Pokemon plates, decorations, and party favors.  With the kids out of the way, I could decorate and make party bags. 

     When the children walked in the door at 4, both of their faces lit up. Alan took a few minutes to notice the details, the posters, the plates, and the party bags.  He did a running  jump into my arms and smiled, “Thanks mommy.”

    “Are you happy?”  I asked.

     He nodded.

  “Do you feel special?” 

   “Yes.”  He smiled.

    “Mommies want their children to feel special all of the time.  It shouldn’t take a birthday for that.”
     That night, after the pizza and cake, after running around the house and playing with the cousins, after clean up, showers,and homework, Alan went to bed with a smile on his face.
     I closed the light and tucked him in, Alan said, "Can I have a party next year?"
     "We'll think about it."  I told him before closing the door.
     I now have 364 days before celebrating 'double digits.' To avoid a repeat of the epic birthday blunder, I already had the solution, one which I will never forget....

     Always ask to see the cake before leaving the store.

Birthday- take two.