Zaide Williams's Blog

I know, it’s been a while. First I launch a bunch of articles about well-fitting bras, natural hair care and my curious affection for Bruno Mars, then I dabble in food writing and travel, and then I disappear without so much as a swoosh after a few slightly downer posts about anxiety.

Well, friends, I have to be honest.  As much as the Torrid Forties is about rocking your gorgeous greys, loving your curves and being flat-out certain that Bruno would also love them to distraction were the Versace indeed on the floor, it’s also about riding the waves of mental and emotional angst that come part and parcel with that same territory.  Some women sail into middle age without so much as a pimple, while others, like yours truly, wrestle with hormonal and psychological beasts that creep up unbidden and unnoticed in the dark of night, turning morning into a carousel of fear and sadness.

I’ve been working really hard on this for the past year, I must tell you.  And I’m proud that I’ve been proactive about getting the help that I knew I needed. I reached out to family, who let me know that women in my mother’s generation suffered just as greatly as I had been with both depression and anxiety–in point of fact, a 100% rate of infliction. The genetics of mental illness, psychological issues, whatever the hell you want to call it, is undeniable and scientifically documented. And for me, it was therefore impossible to sweep under the carpet. I took action, and thank God I did.

When anxiety kept me from sleeping through the night, I knew something was truly wrong. I never, ever, never have had trouble sleeping.  I was the kid who racked out until 11 AM on Saturday mornings, only getting up then because Kidd Video was on (holla if you remember that one). I can sleep in cars, on flights, on trains, anytime you please, and if you try to get my ass out of bed before 6 AM, you’d better make sure you have all of your appendages protected.  Yet there I was, sweating on my bedroom floor, heart racing, doing yoga poses at 3 AM in a last-ditch effort to siphon out some of the electric fright flying across my nervous system. Sleep was not even elusive; it was just plain absent.

My first stop in unraveling this freaky mystery was an emergency therapy session with a career counselor that I had  been working with the previous year. My state was acute, and she provided a few coping mechanisms that took me from boiling to a rapid simmer.

Next was my regular physician, a lovely man who had always been open, caring and immensely reassuring about every health anxiety worry I’ve come to him with.  On this visit, he and his medical student again assured me that I was healthy, chalked up my anxiety to life stresses, and wrote me a prescription for Xanax, which I did not request. I took one half of one pill on a very rapid boil day, and then ditched the rest. You see, we have addiction in my family tree, and therefore I choose to stay as far away from narcotics as possible.

I did not hesitate to embrace alternative medicine early in my quest to be well.  Having been a practitioner of yoga for the greater part of the last 20 years, I’ve seen firsthand how breath, movement and energy dance together, and I know how the mind can benefit from this holistic way of caring for the body.

Acupuncture was my first stop on the functional health anti-anxiety tour, in the shape of a marvelous women-run integrative wellness practice near my FL town. These top-notch practitioners helped me to turn the heat from simmer all the way to low through a combination of needling, herbal supplements, dietary changes and something called the “womb room.” The nutritional intervention, though aimed at detox for my hardworking liver, not only cleaned me out but also caused me to drop both 20 pounds and six tenths of a point on my A1C. I also began learning to meditate, and got back in touch with my spiritual side. Listening to God and myself in God–now there’s a revelation.

All smooth sailing from there on, eh? Not so fast, my friends.  They don’t call mental health a roller coaster for nothing. Emerging wellness is dependent upon maintaining adherence to whatever it is that has brought you to that wellness–self-care, nurturing, a routine, rest–a comfort zone. Lately I’ve pulled my clan and me out of that zone by switching jobs and moving us out of state to Atlanta. New job, new home, new environment, new school for Scooter–it’s all upending the apple cart.  I still take my D3 every day and chug a whole bunch of water, but my yin and yang are out of whack again, and it’s taking its toll on my mind. Worry is worming its weaselly way in to my waking thoughts every day, keeping me from focusing on all the good that has happened for us and all the doors that have opened and continue to open wide before us.

But since this isn’t my first rodeo with anxiety and depression, I’m fixing to act on what I’ve learned during my last rides around the ring, and lasso that horse’s ass with a potent mind/body/spirit lariat. I have a new doc here in the ATL–a functional physician with both an MD and an IFM certificate. I’ve got my family, my crystals, my essential oils, my dog, my cat, and my mat.

I also have my classes in functional medicine coaching through the Functional Medicine Coaching Academy, which I signed up for earlier this summer and which will continue for almost a year.  I’m going to embrace it all. I’ll sink into this abundant well of wellness and wealth and chronicle it all for you, my friends, in hopes that it helps someone else who may be riding the same bronco, bucking and flailing but holding on and hell-bent to stay in the saddle. Hats off to you, partners.

Image Credit: “Rodeo Cowgirl” by C.M. Russell. In the public domain.[image error]

First, before you’re even fully awake, it’s the racing heart. Then the sweating begins, and before long, you start to feel the feeling you dread most–white hot electricity spawning from deep in your gut and moving up and out until even your fingers and toes are caught up in the awful circuitry. But that’s not the worst part. Still to come is the brain, kicking in and responding with active thought to what your body is already swaying and sweating to work through. And as your eyes break open, you once again identify it.

Fear.

Unreasonable, unwarranted, unbidden, and unbridled, it restarts on its own clock every morning, cortisol rising like a flood wave so that you’re a mess before you even get out of bed. For some it’s work anxiety, or relationship anxiety, or worry about kids or the future. For others, it’s nameless and excruciatingly shapeless, an impossible-to-grasp vapor whirling around your head. Regardless of specificity, it all offers the same bizarre gift–a frenzied, pulsing paranoia. Wait, a gift, you say? This thing that makes one feel so off the wall and crappy is a gift? This thing that keeps me compartmentalized within my own head and light years away from the present moment is a flipping gift?

Yes.

From the moment it started way back in January, I wanted to know the root cause of my suddenly acute anxiety, and I wanted it with a brand of urgency usually reserved for too-big-for-my-britches garden ideas and far-flung vacation schemes. The fire had to start somewhere, I reasoned, so it had to have a fuse. And I was hell-bent on finding it. At that time, there was quite honestly little else I could focus on–both the anxiety and the resulting depression put me into a state in which I couldn’t focus on anything at work, and I was just not at all present at home.

It’s now May. I’ve come out of the cave, I feel tons better, and I’ve learned a hell of a lot. I’m still a work in progress, but the level of schooling that this gift has given me is not one I’ll soon forget–and I think it was fully intended that way. Now, as with any gift, the best way to enjoy it is to share, so here you go:

1. Estrogen Dominance is Not Bullshit

I’m 44, so the first concept that popped into my head when the anxiety hit was that of hormones. Menopause and emotional roller-coastering are as famous a duo as Sonny and Cher, so it was kind of impossible not to go there and explore. Long, long, long story short, while all of my sex hormone levels do read as within “normal range” and were therefore not noted by my doctor, when looked at in conjunction with each other as a ratio, they put me solidly in the estrogen dominant camp, a classic anxiety-feeder. Now that I know this, I can respond to it.

2. Therapy is Not Bullshit

We all have stuff. A good therapist, one who is matched to you and to your personality, can help you to pull out all of that stuff, analyze it, and put it into a slot in your mind that is healthy and logical. I think everyone should have a therapist. Seriously. Mine is helping me to understand emotional connections that I had no idea existed, and we’ve already had a few hum-dinger aha moments. And at the end of the day, anxiety and depression are not, unfortunately, isolated conditions that happen only to you or to me. They are spread wide and far, and importantly, are experiences that we share and can empathize with as humans. From traditional therapists to support groups to wonderful coping concepts like Nanea Hoffman’s frankly adorable Anxiety Blob, we are reaching out to each other with ideas to help each other navigate the mazes in our minds, and by the same token, we must be able to seek out and accept that support when we need it.

3. Self Care is Absolutely Not Bullshit

In the past, when I’d read about the importance of self care in a women’s magazine or on some other such outlet, I’d quietly guffaw to myself at the first-world narcissism inherent in the fact that this is even a topic. “What? I have a clean bathroom, hot coffee and weekends away from work. I’m not walking five miles a day to retrieve water from a dirty well. Self care? Whatever.”

But oh crap how wrong I was. Here’s the thing. When you don’t take a few moments to honor yourself, you begin to lose that sinew of self-regard that is so terribly important for even our privileged first-world lives. You show simple acts of kindness to others every day–don’t you deserve the same level of love and care? It could be as simple as a hot bath or an hour spent with a good book. Nothing fancy. Just a little gesture to show yourself that you care.

4. Dr. Axe is Not Bullshit

This dude is my new bud. As part of my anxiety deep dive, I read medical journals, physician blogs and enough other sciency stuff sufficient to choke a yeti. Time and time again, I found myself nodding my head vigorously in response to a piece by Dr. Josh Axe, whether it be on aromatherapy, nutrition, natural disease prevention or even thermography. He approaches his pieces with detail, medical research, and the passion of a man who is literally doing what he does as an act of love toward his mama. I dig him.

5. Functional Medicine is Not Bullshit

One of my favorite gifts out of anxiety-palooza was my discovery of acupuncture, holistic nutrition and functional medicine as a whole. I had experienced acupuncture only once before, years ago, during our fertility process, but this go around was much, much different. I am now happily entrenched with an integrative medicine organization that is passion-driven and dedicated to working with the whole person–body, mind and spirit. My visits there cover everything from stress-sucking needles to sound healing to a nutritional program that has already lowered my A1C by close to a point and caused me to drop nine pounds in a month (on a 5’3″ frame, no less). These ladies are working with all of me at once, and all of me is responding. I’m in love.

6. Food Really is Medicine

As part of the holistic care program above, my nutritionist (whom I still love anyway) launched me on a nutritional reboot that tested my ability to remain sane without even a speck of mashed potatoes. In a nutshell (which was empty, because nuts were verboten for the first two weeks), “if it’s not on the list, it doesn’t exist.” Fast forward six weeks and I’m calmer, leaner, not bloated, without belly pain, and bearing a much deeper appreciation for the complex taste of a good strawberry.

7. Meditation is Not Bullshit…

…but it’s simplicity is deceiving. You may have a session of alone time with your mind that presents you with a perspective to blow your mind, but on the contrary, you could come out of that same session with a giant headache and a fascination with the circus sideshow that goes on in your head. It takes time to develop, like any skill requiring mastery, but the key is to just make that time. Perhaps it’s 20 minutes a day during your train commute, or in the morning before the kids and spouse get up. Headspace or 10% Happier are there for you too–both apps can be excellent starting points to developing your own personalized practice. Pick something that works for you and give yourself the attention of that daily mental housecleaning. Back to point #3 above, self-care is key, and being a caretaker of your mind is a huge puzzle piece in the well-being of your whole self.

8. Time with Loved Ones is the Very Breath of Life

If there is only one gift I could keep out of this experience, it is the realization that making time to interact meaningfully with those who own pieces of your heart will keep that heart beating. Although I work very hard to ensure I have ample time with my husband and son, I now realize that, beyond the two of them, I was not engaging much with the world in a significant way.

The word “significant,” like the term “self care,” doesn’t translate to a limo-laden Ladies Night full of clubbing, makeup and hangovers. Quite the opposite, actually. It’s a discussion with Tammy on mothering and self as we sit across from each other in a booth at Chuck E. Cheese watching our kids blast video zombies. It’s laughing until I can’t breathe at the antics of Paul, my colleague and friend (and basis for the gay werewolf character in Scherzo on Inkitt), thoughout a glee-glittered conversation we picked up from right where we left it two years ago. It’s a catch up on family, politics, religion, and work with longtime friend Marcus as we eat beignets and stroll through the French Quarter during a conference break. It’s holding my husband’s hand while we walk the dog through the park.

I’m now taking the initiative to make that very important life change and restoke those connections. I’ve had conversations this spring with my aunts that were deeper and more meaningful that any others I can remember with them. I’ve begun to make more time for lunches or dinners with friends. I called and texted those who love me even though I royally suck at keeping in regular contact (I also really dislike talking on the phone, but I’ve learned that’s right in line with my personality type). I realized that yes, it really is that important to fly to Philly to see my brother’s kids more than just once a year. For this is the magical balm to the soul–sharing air, energy and ideas with those whom you love, and who love you in return. And if a little anxiety is all that was needed in order for me to get that fact and act on it, then I am certainly and amply blessed.

P.S. I have a LOT more to say on this topic. Hit the Follow button to stay in the loop. I won’t blast you with emails, I promise. And thanks for reading.

Clusterfuckery. Just say it. Now say it again—go ahead. Feels good, doesn’t it? It’s an even better term than “asshat,” and that little gem is epic in and of itself.

The term “clusterfuckery” is just one of the many epiphanies flowing like good champagne  from last weekend’s annual reunion with my high school bestie, Mel. We try to link up at least once every year, either in New York State where she lives or in South Florida where I live, to let down our hair, our guard, and (to some degree) our inhibitions. Schedules, jobs and parenthood sometimes extend that timeline a little, but we’ve been pretty good about it overall.

Given that both Mel and I are both big music fans, concerts have been a going theme for many of our annual shindigs. Ten years ago it was Sting in Philly (way to set the bar, Mel). Two years ago we saw a fabulous performance by the talented and gorgeous Bria Skonberg at Arts Garage in Delray Beach, and most recently it was Salt-n-Pepa and the surprisingly badass Rick Springfield at SunFest in West Palm Beach (rock it, Dr. Noah Drake).

This year, we decided to rip the roof off the joint and join a 20,000 person-strong house party called 24K Magic, hosted at Ft. Lauderdale’s BB&T Center by none other than Bruno Mars.  I’d been chafing at the bit to see the jewel-encrusted goodness of this tour since I first saw Bruno live in Mannheim, Germany in 2013. Back then I’d gotten cozy with about a hundred German teenage girls with gorgeous hair and ridiculously dewy skin to wait in line for a general admission spot close the stage, the action, the energy, the fire. Let’s just say it was worth it.

Like the rest of the United States, apparently, I bought tickets to the 24K Magic World Tour the day they went on sale, and before I knew it, most of a year had passed and I was squeezing the stuffing out of Mel at the airport and whisking us off to our resort while we covered every topic from soccer (artificial turf is a bitch) to A-Ha’s classic “Take on Me” (Morten Harket’s falsetto is insane). Over in the passenger’s seat, Mel let loose about everything on her mind while she slowly removed her metaphorical bobby pins in the soothing heat of the Florida sun.  By the time I was schooling her on any as-yet-unheard parts of the 24K Magic album in the venue’s parking lot, she was fully decompressed, grooving expertly to “Perm,” and recovering her breath control remarkably quickly after hearing the lyrics to “Straight Up and Down” for the first time.

I could merrily spend the next several paragraphs telling you what you already know—Bruno Mars and the Hooligans put on a fricking fantastic show that night. It was absolutely lit from front to back, top-shelf from a musical perspective, funny, sexy and electric. Bruno covered most of the songs on the new album as well as the not-to-miss pieces from his discography.  Though 24K Magic’s homage to the 90s-era hip-hop that Bruno grew up to isn’t particularly my favorite musical lane, every damned song on that album is tightly written, and Bruno Mars, clever little shit that he is, knows exactly how to tweak them for optimal impact when he performs them live.  And then, when the set list moves into classics like “Grenade” and “Locked Out of Heaven,” we’re suddenly up to eleven on the rock-out scale. He even amped up the family-friendly factor this time around by cutting out some of the more mature material (like the not-suitable-for third grade second verse of “Gorilla,” for example).

But “kick-ass show” doesn’t cover all that we got out of that night at the concert, or out of a weekend spent reinforcing the best friend ties that have bound us for so long. That little extra something, the gem-like epiphanies that jangled in our pockets as Mel and I ambled to the car all giddy and spent, were realizations that sparkled as much in celebration of our friendship as it did of an epic night with Bruno and his crew. Here they are:

The Pocket

Bruno Mars lives in the pocket. He and his band have an uncanny ability to put the groove right where it needs to be, and stay in the very middle of that sweet spot time and time again–every night, every city, every performance. And if you’re a fan, you know you’ll always get back to that place and will feel the same, reassuring beat right where you know it should be.  Mel and I have that kind of relationship; we can pause a conversation in May 2016 and pick it right back the hell up 15 months later exactly where we left off, no clusterfuckery involved. That familiarity is the very backbeat of our friendship, never out of sync and always right on time. Like the irresistible groove of “Uptown Funk” or the guitar intro to “Runaway Baby,” now familiar to any fan’s ear, Mel and I can always count on finding again the rhythm of our banter and the melodies we’ve heard in each other’s voices for so many years. We’re always right in the pocket with each other, and it feels good.

Heat

Let’s just get this one out of the way quickly, shall we? Bruno Mars, his “I’m cute-but I’m naughty-but I’m cute” dimples, his sexually-charged lyrics, and those hyperflexible hip joints of his are hot, and (as Mel very correctly pointed out) so are the rest of the Hooligans grinding across the stage all night. From the aforementioned lyrics to “Straight Up and Down” (“I put you on and now you’re feeling right”? Really?) to his two-octave lowered “Hey Baby” purr during “Calling All My Lovelies,” Bruno’s goal on the 24K Magic tour was clearly to heat things up and make us feel him. It worked. From hip-hop swag to love song to straight-up pimp music, he worked it as only Bruno Mars can, raising the temperature more and more as the night wore on. The steam room hit its maximum temperature with “Gorilla,” performed complete with a smoking guitar solo and an extended foreplay-to-climax breakdown that I think may actually have gotten Mel pregnant.

But it’s not just Bruno. Every stinking Hooligan knows perfectly well how to work us into a frenzy, mugging and strutting and seducing us right along with their front man. As a side note, I invite my super-bendy, no-appreciable-resting-heart-rate yoga instructor to try and execute multiple hip thrusts while playing the trombone. Go ahead. Give it a try. I dare you.

How does this one translate to my bestie and me? That’s easy. We are hot. We felt hot, Bruno and the gang reminded us we were hot, and we celebrated being hot. Period. And you know what? Our skin is still dewy as shit, too.

Revelation

Philip Lawrence is no joke. Phil is Bruno Mars’ writing and producing partner, collaborator, and friend. And he’s also a first-rate musician in his own right. About six months ago, I downloaded his solo album, Letters I Never Sent, and was genuinely impressed by both the writing and the execution. Check out the revival-esque “Heaven High” and “Lullaby,” a beautiful a cappella voice recording to his kids from a musician dad on the road.

But I digress.  When Phil and Bruno sing together, it’s easy to hear Phil’s deep tones in contrast to Bruno’s clear highs. But solo, on record, Lawrence’s voice is finely layered, nimble and multi-faceted, with a seriously appealing Jeffrey Gaines / Lenny Kravitz quality to it. On this tour, especially during the extended version of “Calling All My Lovelies,” Phil gets the opportunity to work it for real and sends up some pleading R&B goodness that had me paying serious attention. Damn, Phil. Eureka moment.

Even though we know each other so well, every reunion between Mel and me provides a similar kind of eureka moment—a new characteristic or angle in one of us that delights and surprises the other. This time around, I finally fessed up to Mel about the secret writer thing I’m doing. She responded quite well, I think, especially given that I’ve been doing this side hustle for a few years now.  And the surprises won’t stop anytime soon, for either of us. We are evolving women, after all, growing into our own increasingly complex layers and tones, and it’s fascinating to watch each other hit those new notes and nail them.

Mastery

Under the jerseys and bling, after the hips have stilled and the prancing stops, Bruno Mars the group is at its core one hell of a great band, and Bruno Mars the man is a brilliant musician with a level of raw talent that is truly astonishing. Arranger, multi-instrumentalist, producer, songwriter, singer, performer–it’s all there and it’s all enormous. His consistently all-in vocals feature notes that I can’t believe he actually writes for himself. For example, even after dipping up into the stratosphere more than a few times throughout the show, including an insane bellow of supplication in “Calling All My Lovelies,” when it came time for “When I Was Your Man,” Bruno still kicked it up a few more notches, leaving no doubt that he is a vocal force to be reckoned with.

And let’s not forget the guitar work. His well-placed solos throughout the show only serve to reinforce the open-mouthed head-shaking we all did during that Prince tribute at the Grammy’s this year, when we realized that Bruno Mars can seriously shred. Mel hears some Clapton in his playing, and I think she’s totally right. Just do me favor, Bruno, and steer clear of Clapton’s guitar work on Phil Collins’ “I Wish It Would Rain Down.” That’s my feel-the-feels high school throwback anthem. You play that song and I could very well get pregnant, too.

Mel and I are not elite musicians, charismatic front women, or rockers with “take me to bed” dimples and hyperflexible hips (well, I’m not sure about that last one, actually–see yoga reference above). But my best friend and I are masters of our own crafts—the crafts of raising a family, of building a marriage, of managing a successful professional career, and of singing expertly the arias that compose us. We are divas, ever honing the art of ourselves and doing a fucking excellent job of it.

Evolution

24K Magic is different from Doo-Wops and Hooligans and Unorthodox Jukebox in many ways. Mel 2017 has evolved on many levels from Mel 2016, and Zaide 2017 is sure as hell a work in progress. The night after the show, as we relaxed in our suite following a day on the beach and at the spa, I was scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, as one does under a haze of sun and champagne. Right there in front of me on the screen was a recent acoustic clip of A-Ha performing a ballad version of “Take on Me,” Harket’s effortless climbs into falsetto landing with delicate beauty in this stripped-down and austere rendition. At its core, “Take on Me” is a solid song, and it’s beauty shines through every format it takes. Like Mel, like me, like Bruno and his Hooligans, it continues to pivot on a powerful fulcrum, becoming better and better as it grows and gains speed and power over time. I can’t wait to see what Mars’ next evolution will be. I can’t wait to see what Mel decides to add to the palette of her life between now and our next glass of wine. And I can’t wait to continue diving into who I’ll be when I again raise my glass to hers in a toast to us, pinky rings to the moon.

It’s not a drink. Nor is it a sexual position. And it most certainly is not a suave, slightly enigmatic dude at a high-rollers table drinking Dos Equis. My friends, this Brazilian is a hairstyle, that very special sort of hairstyle that clocks in south of the border and doesn’t typically involve highlights…at least, as far as I know. But this is what I would like to know—what sadistic, evil, torture-mongering misogynist determined that a hair-free womanly quadrant was an element of beauty, and that it was socially acceptable to achieve said beauty through such an exceedingly displeasurable method?

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Yes, I have experienced the cartoonish torment of the Brazilian bikini wax and am here to tell you about it. It’s a rite of passage; at some point or other a lot of us ladies will have a go at some creative landscaping in an area we see every single day. And why not? We’re the ones who have to look at it the most, so we may as well make it make us happy. So, in order to assess the degree to which this particular grooming phenomenon creates sexiness, a while back I gave it a rip-roaring go. I emerged from my…research…with a smooth new ‘do and a deep appreciation for the lengths to which we women will go in the name of beauty. And also a bit of a sore virginia, to be honest.

Please understand that I am very much a neat freak when it comes to the care and maintenance of my…lawn, as it were…and have always paid careful attention to my personal grooming. And as many women have, I’ve over the years experimented with various hairstyles and methods to achieve them, occasionally in conjunction with the specific likes of a particular partner. I have even attempted Brazilian waxing at home, a practice I do not recommend for anyone who is not a professional contortionist with training as an aesthetician and no pain sensors in their brain. If you’re gonna rip, then rip off the band-aid and get professionally pummeled.

Here’s the good news—the entire procedure takes fifteen minutes, in contrast to a miserable 60 minutes of splayed-out ripping on the bathroom floor at home. And the price tag is actually rather conservative in the litany of female spa procedures. Here’s the bad news—I think I’m now technically having an affair with my aesthetician, since she has seen me in positions that I may not have even engaged in with some of the the above-referenced partners. Allow me to summarize the protocol for my “Brazilian Bonanza” for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure as of yet:

Step One—Walk into the treatment room with the technician (let’s call her Bonnie) and discuss the weather.

Step 2—Drop your drawers while Bonnie heats up the wax, and walk your half-naked self over to the table, which is covered in paper just like at the doctor’s office.

Step 3—Lay on your back, bring the soles of your feet together and attempt to respond to Bonnie’s idle chit-chat while she layers a foundational product and then really warm wax over your most intimate of intimates, with a bird’s eye view into your womb.

Step 4—Using a labor-like breathing technique Bonnie’s taught you, exhale deeply as she repeatedly rip, rip, rips out that unsightly hair growth.

Side note—have I mentioned Bonnie’s trainee? Oh yes…oh yes, my friends. Before passing the baton to her young apprentice, she must be schooled in the art of the female wax, and I have courteously agreed (what else am I gonna do?) to allow Bonnie’s pupil to observe our session. Therefore, every step is accompanied by Bonnie’s commentary on how to apply the wax, which “folds” to move aside, which direction the hair grows in this particular crevice, etc. and so forth. I’m not kidding.

Step 5—Be thankful that you study yoga as Bonnie has you lift each leg to your head in turn so that she can get to hairs in places you didn’t even know you had.

Step 6—Roll over on your stomach and be thankful that you’ve just showered as Bonnie explores the depths of your identity in a search for follicular rebels. Footnote—as she explained to her apprentice, Bonnie uses Steps 5 and 6 instead of asking clients to get on all fours to provide access to the same areas. She finds it a degrading position that is unneccessary, and I couldn’t agree more.

Step 7—Bonnie applies antiseptic and a little bit of soothing balm to your now perfectly smooth woman-parts. You’re done.

I had to admire Bonnie’s efficiency—she got me in and out of those positions as quickly as she possibly could, but got every damned hair down there in the process. At first, I was perfectly mortified by the idea of her seeing me in such a state of vulnerability (I am a rather modest gal), but I felt a little better when she told me that this was her third Brazilian of the day, and it’s a normal day. So, in the final analysis, two days after we spent our quality time together, Bonnie will not have remembered a single thing about my womanhood, but instead would be busily rip, rip, ripping away at one of many other unsuspecting victims.

As I walked home from the spa, slightly humiliated, slightly sore, and deeply impressed at my tolerance to pain, I marveled that women actually go through this ordeal (and pay for it) once a month just to achieve a little extra smoothness and neatness. Wouldn’t the good old bikini line wax or shave do the trick? It’s cheaper, faster, and produces a lot less discomfort. Plus, it keeps in place some natural down that a part of me still thinks ought to be there. Is it really that much better to go Brazilian? Maybe I’ll ask the dude at the high-rollers table. With that kind of sophistication, maybe he goes Brazilian too.

Valise in Wonderland

When first I gazed upon the Hollywood Walk of Fame, averting my eyes from the expectorated fluids and bird droppings dotted across the names of the world’s most revered entertainers, I had a thought that I’ve learned is not uncommon upon a first visit to Hollywood: “This is it?”  Scruffy denizens and a sea of tourists shared the slightly soiled sidewalk in front of questionable-looking storefronts, plodding along together under an unmistakable hovering cloud of marijuana fume.  Welcome to Tinseltown.

Here’s the thing, though. After rendezvousing with this section of the behemoth that is Los Angeles, as well as some of its neighboring environs, I had the same feeling I did the first time I tried sushi many years ago. Back then I had left the restaurant unimpressed, not turned off, but not turned on, either, until three months later, when a sushi menu in the Spanish town in which I…

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It was a fabulous Thanksgiving.  Our seven-year-old–let’s call him Scooter–was giddy with glee that he had a whole week off from school, the first since August.  I was similarly giddy with glee to be able to hang out with him all day every day instead of humping away in the office, and also giddy to be getting up to my elbows in from-scratch, old-school cooking, Sancerre in hand and Spotify playing.  My husband, The Silver Fox, was giddy with glee as well, clearly because we were hanging out at home, of course, but also because we were spending the holiday with two very special visitors–his daughter and our grandson.

I am a grandma.  I’m 43, my only biological child is seven and a half, and I have two grandchildren.  This is a classic demonstration of the modern family in action. When older boy meets younger girl (in my case, way younger girl), the fruits of their union include some lesser-known but equally sweet morsels.  We’re the dragonfruit of the family tree, and we’re proud of it. It works.  Love is love, and it’s all good.

This construction really is easy for anyone to get accustomed to, if I’m honest, and a pleasure to operate within, but it does require that we break down the strict fenceposts of what defines the grandparent profile.  First off, let’s be real–I could theoretically have been a biological grandma by now had both I and my progeny started adding to the population really, really young.  Even so, the very young parent phenomenon is not the norm, and it’s incidence continues to decrease across the developed world. A grandmother per modern standards is the sixty-something veteran, the post-career ladder, midlife living-it-up expert who can dole out the wisdom the younger generation so sorely needs.

​That ain’t me, my friends.  Yes, I’ve been around the block once or twice by now and have taken my lumps like the rest of the fortysomething fray.  I’m now even stylishly sporting some grays created from the glut of wisdom oozing from my brain (roll your eyes with me here, people).  And I understand, I truly do, if but a few of the particularities of living through the common grandparent peer set of the 60s and now 70s, as seen through the eyes of my seventy-year-old husband.  

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But I’m very different too.  I’m still locked into corporate America, still clutching queasily at an operational career that will ensure Scooter a good college education. I also haven’t been to a lot of the life neighborhoods that my fellow grandmothers now are able to cruise through with the top down, no map necessary. In sum, I haven’t yet earned all of my grandma stripes.

Regardless of how I measure up to the traditional definition of the part, however, I do have unique gifts to share as a young grandmother.  After this weekend, three of these qualities come to mind that I’ve been happy to witness in myself:

1. Stamina.  When The Silver Fox is ready to throw in the hatchet, park the stroller and smoke a cigar, I’m game to wield a bottle against a nap-resistant infant, then clean the living room, load the dishwasher for the 47th time, and still have some juice left in the engine for a glass of wine and a good chat with Junior’s mom.  Now let me be crystal clear here–there are women way older than I am who could royally kick my ass when it comes to physical stamina.  That is not my point.  I am merely stating here that the gas tank has enough energy in it for me to power through a kid and grandkid day relatively unscathed.

2. Know-how.  I had an infant myself a short six years ago, and I remember how I did it.  Bottles and onesies, bath time and teething toys–it’s still in the front of the hard drive.  As an added bonus, I have retained “Mommy Nose”, that elusive of all maternal gifts bestowed during pregnancy, which allows one to smell a dish of day-old salmon from across town.  I can tell the diaper is dirty as soon as it is, and can whip on a shiny new nappy in a matter of seconds, but I find I have advice to give too–actual good advice that isn’t nagging overshare–on a variety of subjects from diaper rash to motor skills.    On the first day of the visit, I even got a very fussy Junior to fall asleep in my arms for a nap, though he was in a brand-new place with someone he wasn’t too familiar with.  I was proud of that.  I’ve still got it.

3. Connection.  Ever since The Silver Fox and I first got together over ten years ago, I have been in ardent admiration of his daughter’s grace in not only accepting me, but allowing me an ever-deeper role in her life.  We talk openly, we enjoy one another, and now she is sharing her son with me and encouraging him to call me Aba (that’s the nickname we’ve come up with).  I’m truly blessed in this. What’s cool too is that we are able to cross generational lines here. In these three days of visiting, our conversations have covered not only family and baby business, but also career concerns and even hip-hop.  We’re on a different track than a lot of stepmother-stepdaughter combos, but we’re arguably on a closer level as women.

The larger lesson that I’m learning from grandmotherhood is that there is not one recipe that results in success.  Scooter is technically Junior’s uncle, but he’s also a seven-year-old helping to take care of a sweet little baby.  My husband’s daughter is my stepdaughter, but she’s also a girlfriend within my own generation as a parent.  And I, I am a grandma.  A grandma with a spectacular rack, a mid-stream career and a running dinner date with the other second-grade moms in Scooter’s class.  And like our Thanksgiving dinner, it’s all very, very good.

Image 1 Credit: “Granny Mysteries.” Courtesy of looneytunes.wikia.com

Image 2 Credit: Scooter and me. Courtesy of The Silver Fox’s iPhone.

The level to which I am a fan of Bruno Mars has been well-documented in prior blog entries.  When I first saw his mischievously charming mug on The Voice several years ago, I was enthralled.  Then I started to listen to him sing, and I was seriously pulled in.  Then I began to understand this artist’s deep and broad musicality, and I was impressed.  But once he seduced his way through “Gorilla” at the 2013 VMAs, I was done for, and…well…reduced to full-on crush level, let’s just call it like it is. I downloaded both Doo-Wops and Hooligans and Unorthodox Jukebox at a clip shortly thereafter and have been listening closely ever since.

So you can imagine my almost irrational glee upon knowing that, after a four-year incubation period, Mars’ third album was finally ready for prime time.  Bruno Mars is a perfectionist; for this reason, I could easily imagine him tweaking, correcting, and retooling his songs umpteen times in order to make them meet the expectations of his gifted and self-critical ear (“not yet, not like this, let’s do it a different way”).  Hell, he has even admitted that “Uptown Funk” was close to the trash can on several occasions, until he, Mark Ronson and the team finally found the right button to push to make a musical monster piece.

I heard the single “24K Magic” first, like everyone else.  I’ll be honest to say that 90s-era R&B like the kind Mars salutes across this album is not my most favored genre or my strong suit in terms of musical knowledge.  However, this song has a groove that even the unindoctrinated can love, along with slick electro-funk and the tightly woven and pristine hooks that Mars is so famous for being able to pull out of thin air.  It’s not a blockbuster for me, but a good song and an expertly-crafted one nonetheless.

Bruno and the gang also made available to us a second song from 24K Magic prior to release in exchange for a pre-order of the album.  That selection, “Versace on the Floor,” has become one of my favorite tracks of this effort.  It’s the slow jam, the sexy jam, the one in which Mars tells his girl “I love that dress but you won’t need it anymore” with a plaintive cry of a vocal that’s just wow, and croons in that sweet and seductive voice of his to “just kiss ’til we’re naked.” Straight up, no shame in it at all.

That a line as openly intimate as this last one, instead of being tucked shyly away into a single verse, is part of the central refrain and major hook of the song reflects a quality we learned about Bruno on the last album.  He’s sexual, and not afraid of that fact.  We got a sneak peek of this characteristic in “It’s Our First Time” with the purred lyrics “Like ice cream on a sunny day / Gonna eat you before you melt away.”  Later, on Unorthodox Jukebox, Bruno took it all off and bared his sensuality like a tattoo right in the middle of his chest, the same one on which his sex partner was bang-banging during the wild coitus of “Gorilla.”  He revels in the sex factor in that track; the ridiculously good extended live version of the song rises at the end from simmering foreplay to a thinly-veiled metaphorical and musical climax.  Glaring sexuality pumped through one hell of a well-written song–a heady combination to say the least.

There’s a lot of naughty going on in 24K Magic as well–not quite as hard-core, but still a frank and celebratory attitude toward the delights of the flesh.  Andy Cush from Spin just summed this up pretty tidily in saying “…well, look, Bruno Mars just seems like a guy who really likes to bone” (“These Are the 9 Horniest Lyrics on Bruno Mars’s 24k Magic“ November 18, 2016).  Case in point?  The song “Straight Up and Down.”  The first time I listened to it I said to myself, “Dang.  Is this song about what I think it’s about?  Dang.” There’s a triple entendre in the title, but suffice it to say that one meaning towers over the others.  I’ll give you a hint: it’s the one referenced by the lyric “I put you on and now you’re feelin’ right.” Yep.  And of course, it’s delivered in the same smooth, catchy kind of melody that now has me singing to myself in line at Target about kissing until we’re naked. Thanks Bruno.

 

I’m talking a lot about lyric in reference to an album that is painstakingly crafted and exquisitely produced from a sonic perspective, but there’s a reason for that.  Bruno Mars is truly a witty little shit, and you can tell that he and his partner in crime Philip Lawrence had an effing blast diving into the feel of 24K Magic and making pimp-worthy words to fill it with.  It’s one-liner after one-liner here, and they’re all fabulous, like this call-and-response bit that kicks off the song “Perm”: “It’s my birthday / No it’s not / But I still look good, though / Hot comb hot.”  Oh and let’s not forget the unavoidable penis reference from the title track: “So many pretty girls around me and they’re wakin’ up the rocket.” Classic. Hilarious and classic.  And it appears we’ve graduated from carrot to rocket this time around.  Congrats on that, Bruno.  Well done, indeed.

Groove reigns in 24K Magic, and tracks like “Chunky,” “Finesse” and “That’s What I Like” will get you singing and shaking.  My favorite song on the album, “Perm,” is simply sick in construction, layering and funk.  It’s straight-up (no pun intended) James Brown, and Bruno can clearly work some James Brown.  It’s all here–a killer beat, the fullness of the horn section, the soul, the stank.  “Perm” is impeccable down to Bruno’s guttural funk screams, and I can’t get enough of it.  This one will be insane when he and the Hooligans preach it live onstage, and the choreography?  Just shut up, Bruno.

Mars has said in interviews that he shaped the flow of 24K Magic deliberately, to tell a story.  I get that when I listen. It seems to be the tale of a player who finds the party, sees the girl, charms the girl, seduces the girl, gets Straight Up and Down with Versace on the Floor with the girl, after getting busy gets shut down by the girl, reparties with the girl, then loses her for good just as he realizes what she means to him.

Here’s where Bruno the romantic shines through.  After all this swagger, the bravado, butts and grinding and strawberry champagne and pinky rings, it’s all about love.  The final song on the album, “Too Good to Say Goodbye,” directly contradicts the eight tracks before it by laying bare the lover under the player with an earnestness and a sweetness that is an essential part of Bruno Mars.  This song, a Babyface collaboration, is (duh) skillfully written.  The lyrics are lovely, and Mars’ vocal skills are on fire throughout this gymnastic ballad. I have to be honest–the electronic bits at the beginning and end threw me off, and the busyness of the arrangement, for me, took away from the lyric and music that are the real power here.  I would love to have heard this song as a stripped-down piano or guitar ballad; I think the stark counterpoint in tone to the rest of the album would have packed a real wallop. Even so, it is still a very solid song and a master class in vocals.

At the end of the day, 24K Magic is a glowing example of a virtuoso craftsman at work.  While Mars went for a story-telling lane and a thrill ride on this trip, and chose to stay close to an R&B sound from history that some may feel tends toward the cheesy, these are damned tight songs that will make you sing along and will for sure pull you off your butt to dance.  Perhaps even at Target. Just don’t drop your Versace until you get home, though.

Issa Puppi

The level to which I am a fan of Bruno Mars has been well-documented in prior blog entries.  When I first saw his mischievously charming mug on The Voice several years ago, I was enthralled.  Then I started to listen to him sing, and I was seriously pulled in.  Then I began to understand this artist’s deep and broad musicality, and I was impressed.  But once he seduced his way through “Gorilla” at the 2013 VMAs, I was done for, and…well…reduced to full-on crush level, let’s just call it like it is. I downloaded both Doo-Wops and Hooligans and Unorthodox Jukebox at a clip shortly thereafter and have been listening closely ever since.

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This is not a post about politics.  This is not a post about the economy, climate change or the musical Hamilton.  This is, very simply, a post about kissing.

The act of kissing goes back thousands of years, and has been celebrated, regulated, banned and repopularized more often than Laverne and her friends practiced that “whisper” technique on Fabian’s picture in Laverne and Shirley.  The practice exists across cultures, generations and demographics–hell, even Bonobos have a good snog on a frequent basis.  It’s simple in concept–pucker, plant, release–but as straightforward as it seems in concept, in actual fact a kiss is much more than just a kiss.   It is a singular phenomenon that crosses not only sexual but social and even political boundaries and holds layer upon layer of meaning.  Let’s open up and explore.

Before our lips touch even at a whisper, we are already communicating.  In what is truly a heady sensual experience, pheromone receptors and transmitters that reside around our mouth and nose are pulsating with chemistry, introducing us to the physical sphere of the other.  As we draw close, we very literally breathe each other in, nose to nose and mouth to mouth.  It is here that we are often “turned off” by the messages coming to us, which may indicate that our bodies are not compatible, or alternatively, this may be the point of no return signaled by a perfect initial mixing of selves, cuing the hunger for more.

This is why those reality shows turn me off.  Giorgio at the bar after a couple of shots sees a girl he’s attracted to, saunters over, ask her a few questions and then proceeds to polish her tonsils with his tongue.  No introduction, no chemical orientation.  We skip the point, really, and to boot, Giorgio and his friend miss out on a lot of the real fun.

Think about your first kiss for a minute.  Chances are there was at least some close face-to-face communication happening, some graduation and introduction to the other’s space before the actual event took place?  If your first kiss, like mine, was a fabulous one (horn players have great lips), then I’ll bet you there was some pre-kiss lingering involved.  But not drool.  No.  Drool does not a good first kiss make.

But back to lips.  You don’t have to look like Angelina Jolie to be able to pack a perfect pucker.  As with other things that sometimes follow energetic kissing, it’s less about the size of the boat and more about the way you row it. While this can seem like the most bewildering piece of the puzzle, I offer here a few basic admonishments that sum it all up:

1. No drool.  I mentioned this before, but it’s important.  Like Giorgio and the tonsils, saliva is something to work up to.  Pheromones to lips, lips to tongue, tongue to juices.  Skip one and it gets gross quick.

2. No fish lips.  Nothing annoys me more when watching a romantic scene in a movie than to see a sweeping seduction, confession of love, or other sigh-generating exchange followed by a first kiss that looks like someone is sucking on a lemon rind.  Lips are soft and wonderful; pursed lips are like heel skin.  And there’s no communication happening with stiff lips (more on that below).

3. Don’t kiss to your own drummer. Kissing, like sex, is a partnership.  You need to know where your partner is in order to be in the same place, and proceed from there together.  There’s not much enjoyment if both parties aren’t on the same sheet of music, after all.

Here we are, then, having drawn close together, breaths in sync, enchanted by each other’s scent, image and sounds, and our lips have come together sweetly, a first taste of the banquet.  What comes next is another important connection.  We are now crossing the boundary into something intimate, something inside ourselves.  Our mouths communicate information much different but just as important as mere words.  Passion, tenderness, need, love, curiosity–all of these steps compose the dance of the kiss. We decide together where it goes, how deep, how forceful, how leisurely or frenetic, and those ingredients, in turn, determine What Comes Next and how the rest of our bodies will engage us. Kissing, then, at its essence, is a communication.

We’ve enjoyed a meaningful interchange, but this moment, for today, has come to a close.  As our lips part, I leave you with a question, which comes from all those things I listed in the first line of this post.  Just as kissing depends upon learning about the other, at the surface first and then inward to a deeper level, should not we as people engage each others’ minds in the same way?

Photo credit: “Romeo and Juliet” by Robert Dicksee (via Wikimedia Commons)

It’s been a while, I know.  Here you sit, all alone, drink in hand while the band plays a sorrowful refrain.  I’ve even left you right up front at the table next to the window, with only a half-eaten appetizer and a wan smile from the server to keep you company.  I’ve been a crappy date, I realize.  But here’s why.

I wrote a book.  Not terribly recently, mind you, but over the last few years.  I did it on a lark, when I noticed that a college acquaintance of mine had broken out as a romance novelist in the midst of a successful career as a college professor and all-around Giant Brain.  As I sat at home reading about her in my college magazine, I recalled that I had, in fact, been a peer tutor of writing at that same institution, had been complimented rather highly on my work, and all in all, didn’t completely suck at writing.

“So, self,” I muttered upon checking out my classmate’s goods, “I think we can actually do this respectably well.  Let’s give it a whack.” I pulled out my iPhone (yep) and put down a chapter.  I went for something fun, something twangy but not painful, something that would be a kick for me to write, and therefore, would flow pretty well.  At the time, I was digging stuff like The Vampire Diaries and Twilight, having been a fan of the whole vampire genre since before Gary Oldman’s knee-melting “oceans of time” line from Bram Stoker’s Dracula.  Incidentally, if you are not familiar, see that movie now.  Now–go.  You can finish reading this post later.  Shoo.  If nothing else, see it for Oldman’s fantastic performance and the absolute perfection of that one line.  It really is that good.

But I digress. I chose the genre of urban fantasy for the bursting of my long-form literary cherry.  For those who may be unfamiliar with the term (though I’ll betcha not with the genre itself), urban fantasy incorporates elements of the surreal into real-life, contemporary settings.  I didn’t really know this was a specific and defined thing at first–I just knew that the concept of the fantastic in the real world was intriguing to me, from classics like Allende’s Casa de Los Espíritus to the X-Men franchise to Harry Potter.

I also knew, sentimental gal that I am, that I wanted my book to include a classic romance, complete with chemistry and tension and a few metaphorical thai chiles thrown in there for good measure. Finally, I wanted to laugh.  I wanted my work to make me laugh often, with snark and satire and good, old-fashioned wit–in other words, fewer bare-chested werewolves and more Prince lyric references than you see in the average urban fantasy novel.  I’d just finished a few HP Mallory books, and it seemed to me that my writing style could fit into her niche–urban fantasy / paranormal romance with a heaping dollop of humor.  So away I went, phone in hand, thumbs flying.

Over the next several months I whipped it out wherever I could (the iPhone of course, you sick twist)–on planes, in hotels, on buses like the one in Japan I referenced in Gorilla, and before I knew it, by Jeeves, there was a dang book in there.  About 180 pages, so a short book, to be fair, but it was there all the same.  I finished it in classic writer style–in Paris, sitting at a sidewalk cafe table, drinking a glass of red wine and eating a Croque Monsieur.  Pretty cool.

Internal experiment now complete, it was time  to see what people thought–people who weren’t me, that is.  After a very self-conscious reveal to my sister-in-law (she has a Big Brain too), I had both a positive response that powered me forward and a lot of very good notes for revision.  I  finally self-published Overture in 2014, and huzzah!–people liked it.  There was no real campaigning–I did the cover (using stock art by an artist named Pakmor), the formatting, the giveaways, the tweets and all the rest of the marketing, if you could even call it that, but it was still well-received overall.  Overture got a 4.14 rating on Goodreads, some lovely and reinforcing comments from R2R participants and other readers not related to me, and some additional excellent notes to action related to anything from plot twists to level of detail to the brevity of the book itself.

Cut to today.  I’m running breathlessly into the restaurant with a parcel under my arm, apologizing as I wrestle out of my coat and join you at the table.  I’m handing over to you my updated book, which is revised and expanded by roughly 100 pages from the original.  I’m beseeching you to take it as a peace offering, to understand why I didn’t call, or write…or blog.  It’s right here–evidence of hours spent drafting and crafting between conference calls and meetings, before midnight on a work night and after the Folding of the Laundry on a Saturday afternoon.  I’m offering this book, my book, to you and asking you for your input (and also a slug of your wine).

Here, my dear, neglected readers, is my shameless plug.  Overture is enrolled in the Geek and Sundry Fantasy Contest on Inkshares.com.  For those not familiar with Inkshares, it is a clever-as-hell crowdfunding site for indie authors.  Once a draft on the site hits 750 pre-orders, Inkshares will publish it, to include editing, cover design, marketing, the works. The same holds for this contest–if Overture lands in the top 3 relative to number of pre-orders received by November 1, I will get published by a professional third party.  Don’t get me wrong, I will be publishing in any event, but before I use The Issa Puppi Not-an-Agency once again, I’d love to try and snag a spot here.

Details about Overture, sample chapters, and other specifics on the project (including pre-order details) are available at this link: inkshares.com/books/overture.  The book is comprised of four Movements; I’ll be posting only the First Movement on Inkshares (ten chapters in all), but will send the full manuscript to all pre-orderers once we hit the 100-order mark.  I would love to know what you think, and if you like what you read, would love to have your backing.

So, what do you say?  Want to have a go (wink, wink)?  Let me pour you some more wine.