The Mushroom Factor

I live in a house that was built in 1900. From 1900 to 1975 it was a rental, and had, I am sure, some very interesting tenants in it. We are the first actual owners on the deed, and as a result have needed to fix a never-ending list of problems with electricity, plumbing, walls, plaster ceilings, old ugly wallpaper, asbestos-wrapped pipe insulation, water seepage from under the basement, rebuilding a front porch, adding a family room, rebuilding the kitchen, twice. The list goes on forever.

There is one fact that I have discovered while renovating and repairing this great old house. That is that any given project will take approximately three times the expected amount of time to finish, and will cost up to ten times more money than estimated. This has been referred to as The Mushroom Factor, and is evidently a known part of owning an old house. Take, for instance, my dining room light fixture.

We had only been in the house for a couple of years when we decided to have our first fancy dinner party. Actually, my husband thought I was nuts right off the bat (did I mention I was pregnant?), so it was I who gathered my strength, planned a menu, and got the place cleaned and ready for company. As I was setting the dining room table the morning of the event, one of the light bulbs in the hanging fixture over my head went out. Okay, I thought, this is no big deal. I'll get a light bulb, climb on a chair, and fix it.

Well, the first thing I had to do was run to the hardware store and get some light bulbs, as we were out of the ones that matched the fixture. Then we had to move the table and most of what was on it to reach the light. As my husband (face it, we do need them for the menial chores) was changing the bulb, a bit of plaster plunked down from the ceiling onto the table. As a result, I climbed onto the table and tried to clear away any problem plaster that would potentially wreck my perfect table setting.

There was only one small glitch. The plaster in the ceiling surrounding the base of the light fixture was wet. Not soaking wet so you could see it from a hundred yards away, but damp enough to point to a problem leak somewhere on the second floor. At that point I took everything off of my table and pulled down all of the remaining soggy plaster. Then I went upstairs to see what was going on. I now had a three-foot in diameter hole in the dining room ceiling, and a similar amount of soggy plaster on the table.

It didn't take much searching on the second floor to discover that the drain pipe from the bathtub had a leak. To get to this leak it looked like we would have to pull up the tub, break through the concrete base under it, and figure out which section of pipe was about to be dripping on my party. So I called a plumber. He arrived quickly, but refused to touch anything wet until the electricity under it had been disconnected, so I called my electrician. By now it was after lunch time, and getting dangerously close to the appointed dinner hour.

It took the electrician only a moment to disconnect everything, and happily the plumber found the leaky joint without having to break up the entire bathroom floor. Before he left, I had the electrician hook up the light fixture once more. The ceiling, however, was still in the middle of my dining room table.

Believe it or not, the party was not cancelled. I still had the dinner guests arrive as scheduled. However, the style of the evening changed considerably. We had a lovely buffet set up on a couple of card tables in the living room, and we all ate on our laps. It's a good thing we have understanding friends, but then, most of them live in old houses, too.

There is, I guess, a moral to this story, and it comes in the form of a quiz:

Question: How many people does it take to change a light bulb in an old house?

Answer: The two owners, a plumber and assistant, an electrician, and eventually a plasterer and painter to complete the repairs on the ceiling. Mercifully, I have completely forgotten how much this all cost us.

By the way, I wouldn't trade my old house for anything. As of this November, we have been in it for 35 years. We have rebuilt most of it at some time or other, but the best things we have built are 35 years worth of memories.

Mom, you would like this

In about five minutes it would have been my mother's 91st birthday. I have thought about her a lot this week, as I do every year in late September. She and I spent a lot of our lives trying to figure each other out, and disagreeing a majority of the time. This does not, however, mean we didn't love each other.

As I got older, and she got more mellow, we came together in pretty spectacular fashion. A strong friendship developed, and we had tremendous fun delving into artistic endeavors and intellectual discussions. One chat in particular that I remember had to do with the brain structures that could lead to a sense of humor, and how they could possibly develop. Yeah, deep stuff like that.

I am sure that everyone on this planet has a slightly different behavior style with his or her parents, and that in itself is quite wonderful. We have an infinite ability to adapt, it seems, and to develop a relationship that works best for us. For me this is probably best exemplified in the fact that I finally learned never to discuss politics or religion with my Dad!

Evidently neither did Mom. She admitted to me and my sister, after he had passed, that she had voted Democratic, or even Independent, in a number of presidential races, without ever mentioning it to anyone. Especially not the staunch Republican she was married to!

I am now in the eldest generation of Moms in the family, along with my sister and sis-in-law, and we are all quite similar in our parenting styles. There are four Moms in the next generation, and more to come. I wonder if they will find some new literature that they will swear by in the rearing of their children. For my mother it was Dr. Spock (no, not the guy from Star Trek), and for me and my generation it was Hiam Ginott, Rudolf Dreikurs, and many others. We were smart enough to pick out the parts we agreed with in various theories, and toss out the rest with the disposable diapers.

There do seem to be a few universal truths that go along with being a mom, and as my kids are now into their thirties, I think I might just have enough experience to share a few of them with you:

1. No matter how old you or your children get, a part of you will always treat them like they are about to enter first grade.

2. No matter how much experience you have in any particular area, your children will still look it up on the internet after you have given your best advice.

3. There is always a day in your child's life where you will look at him or her and silently think, "I can't believe you are going to wear that!"

4. A child's hair grows more rapidly than that of adults. Therefore, when children decide to either to a) shave their heads, or b) dye their hair bright purple, it will grow out faster. It is important to remember this when viewing the new style for the first time.

5. Any daughter's skirt that is deemed an appropriate length by her mom will inevitably be hiked up a minimum of six inches the second that daughter is out of sight of the house. This is accomplished by rolling up the waistband so the daughter looks like she is wearing an inner tube under her sweater.

6. If a child arrives home after school with a black eye and a smile, it is best not to ask any questions. They will most likely be answered anyway by the principal when the office calls.

7. Any child who promises to forever and ever look after the needs of a pet is lying. This is not a purposeful thing, it just works out that way.

8. Most children will not take a) their special blanket, or b) their pacifier to college when they leave home for the dorms. This may be a difficult decision, but the odds are in favor of separation, anxiety or not.

9. Every child will have at least one serious relationship with a partner that you hate. Not mildly dislike, but hate. It is imperative that you keep your mouth shut or you may find yourself a mother-in-law to the creep.

10. If you learn to trust your children, they will become trustworthy. If you are constantly suspicious of their motives, they will go out of their way to prove you right. If you are not trustworthy, they will behave like you no matter what stern lectures they are given. If children know you can be trusted, you will find them telling you plenty of things you would probably be much happier not knowing.

11. In spite of all of your efforts, it is probable that your kids will grow up to be smart, kind, funny, hard-working and appreciative adults. You have official permission to ignore the amount of therapy needed for them to get that way. This therapy can either be for you or for them, or both, for that matter.

I am convinced that there isn't a more rewarding job in the world than being a mom. Maybe being a grandmom, but I haven't tried that one yet. For right now I have an endless supply of love available to both of my kids, and an ever stronger appreciation for the hard work my Mom did to help me and my brother and sister reach adulthood intact. Happy Birthday, Mom, and I miss you.

Eyebrows, love 'em or shave 'em off

I was looking at a political ad this afternoon. Yes, it is that season, and I am already sick of the ads for various politicians, or against various politicians who are all evidently spawn of the devil. Negative ads make me furious. That, however, is not the point I am here to make. In this particular ad there is a likable enough gentleman who wants very much to be the next governor of our state. I have no problem with that, at least none that I know of yet.

My problem is that the whole time he was talking I couldn't take my eyes off of his eyebrows. They didn't match. One was sort of tapered and rather long, from the edge of his nose out to the side of his forehead, where one would think eyebrows would go. The other one looked sort of like someone had pinned a piece of carpeting to his face. No taper, no particular shape, just a lump of an eyebrow. I am certain he had some very important political-type things to say in his ad, but all I remember is those eyebrows.

I don't know when I started noticing eyebrows, but it must have been a very long time ago. Back in the late 1960's and early 1970's I went to art school in Chicago, and had an instructor whose eyebrows almost defied description. They sat on top of an astonishing amount of electric-blue eyeshadow, which of course made them stand out more than the usual amount, but she had decided that whatever brows she had been given by Mother Nature simply wouldn't do, and had shaved them off. The jet black, painted on variety that she had replaced the originals with had an arch that rivaled St. Louis, and were a full half-inch above the natural brow bone. This gave her the look of a startled circus clown. Not what she was going for, I am certain.

That was one of many fashion eras during which many women thought they could improve on the looks that nature had bestowed upon them, and a lot of eyebrows were shaved in the mad dash to paint incredibly skinny curves where nice, natural brows once adorned nice, natural faces. That is not to say that Mother Nature doesn't ever screw up. I have seen perfectly lovely girls with eyebrows a grizzly would be proud of.

Many years ago I worked as a representative for a well-known brand of cosmetics, and was one of those gals you see in department stores doing makeup on willing customers. It was a fun job, except for the lingering allergy to all perfume. One afternoon a mom came to me with an entirely miserable-faced young girl of about 13. The kid was adorable, but had a definite problem. She had what is kindly referred to as a "unibrow," one long hedge of en eyebrow, with no discernible break in the middle.

The poor kid was distraught, and that's where I came in. Up until that point her mother had been convinced that she was way too young to pluck her eyebrows. Happily, Mom asked me for my opinion. I gently explained that the hair would not grow back in twice as thick (old wives' tale), and that the resulting uptick in her daughter's self-confidence would be more than worth a couple of minutes of discomfort. I sat the teen in my magic chair, and in a short moment had cleaned up the mess. I gave her instructions on upkeep, and sent off a grinning youngster and very relieved mom.

A friend that I recently worked with sits at the opposite end of the spectrum. She has no eyebrows. I haven't a clue how they disappeared, but there is no sign of any hair growth above her eyes. The hair on her head seems fine, and is definitely her own, so the missing eyebrows are a mystery. I don't think she has eyelashes, either, so some sort of physical disorder has robbed her of her brows. That is not the problem. The problem is with me. I am too chicken to say quietly to her, "could you let me take just a moment and show you how to draw very natural looking eyebrows on your face?"

She has drawn her brows in a single wide line, one line for each brow, and it really is distracting. She is an attractive person with a wonderful personality, yet it drives me crazy knowing she could look so much better with just a minute of cosmetic education, and an education I am well qualified to provide. But, again, I am a coward. I am so afraid of hurting her feelings in some way that I guess I prefer for her to remain imperfect. Silly me.

As certain as I am that a sizable segment of the population needs instruction on eyebrow shaping and maintenance, I am just as certain that my intervention is probably unnecessary. In some cases it most likely would be entirely unwelcome. Therefore, I will keep my opinions of eyebrows to myself, and my offended aesthetic sense well hidden. If the worst thing my probable choice for governor has to deal with is an imbalance in his brow structure, this state might be in pretty good shape.

Victoria, keep your secret to yourself!

I watched a horrifying Victoria's Secret ad a little while ago, and I am still mad. Picture, if you will, a group of underwear-clad lovelies talking about loving their bodies. They are all painfully thin, with ribs showing and gaunt faces. No one who truly loves their body would starve it down to boniness. While some other companies are making a valiant effort to come to terms with the bodies of real women, Victoria's Secret is steadfast in their insistence that beauty only exists in a size zero. Sadly, there are still a great number of women who have been trained throughout their lifetimes to believe this.

In this country it starts very young. I have read that a significant number of 9-year-olds report that they have already been on some kind of diet. There is still an alarming number of girls who suffer from bulimia and/or anorexia. The last statistic I read said that 20% will find their disease to be fatal.

For some reason we women have been well-trained to look for self-satisfaction in our exterior, when in reality it is the interior that should be well-crafted, finely honed, and educated to respect and even like itself.

Now I will switch to the first person. Me. I am a not-so-thin woman, who wears sizes 14 to 18, depending what part of my body is being covered. I spent many years of my life as a size 5, so I have been in both places and have developed a pretty good sense of what it's like to live in both worlds. As a size 5, the primary thing I discovered is that individuals of the opposite sex think it is open season on your figure. They also assume that a large part of your brain must be missing.

I vividly remember appearing as a model back then in a fashion and hair styling competition, with a gorgeously crafted hairdo and a slinky halter-top black jumpsuit. The other girls in the show were introduced by their names, then some complementary statement about their style. When I hit the stage, the only comment the announcer could come up with was that I was wearing the "new bra-less look." I am sure the judges couldn't have survived without that information.

I spent a large part of my life hearing about what a great body I had (as a swimmer and a dancer I was pretty athletic), but very little attention was given to the rest of me. Now that I am well into my sixties, the tables have definitely turned. Actually, they started turning when I was in my thirties. I have been very active politically and socially from my late teens to the present, and when I finally started to gain recognition for my writing, I started to realize how held back I had been by the standards of beauty of the times. Nobody had expected me to have the teeniest bit of intellect.

We have come a long way since the 60's, and women are finding their way into new and better lifestyles. The understanding is out there that we should love, honor and obey our bodies. Loving them means looking in the mirror at a few saggy items, scars, and an extra roll here or there, and being happy that this body has done well by you, taken you through some tough times as well as joyous ones. It deserves respect.

Honoring our bodies means keeping them active, feeding them properly with great, fresh food. It also means not kicking yourself around the block when you eat a jelly donut. Obeying your body means understanding what it needs and following through on achieving that goal. That body is the best judge of what is good for it, and when you feel a strong desire for an activity, an escape (Calgon is acceptable here), or a splurge, go get it! Even chocolate and red wine are allowable, just not as the mainstay of your nutritional intake.

I still see far too many women who believe in the artificial standards, however. They complain constantly about their weight, while forgetting to look at the rest of their unique selves. I know I have found that when my brain is well-fed with interesting information, I tend to automatically take better care of the rest of me. This is the teaching moment: We need to stop worrying about what the advertising media and their Photoshop and airbrushed and starved role-models seem to be dictating as a reachable goal. Friends, it is not going to happen!

Having given my lecture for the day, I will jump back into the advertising world with one two-part question: When the hell are they going to wise up and start looking at the beautiful women who populate this country, in all shapes and sizes? And when are they going to decide to appeal to our intelligence? I will never buy underwear from Victoria's Secret. I don't care what her secret is.