Dang, it’s been a week. I’ve been adjusting—sitting in bed, eating Sees Candy, and wishing Jillian Michaels laryngitis.
Ok, only part of that last sentence is true.
I’ve been meaning to come back and write the truth of turning forty, but you know how it goes. Right? And really, what do I know? Forty isn’t that much different from 39, it just sounds older. Although, I’m convinced there is a time-bomb in my DNA that alerted my system: HEY! She’s OLDer, go on the fritz and screw with her psyche a bit. I mean, seriously? Acne? And I don’t even want to talk about the 13 lb weight gain.
Ok, I don’t want to talk about it, but I will. I posted the photo to give you some idea. A close observer will notice I look a bit sleep deprived. I’m not. I just put on weight in my face. My chin and eyelids apparently have room for more fat. Who knew? Â You’ll also notice the, uh, boobage (as the ever so articulate men in my family call it.) Oh yeah, when Wende gains weight she gains it EVERYWHERE. Her face, her ass, her ankels (WTF?) and damn, girl, you’ve got boobs!
That should make me happy, right? And it would, if I didn’t bump into a third chin looking down to admire my new cleavage. You can’t win them all.
So, despite the great rack I’m sporting and exaggerating about, I’ve decided that it’s time. Time to really look over my habits and fix the problem. I had the great misfortune to visit the Doctor’s office the day after my birthday and well, that’s all I’m going to say about it. But it did convince me that if I want to get this weight off, I’m on my own and it’s time to call in qualified reinforcements.
Enter Jillian Michaels. I hate her.
Ok, that’s too strong, but really—she’s getting on my nerves. So, while I’ve been remiss at blogging, I have been  jumping jacking my newly acquired boobage right out of its exercise bra. Observant readers  and people on facebook who I’m spamming with updates will notice the new page (way up there, up, up, see it?) called “Dear Jillian“.  I’m keeping track of all my grievances against the ridiculously in shape Ms. Jillian. You know, in case I ever meet her. (Dear  Jillian, you might want to be thinking about a restraining order now. My name is spelled with 2 “e”s)
I’ve heard from a few of you that you have this stupid exercise tape and haven’t bothered to even take the shrink wrap off the darn thing. Um. If I’m suffering, you should be too. Consider this a kick in the pants to get moving. See, this way you can be snarky on your blog too. Write a Dear Jillian page and I promise to come and commiserate. We’ll start a revolution.
And speaking of commiseration, I apologize that the page won’t let you leave comments. It’s a template thing. And, sadly, my darling IZ is too flooded with real work to fix it. So, if you have something pithy to say or add well, write your own damn blog, er email me or comment anywhere.
So, summing up: Forty isn’t bad. Wende has boobs and a new-found nemesis and is flaming a revolution.
I’d say that’s a very good start to a new decade. Fan any flames, pour kerosine on any fires lately? Dish in the comments already!
I’ve been reading the biography of Anne Sexton this week. And after a little online research, bumped into this recording that I can’t stop playing. Anne’s All My Pretty Ones is blended beautifully with Peter Gabriel’s Mercy Street, which was inspired by Anne. It’s worth a listen to if you’re a fan of either poet.
You all make me smile. Thank you so much for your input on my lingerie quest. It was both informative and funny—and it made IZ blush, which is always a bonus!
I probably should have clarified. I am not looking for underwear, which my kind commonly call “Foundations”. Although, if I’m truthful, my foundation collection is even worse than my lingerie drawer. I once heard a comic tell a story about how his wife kept lamenting the mysterious loss of certain pairs of panties from her wardrobe. His response, “She doesn’t know it, but I keep throwing away the pairs I’m sick of seeing her in. . .” Ba dum dum! I only have to do a load of  “whites” to see his point; however, I draw the line at talking about my panties on this blog. Yes, yes there is a line, and we’ve found it. Let’s all just back away from that and pretend we didn’t notice.
No, Â I am on the hunt for pretty little things to, um, not sleep in. Â Although, if they’re comfortable enough for sleeping, all the better.(As if talking about this is any better than mentioning my “foundations”) You know, items that typically are hung on hangers with French names as pretty as the garment they describe: chemise, negligee, camisole, (can you name more?).
However, I’m extraordinarily picky on these matters. I’m allergic to silk. Yep. I know, how WRONG is that? But it’s true. No silk. No synthetics, I can’t breath in those. That’s in my head, but when you start to panic in your clothing it really doesn’t matter what is causing the reaction, it all equals mood killer. Oh, and I’d like these wonder garments to be comfortable and sexy and make me look like Cindy Crawford if the light is dim enough.
What? Too far on that last request?
I fear I’ve completely intimidated poor IZ on the matter. He won’t try, and who can blame him. My list of acceptable fabrics alone is enough to give a guy a permanent headache, and that’s exactly the opposite effect we’re going for here!
Valentine’s Day is quickly upon us and it has me thinking lingerie. Rummaging around in my underwear drawer is a total let-down. I’m starting to wonder how this odd assortment ended up in there. I keep it all wadded in a swirly pile so that I don’t have to admit most of it doesn’t fit. And what’s left over isn’t inspiring. Time to remedy this woeful situation.
A dash to my only options out here on the edge of the world left me deeply disappointed. Evidently, lingerie comes in two kinds. There’s the “Skanky, skivvy, what-the-heck-have-I-got-myself-into-this-isn’t-flattering-in-my-size- ho-liscious” lingerie. And then there’s the “Mother Theresa probably didn’t have sex, but she slept comfortably” (it’s a stretch to call it) Â lingerie. Neither is working for me. Lingerie should make you feel good about yourself, it should be comfortable and flattering so that you’re not fidgeting and preoccupied by it— and at the very least, it should be easy to slip out of! It should not, EVER, prompt the question, “What the bleep are you wearing?”
Why can’t I find sexy, soft, luxurious, but comfortable lingerie? I mean, something that’s pretty without being sticky sweet. Something that’s grown-up without being matronly. Something that’s sexy but still covers  my thighs? Something that plays to my assets but doesn’t have me (barely) covered in cheap neon pink acetate wondering if the seams will hold if we do, uh, that.
Because I do want to do that. And I want to look good doing it, and be comfortable while I’m at it. Is this too much to ask?
And it leaves me wondering if Julie Newmar had the right idea.
(pardon the flash photography–it was a grey, dark day)
The World’s Cutest Baby came for a visit this weekend. I’m guessing in the next 3 weeks he’s going to become the World’s Cutest Toddler, because he’s just promising to walk at any moment. We so enjoy getting a baby fix—and OUR baby had a blast showing this little wonder how to do things. It was just what we needed.
UPDATE 5/12/2010: Â I’ve had so many lovely offers via email to exchange letters since this post first ran in January. I wrote this post to explain my goal for the year—which is to write letters to friends and deepen my existing relationships. It’s a bit different than beginning a Pen Pal relationship with someone new. (although, that’s a very good thing and kudos to those of you who do!) At this point, I cannot in good faith take on any more pen pal or writing commitments. But I hope that if you’re inspired by the post below, Â you’ll start writing letters to your loved ones and cherished friends, too! Blessings on your journey, Wende
A box of Sunshine came in the mail yesterday. And I’m feeling warmer already.
Sunshine in a box is what arrived at my door yesterday. I spent the last bit of Christmas money I was hoarding on Meyer Lemons.  That probably sounds a bit crazy to you—but as a displaced Californian, it sounds like, smells like home.  I’d been coveting those lemons for months. And, really, while it’s an expense I shouldn’t be making right now—(Hello “Major pay-cut you’re lucky to have a job December” and that’s probably all I’m going to say about the horror that was December. *cough*)— sometimes you just need something small on which to hang your sanity. Tiny yellow pegs holding you up by your coat collar, gently whispering, “You’re ok. You really are, O.K.”
Did I mention my sanity was on the line? That doesn’t make it sound any less crazy, does it?
So, I bought lemons. But not just any lemons. Meyer Lemons. A few days later, a lovely box of sunshine arrived on my doorstep, “Howdy do, I’m your future. Want a taste?”
And those chatty lemons have me thinking. Not just about home and sunshine. But about the little yellow pegs that hold us all up. About getting good things in the mail. Good mail is certainly a sanity savior for me. IZ Â calls my Anthropologie catalog “Wende P0*n” and that’s probably a pretty good description. And when supply packages arrive with bits of the past captured in fabric, I’m excited too. But the best mail, is that unexpected package or letter. The one you didn’t pay for, the one you didn’t subscribe to, the one that arrives saying, “HELLO YOU! You’re so fabulous I thought I’d write and tell you. Oh, and do you know what happened to me today? . . .”
Truth is, I don’t write enough of those kinds of letters. I think about it. I write blog posts and juicy letters in my head on a regular basis. I also write TV sitcoms and Booker Award winning novels. But getting around to committing pen to paper is rare. I tend to send email—but most often, I send “thought mail.” Â If you get a warm tingling feeling for no apparent reason, it’s probably the thought mail I sent. Me, or someone else who thinks you’re fabulous.
In an attempt to live into my year—to strengthen the ties that bind and nourish my own soul, I’m declaring 2010 the year of Snail Mail. This is not an anti-technology thing. Because I love chatty emails and comments on this blog, and I adore the twitter conversations and when you update your facebook with a funny status report.
But I also love the feel of sunshine on my face. I love the feel of real paper in my hand, with your scrawly penmanship on the front of the envelope promising news. And when I get a letter, an unexpected note just because, it’s exactly like sunshine on my face. Did I mention it’s really grey here? And that grey days make you crazy? Yeah, letters in the mail are little yellow pegs of sunshine, holding me up by my collar, whispering “You’re Ok. You really are O.K.”
So, Operation Sunshine it is. I’m writing real letters this year, to real people, to people like you! In fact, some of those letters might even be addressed to YOU! Real live letters, probably typed because you can’t read my scrawling penmanship after about 3 paragraphs, with real postage, in your mailbox, telling you how fabulous you are! And how thankful I am that you are in my life. And do you know what happened to me today? . . .
You don’t have to write back if you don’t want to. That’s OK. But I’d love it if you did. Then both of us can stand on our porches, with letters in our hands that are not bills or catalogs, but tiny little missives of sun and love and laughter. And we can both know we’re ok. We really are O.K.
