So don't look

In a mall full of Victoria's Secret window displays and teenage PDA's, I would think that a baby nursing in the food court would be easily overlooked. But my experience with my own daughter during her first year taught me that people, especially women, will look long and hard for a glimpse of nipple just to be able to give you a dirty look. In corner booths and outside dressing rooms, I have gotten those looks. The ones that seem to ask, "Have you no shame?" and, "Do you have to do that here?" Well the answer was and always will be simple. Yes, I have to feed my baby when she's hungry. And as long as I make some effort to be discreet, with a blanket over my shoulder and a seat in the corner, then the nay-sayers should make an equal effort not to see what they know is coming and yet wait for.

I am a BIG nursing advocate. There have been plenty of articles claiming that it makes a child smarter and healthier, that it cuts down on colic and the chances of obesity later in life. I have heard plenty of arguments against nursing, but none of them have made much sense to me. One girl claimed it was incestuous to make her son suck on her nipple. (Believe me, when your breasts are sore and hot and rock-hard, they cease to be in any way sexual. And if nursing is incestuous, what is the cleaning after a diaper change?) One said she couldn't nurse her second child because it had made her first-born too dependent on her. (Hello! That's motherhood.) I have heard that it makes your breasts sag. (Actually, letting them decrease in size slowly through weaning rather than rapidly by just letting all the milk dry up at once lets the skin shrink back and may help the breasts to not sag.) I've heard that formula-fed babies sleep longer. (That's true, because it takes longer for them to digest what they're not meant to eat in the first place. Same number of nutrients per feeding, but less overall.) And a friend of my mother's once tried to dissuade me from nursing with the argument that it's easier to bottle feed. How is that easier? Measuring and mixing, checking temperatures, fixing up bottles in the middle of the night, packing all those bottles and formula in the diaper bag just to leave the house. How is that any easier than grabbing a couple extra pads and then heading out the door, or rolling over and latching the baby on in the night? You never have to worry about getting all the powder dissolved, the milk is never too hot, and you certainly don't have to sterilize your own nipples. And breastmilk is healthier. Formula companies are constantly trying to come up with a product that is easier to digest, that has the right kinds of fats and nutrients. They try to make their product closer to breastmilk every day, because breastmilk is the best. We all know that a person can't live off of bottled vitamins, no matter how much they get. But formula is the same thing. It's like an adult refusing to eat any food, only supplements. They can take all the vitamins the body needs, in pill form, but they will still be malnourished in the end. Formula fed babies don't test as malnourished, but they're only on formula for a year.

No, I'm not one of those women who advocates breastfeeding children until they're tying their own shoes. But I don't think formula should be used when there's not a need. Women who are able to nurse, who have no illnesses, whose babies aren't allergic, should nurse for the first year. It's possible even for an adoptive mother to nurse, if she uses a breast pump daily to stimulate milk production. Babies should go from breast to cup, with no "supplemental" formula thrown in. Nursing for a short while is better than not at all, but it's a far cry from going the whole route. Bottles can be a great tool in helping the father bond by feeding the baby, but with a breast pump, the only reason to use formula is financial. Nursing takes time that a lot of women need to work during.

I can't imagine looking down at my newborn child, gazing into those eyes, and thinking, "It's only second best for my baby." And I don't know why there's no help to make it that no woman ever has to. Nursing should be covered by the Family Medical Leave Act, as well as any laws that need to be passed, or programs instituted, so that women can afford to stay home to breastfeed. There should be evenly spaced breaks for mothers to pump their milk, and a reasonably private area provided for them to do it in. Maternity leave should be paid and last long enough for a routine to be established for the mother and child. And I'm sure that if we took the tax money that currently goes toward all those cans of formula bought with welfare, we could come up with some sort of incentive program for mothers to stay home and nurse. Obesity, and its complications, cost this country millions of dollars each year. Breastfeeding has been shown to cut obesity rates, both because of the nutritional value of the milk and the fact that no one can force a baby to take all 4 ounces from the breast. Breastfeeding boosts immunities, reducing medical costs. Breastfeeding has been linked to higher intelligence, which often leads to higher paying jobs (and higher taxes) and is therefore better for the economy. Doctors need to actively promote breastfeeding above formula. By encouraging all women who can to nurse their babies, they will also be putting millions of women in the position to pressure policy makers to make it easier to do. And in just a couple generations, we will have smarter and healthier children. We need to make formula feeding more difficult, and breastfeeding easier.

Karma

What goes around comes around. I believe that, and I believe that although it may not relate directly to the recipient, it evens out over all. Call me crazy, but I think that when whites oppress minority races over hundreds of years in the US, it's kind of poetic that soon we will be the minority. And I think that when "gay-panic" is considered by some to be a viable criminal defense, that it's right when it comes back to haunt the straights.

There's a guy in the Castro district of San Francisco complaining of overwhelmingly gay culture being thrust upon his family. Isn't that a little absurd in the gayest part of the gayest town in America? And now the people in P-Town Mass, complaining that they get called "breeders" by gays, and trying to somehow explain the difference between opposing a ban on gay marriage and bigotry. I'd love to hear that argument.
"I think you and your life are wrong and should be banned by law, but I'm not prejudiced or anything." Does that make any sense to anyone, because I really can't see how. There are only three real arguments against gay marriage. 1) It will cost more in spousal benefits. That's true, but much too selfish and outwardly prejudicial to admit for most. 2) My religion says it's evil. That's usually true as well, but we live in a secular nation so it's not really legally relevant. And finally 3) Sexuality is so fragile that if the government in ANY way endorses homosexuality as an acceptable practice, our children will embrace it. That belief, my friends, is brought on by people so homophobic and insecure in their own sexuality that they believe everyone is as close to gay as they are. I believe the answer for these people is some serious soul-searching, not law-passing.

The facts as I see them are that gays are here anyway, no matter what people want. They sometimes marry straight, which eventually drives up the divorce rate, and usually do so out of shame. "If I don't live it, I can't be it." That never works. A gay is a gay is a gay. Gays already have children, either through artificial insemination, surrogacy, or previous straight relationships. So the only thing marriage laws could give these kids is stability. Heaven forbid we legalize THAT. But most of all, when a great number of Americans were opposed to equal rights for blacks, or women, this nation did what was right anyway. We legalized interracial marriage and property laws for single women, and the rights for Jews and Muslims and women and blacks to teach our children. This country is NOT a democracy, with each person holding an equal vote, and it never has been. This country is a republic, where we elect our representatives to do what is best for us, in the hope that with the education and experience they brag about during campaigns, they will do right by us and set into motion laws to protect future generations.

Gays and lesbians, and transgendered people, are our parents, our siblings, our children, and our spouses. We need to stand up for them whether their sex lives makes us sick or not. Because we never know what happens in anyone's bedroom. The happily married elderly couple next door may have leather straps and plastic toys under their bed, and the gays may prefer to just cuddle. No one knows what happens behind closed doors, and it is not anyone's place to judge what they assume happens, or to judge the person by the sex life. It's just not right.

Christmas in July

Tell me, women. What is your shopping dream? No, not the fancy shoes and Tiffany's dream, the real one. The not at all glamorous one. Well I got that dream.

A couple weeks ago Tom was home on shopping day, and he got to see how I spend my household allowance. After dog food, toilet paper, cream rinse, and dish soap, I had enough money for absolutely none of the foods he likes to eat. No red meant, no $10 frozen pizzas. So this week, he took me to Wal-Mart. We bought all of the little household things that cut down the grocery budget. We bought toilet paper and paper towels, toothpaste and shampoo, razor blades and contact solution and those overpriced feminine products we have to buy. We filled two carts and spent way too much. I'm not exactly sure if it was the sad state of the pantry that prompted this shopping spree, or guilt, but I liked it either way. Tom lost his wedding ring and we had to spend almost $300 on a new one, so I guess stocking up on Tide and Snuggle wasn't that bad. The point is that for a few months I won't have to decide between food and toothpaste. This will help since soon I'll be buying sack-lunch supplies and even though I try to shop cheap, it's hard to buy anything an 8 year old will eat cold on a budget.

Not So Bad After All

Thirty has actually been pretty good to me. I think I may like it after all. I read once that Nicolas Cage said there's a certain grace that comes with age. Or something to that affect; it was in Reader's Digest, look it up. Anyway, I think he was right. I got this sensation, almost like an epiphany without the BAM. I can be old if I want to. I can go braless on laundry day (cameras in phones but no technology to avoid hand wash only?!), I can admit that I crochet and make quilts out of baby clothes, I can make that odd grunting sound when I sit down. (Not that I make that sound of course, but I can if I want to.) I don't have to be Young Chuck anymore; I can just be Chuck. It's liberating. I can go to Subway in my slippers (but not my robe, don't worry) and not worry about whether or not the high school kid in the booth thinks I'm trailer trash. Maybe milf isn't a way of saying 'hot for her age', but rather a way of saying 'hot and confident'. Why do I have such new self-esteem? Two people: Tom and Oprah.

Tom, my husband, gave me the perfect thirtieth birthday gift. Actually a whole box full of them. When we were first married he needed surgery on his shoulder (tore the bicep right off the bone, OUCH) and was in a sling, homebound, for almost 4 months. Having been on the road almost constantly for over 2 years, he got extreme cabin fever and became irritable to a PMS degree. One night he asked me what the hell I was doing with all that yarn so I showed him a simple chain stitch and he started to crochet, about the only thing he could do with only one arm and hand. This year my husband gave me, for my birthday, a twin sized afghan he crocheted me for over a year, from his time at home post-op to the week before I got it. For a big bad trucker-man to crochet a blanket in the back of his Freightliner for a year, it's got to take some real affection. Also in the box, the chick flick I'd liked the ads for (he actually heard me?) and clothes. Yes clothes. Not nighties or push-up bras, but real clothes I loved. I usually wear t-shirts and jeans, so for him to know what feminine clothes wouldn't make me ill shows he really knows me. Even Jame said she would hesitate to buy me these clothes. My husband knows me so well, and still loves me. It's a big ego boost.

Oprah, well she reran a show on dressing thinner. In it was some very useful information on finding the right bra. So I grabbed my sewing tape and measured my ribs. I hadn't been measured since I weaned my daughter seven years ago and was surprised to find that I have lost four inches in that time. The show also mentioned that for every band size difference, there is a one inch cup size difference. So a 34B cup is one inch deeper than a 32B cup. I went from a 36A to a 32C overnight. I found some bras that fit and bought two. Now my boobs (finally) stick out farther than my belly and I look thinner and, well, more buxom. I have always felt self-conscious about my chest. In fact, when I first talked to Tom, over the phone, I described myself as short and thin with my chest on backwards. Being an A cup can be hard. But now I am a C cup, one size bigger than the implants I used to wish for. Maybe I am a milf.

I don't think I'm going to claim 50 like I planned to. I think I'm going to proudly claim 30. I have had some fun getting here, and I have good people to share it with, my family and friends, and I don't think I need to lie one way or the other about it. I'll still dye my grays and slather on wrinkle cream, but I always dyed my hair anyway and the wrinkle cream...well you have to start that young. Maybe thirty really IS the new twenty, but better. Not so much insecurity, not so much fashion. More honesty and self-awareness. My boobs may sag more than they did at twenty, and my roots may be a touch lighter in places, but the drama is toned down and the priorities are straighter. It more than evens out. I think I like thirty.

But don't even ask me to contemplate forty.

He Did It

Maybe you haven't heard of Kyle MacDonald, but I have. I even let my daughter offer to trade our living room chair to him. But her chair was trumped by Kyle's ultimate goal: a house. She is of course disappointed, but I'm working on that. It is, after all, an unfurnished house. But, childhood heartbreak aside, I am happy for Kyle. I could describe his quest but it's all over if you want to google him so I'll let it go at that. The sad part is, I will never ever have the sort of spontaneous adventure and stardom he has achieved, and that realization is what makes my joy for him bittersweet.

It is my thirtieth birthday. It is also the third year in a row that my father has not called at 6am to wish me a happy birthday, but death does tend to make people blow off traditions that way. So far the birthday has been okay. My brother called yesterday to say he went in on a gift with our mom, and jokingly asked if I was 30, saying it as if it were 60. I told him he's losing his hair. It wasn't until then that he realized that I actually was turning thirty. Maybe that means I don't look it, but more likely it's indicative of my brother's interest in me, or in the math required to add two years to his own age.

They say thirty is the new twenty, but I don't feel twenty, or even thirty. I feel 40. Or at least as I imagine forty to feel like. I feel almost menopausal. I realize that the characters on Friends were in their thirties. I realize that thirty is the minimum age required to play a high school student in any Hollywood project. But I'm more Jill Taylor than Monica Bing. Debra Barone, not Donna Pinciotti. Have I mentioned yet the Hell it is to have a best friend who looks like Donna Pinciotti? Yep, Jame is Donna, and I am Kitty. Not even Midge, Kitty. And for everyone who didn't follow That 70's Show, disregard the last couple of lines. I don't yet know how to make the names turn into little blue links to Google search results. Yeah, I'm too old to work the internet. I can remember when it was just Bill Clinton's promise of a future "information superhighway".
I'd like some comments on this page of mine. So, anyone with a story of a thirtieth birthday meltdown, post it here. I need to take comfort in knowing I'm not alone here. PS- the first person to send me an over-the-hill e-card gets hexed by this old crone.

Fightin' Words

I went out last night, bar-hopped all 2 bars in this tiny little burg, and ran into an old friend. Well, an acquaintance, I guess. She's always really nice to me and seems rather personable but she also seems like the type of woman you don't want to get upset with. You know the type. They fight at the drop of a hat for the tiniest of reasons. We were in a rather crowded room and I was always a bit leery, waiting for someone across the room to shoot a less than happy facial expression in her general direction, or as she may put it "give her a dirty look".

I have never understood people who fight. I can understand being so outraged that you feel moved to physical violence. But some people seem eternally primed to sock some stranger in the mouth. I think I was twelve when I first watched Road House and noticed that the tough-looking girl in the push-up bra did NOT get the hot bouncer in the end, but the smart and natural-looking lady doctor did. Also, all the men who actually seemed to like fighting came across as fumbling idiots while Patrick Swayze remained hot and unflappable. What did I learn from this? Fighting is unfeminine and makes you look dumb.

Maybe I think too much. Fighting words and dirty looks have never had much of an effect on me. If they're coming from someone I don't know then I really don't care what the opinion being expressed is. It's a stranger and their opinion is baseless. If it's a friend of mine, someone whose opinion may actually have some impact, then I'm generally more inclined to try to resolve the conflict. Either way, I don't like pain. Even if I clobbered my opponent (not likely) I would still hurt my knuckles. And probably take at least a couple defensive hits as well. Better to avoid conflict, at least of the physical sort. It causes less bleeding, results in less assault charges, and leads to a much more peaceful night out. Call me slut or cunt or whore, it really doesn't bother me much. They're all just nouns, and not even ones that I feel fit. As Dalton said, Cocksucker is just "two nouns combined to elicit a prescribed response."

A New Stigma?

The FDA has passed it, now the government agency in charge of such things has handed down its recommendation that it become routine for all girls. It's the new HPV vaccine. I think it's a great idea. Doctors have long known that HPV, the virus that causes genital warts, can cause cervical cancer, but only recently have they announced that almost all, if not all, cases of cervical cancer are caused by HPV. But if this vaccine works as planned, cervical cancer may be a thing of the past. The key words here, though, are As Planned. The vaccine isn't against cancer but rather against a sexually transmitted disease that causes cancer. And people tend to get funny about sexually transmitted diseases.

How many parents, when looking at their sweet little 11 year old girl, are going to decide that she is too good for some VD vaccine? How many of the religious right are going to puff themselves up and declare to the doctor that only sluts need THAT shot? Some parents refuse to provide access to condoms to their children; are these parents going to pay for a VD shot, or put their little girl through one more pinprick because scientists in Washington only know the statistics, not their little angel? And will the self-righteous now stop getting pap smears, because they don't see themselves as being at risk anymore?

And what of the millions of women who are too old for the shot, or who already are carrying the virus? Is the local American Legion hall going to be as willing to host a benefit pancake breakfast for the loving mother of 2 when it becomes public knowledge that there's a sexual link to the cancer that's killing her? Will the public adopt a "She brought it on herself" attitude towards women with cervical cancer? Will these cancer patients go from being heroic fighters to sluts whose past caught up with them? I think back now on the women I know who have had precancerous cells found during routine pap smears, and I wonder if they would have held up so well through the news, or had the same support from their families, had it been known then that it was probably caused by an STD. I picture people being alone with the news of their cancers, embarrassed to tell their loved ones. I imagine women being ostracized at cancer support groups, told that they don't have the same right to sympathy because they caused their cancers. I imagine rape victims who have finally gotten past their traumas being needlessly reminded of it at a doctor's office years later. Cancer has to be hard enough to deal with without blame and doubt. I'm all for this vaccine and I plan to have it given to my daughter when she's old enough. I'm just waiting for the backlash to hit those who have or have had cervical cancer. It seems to me that all the media about the link to HPV may give cervical cancer patients and survivors a new stigma, like the one faced by people with HIV.

Sink or Swim?

I have been wondering lately if perhaps we don't live in a nation of life preservers. It seems like "sink or swim" isn't a viable life philosophy anymore. I'm not talking about the homeless here; I can't even begin to understand what they go through and therefore will offer no points of view. I mean the people who struggle or don't, who use welfare and food banks because they qualify, whether they really need it or not. I live in a very small town in Illinois, where $400 a month will rent you a decent house with a yard, or at least half a duplex. But since it is Illinois, all of the state-set income levels have to apply to people in Chicago too. And obviously, Chicago has a much higher cost of living. So, I see many people who make enough to pay their bills and buy their food/clothing/gasoline, but then find that they cannot afford to go to the bar twice a week, or pay babysitters when they want time away, or get the 200 channel package from the cable company, so they go get the welfare card to pay for the necessities so that the income can go to the luxuries. When you see 3 brand new mini-vans driven by parents in leather coats pull up to the food bank for government cheese and powdered milk, it makes you wonder where your taxes go.

I believe the problem is pride. Not enough of it, to be exact. Or at least, not the right kind. People seem to have confused an entitlement attitude with personal pride. The same people who are willing to spill blood over a dirty look are perfectly happy sometimes to spend food stamps on a bag of Doritos. What happened to the pride people used to feel in providing for their families? When did walking into the public aid office become providing? When was the shame wiped off the Link card?

I know a girl who had 2 kids with her live-in boyfriend, and then told the state both times that she had conceived at a party while drunk and therefore could not provide a name for a paternity test. She knew that her boyfriend was the father of both kids, but she didn't want the state to take any of his income out of that house to reimburse the welfare. So she had it written in her children's government files that they not only had no father, but that they were the result of one night stands so random that not even a first name and a hangout could be provided to track them down. What's worse is that because of people like this, other people who really do need the help, because they've fallen on tough times not sat themselves down in them, sometimes don't get it. Charitable organizations run out of money to give. Food banks run low or empty. Taxes go up and that puts more people in the position where they might have to consider welfare. I am very glad that I can afford to stay home. But it wasn't that long ago that I had to go without so that my daughter didn't have to. I took what family and friends offered me; my house was decorated in hand-me-downs and my closet was full of clothes other people had tired of, but it was offered and the taxes that pay for welfare aren't. I couldn't afford to buy clothes or cd's or even rent movies. I could have done all that if I'd gone on food stamps and Medicaid, but I didn't want to raise my daughter to expect a free ride. I just wonder when that mentality became rare. What happened to the work ethic?

On Hold or Over?

I had my daughter when I was 21. She was conceived during an immediately regretted fling with an ex and when I found out I was pregnant I knew that keeping the baby would be tantamount to using a sperm bank. I would have no help. I have always known that abortion was something I could never do unless testing showed tay-sachs or some other horrific disease which would cause extreme pain and then childhood death. So I thought about adoption which wasn't odd since many members of my family are adopted, and decided on that. It would be best for the baby, since I couldn't support a child enough to give it any of the things I thought babies should have. And welfare wasn't an option. I figured that if I knew from the very start that I couldn't take care of the child myself that I had no business expecting the tax-payers to foot the bill. Welfare is a last resort, not a first resource. But my mother told me about guardianship. If someone volunteers to become legal guardian of a child, the mother does not have to give up rights and the other person's medical insurance would cover the baby. So I kept my daughter, bought cheap diapers (they were the only thing I asked for at my shower), breastfed for the first year, and made babyfood in the blender.

Now Tom and I have been married for about a year and a half, and as the plan to get his vasectomy reversed keeps getting pushed back (it costs like 7 grand) I wonder how old I will be when our kids are born. Medical reasons aside, I don't want to have kids past 35. I made the conscious decision to cut that chunk of my life from the middle. Lots of people have their kids in their 40s, and that's fine. They have the 20 years before that to take vacations and go out with friends, to be unencumbered. I, however, planned on doing all that from maybe 45 on. I want to retire someday and travel, go on cruises, take classes. I don't want to be 60 trying to put a kid through college. Tom doesn't understand that since he's almost 40 now. But he drives, he sees the country all the time, and he has had the freedom to run to the grocery store at 2am. So if we have kids, which is something we both want, then it's going to have to be in the next 5 years. I would like my child-bearing years to overlap for at least a little while with my kids'. I don't want to break my hip moving someone's CD collection into a dorm somewhere. I like the idea of putting the party years on hold for children, not of them being over forever.

Cultural References

I finally found the title bar!

Tom came home this morning. After a short nap, he decided to make an omelet. I'm trying to get him to eat healthier so I'm glad he's having an omelet instead of Doritos or Cocoa Puffs. I'll work on the canned mushrooms he put in later. Doesn't he hear when I point out that they're cooked down to nothing and then packed in salt-water? With his blood pressure, he does not need the sodium. I feel like Claire Huxtable when I talk to him about food. He can't live off truck stop trash forever and I'm not tired enough of him to want him to stroke out just yet, but give me time. Just wait till he sees that during his last trip I switched all the pasta in the house to whole-wheat. And got rid of the blue-box mac and cheese. Brown macaroni may not appeal so much to a meat and potatoes Nebraska farmboy like him.

Not that I'm blaming the Nebraska public school system, or ex-jock farmboys like my husband, but why doesn't he know any cultural references? Am I the only one who gets the jokes on TV? Am I the only one who understands Dennis Miller? When some town on the news bans sex offenders from living within city limits and I say "Welcome to Verona", I get a blank stare. When we see a shooting star and I tell him that somewhere there's a bald headed group of neutered fanatics waiting for it, he says, "Huh?" One Jonestown Kool-Aid joke, one Call me Ishmael, one red m&m or arsenic-tylenol joke! That's all I ask. I tell him; I am a funny person, it's just not funny when you have to explain it. How can the same man who probably knows by heart the cup size of every female cast member of Buffy The Vampire Slayer have gone through 38 years of life without picking up any cultural references at all? Maybe it IS the Nebraska Public School System. Maybe I should fear for my daughter when we finally move to Omaha.

Mid-Life Crisis

Okay, so as you all know, I turn 30 soon. Too soon. I believe I am having an early midlife crisis. Or perhaps, I will die at 60 and this IS my midlife. Anyway, I have decided to hate Teri Hatcher.

Don't pretend you don't know why. We all hate her. I am 30-ish and she is 40-something and she looks a hell of a lot better than me. A while ago it was Susan Sarandon, but now the milf posterchild is Teri, so I hate her. But still, I want to BE her. So, still in touch enough with reality to realize I will never look 25 at 45, I have devised a plan.

I will start lying about my age. Not by staying 29 until menopause; that's been overdone. No, I will claim to be turning 50 this year. Yes, FIFTY YEARS OLD. That way, I will get to be amazingly young looking. I may never be a milf, but I can be a grandmilf. AND my 38 year old husband will instantly become my trophy mate. I considered claiming 40, but what if I told someone I was 40 and they believed me too easily? Then, I would have a much worse midlife crisis to work through. As it is, I am merely lying about my age and slathering on wrinkle cream like I was sealing the driveway. It's a perfect plan. Since we plan to move in the next year or so, I will have thousands of unsuspecting people to lie about my age to. I will graciously accept their compliments and smile at their astounded disbelief. Of course, if someone believes 50 too easily, I may have to lie down in traffic.

Just A Sidekick?

At not-quite-thirty years old, I am part of the sitcom generation. You know us; we wore flannel in high school and elected a president based on a saxophone solo on Arsenio. And we grew up on sitcoms. From Family Ties to The Cosby Show, from Roseanne to Will and Grace, we formed our lives' expectations around laugh tracks and slapstick. Our parents were the game-show generation, and our children will probably be the reality show generation. (Insert horrified scream here.)

So what do I do now when I look at my best friend/sidekick and realize that she is the star and I am the comic relief? Dr. Phil says to be the star of your own life story, but I am the dull one. Jame, the previously mentioned friend, is the Kate and I am the Allie. She is Alex P Keaton and I am Skippy. She is Grace while I am Nadine. It's depressing. She became my best friend, way back in the 8th grade, by being the rebellious tough one I wanted to be. She wore black eyeliner and tight acid-washed jeans and could get her hair to stand straight up in front without the acne headband I always got from hairspray. So now, ALMOST 17 years later, I look at her and see not the supporting role in my life story, but the starring role in a much more interesting one. She's the proud struggling single mother with the romantic and attentive soon-to-be-divorced boyfriend; I'm the stay-at-home mom pretending that picking up dog crap in the back yard makes my life busy and fulfilling. Either I need prozac (the housewife's REAL best friend) or I need to find someone somewhere who's maybe a little more boring than me to make myself the interesting character in the movie.

I want to be played by Shirley McClain, not Jessica Tandy, celebrity death notwithstanding.