The Real Housewives of Central Ohio

I have to confess right up front: I've never actually seen any of the Bravo network's Real Housewives shows. I'm aware of them - I don't live under a rock - but I've never been able to muster up enough interest to watch.

From what I gather, they chronicle the lives of rich, spoiled women with more money and time than brains. That may be inaccurate - as I said, I've never actually watched. Just one woman's uninformed but nonetheless confidently stated opinion.

But what of us? Those families and couples who manage to get by on one income - and choose to do so - but don't have a lot left over for indulgences. What of us? Surely there are more of us than there are of them. Surely there are people out there who want to know - our stories.

'Wait!' you might be saying at this point, 'isn't that what blogs are for?'

To which I reply, 'Simmer down, Captain Buzzkill. Let me enjoy my parody. Sheesh. I ask for so little.'

Today's episode opens with four women enjoying an al fresco lunch on a balcony in a popular suburban shopping destination. One of them - we'll call her me - is carrying a fabu new bag that she bought for herself as a consolation prize following an aborted shopping spree.

Me-she is the oldest member of the group which includes women in their 20's, 30's and 40's. This is not an unusual situation for me-her. This is partially due to the fact that I-she am-is so hip it hurts. Or not. Whatever.

Conversation revolves around the temporary part-time job that has brought these women together. They are divorcees, newlyweds and family women. Their backgrounds are diverse and similar. Together? They are everywoman.

They pantomime toking on joints when the conversation turns to their boss, a very mellow chick indeed. She is never seen, but sometimes her Hakuna Matada voice is heard on the other side of a phone conversation. She is a Zen Charlie to our Suburban Angels.

Conversation turns to our lives since we've last convened, prompting a series of flashbacks. One has gotten a full-time job and is moving into a new home. This is huge! Surely we could squeeze a couple episodes out of that!

One orders a third mojito while alluding to a family crisis. The camera zooms in on her empty glasses. Foreshadowing? Tune in next week. DUN Dun dun...

One regales us with stories of her latest travels. I'm sensing a great opportunity for a montage...

One can't wait to get home and sit on her porch swing with a book. She suggests wistfully that the next time we get together we should wear hats. The camera loves hats. Hats amp up the drama. Her suggestion is agreed upon. Hats it is.

We go our separate ways to engage in such exciting pursuits as mowing the lawn before the rain hits, meeting the school bus, and getting dinner on the table. It is riveting stuff, I tells ya. Riveting.

Hey Bravo - call me! I'm ready to talk.

Sonnet #1: A Reluctant Crone's Dilemma

To color, or not to color: that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in mind to suffer the slings and arrows of an aging head with only a sparse few grays, or to take chemicals against a sea of potential grays, and by opposing end them?
To dye, to fake; to fake: perchance to deceive.
For who would purposefully bear the whips and scorns of time?

All of this is because I'm debating coloring my hair. Yeah. Nobody ever accused me of being not quite dramatic enough. You might even say I had quite a dramatic streak. Streak... that brings me back to hair color now, doesn't it?

Here's the thing: I colored my hair all the time when I was younger. A few of my friends were graying and I just didn't want to know about it. I figured if I kept color in it all the time, I'd just never know when I started to go gray. It seemed like a foolproof plan. When I had my kids and quit working, keeping up with color just wasn't a financial feasibility. I decided to see what was under there - under the color and the perms and all the other ridiculous affronts I had been imposing on my tresses. Turns out what was under there was not one single gray hair. I couldn't believe it. I was into my thirties and most of my friends were a little if not a lot gray. Not that anyone would've known that, of course. Fans of the color they were and are. I don't fault them for that a bit. But I didn't have a one. How 'bout that? Growing the perm out was a little more traumatic. My real hair was shiny. It was soft. It was not gray. But it was as fine as a toddler's. I considered using little velcro bows to try to manage my coiffure.

I haven't colored it or permed it or indulged in any other chemical processes since that day. (Ok, there was that one time, when I was asked to be a hair model - a before and after sort of thing. It was crazy fun and he did a great job with the color. I wouldn't mention it, but a couple of you know I did that and I know how you are. If you think I'm lying about that you'll figure I'm lying about everything. And I'm so not. I'm all about full disclosure. But that was years ago and it has long since grown out, so - sew buttons on ice cream.)

Now I'm no longer in my thirties and I only have a little bit of time left in the forties. My head is no longer completely devoid of grays. But I've gotta tell ya here, at the risk of seeming immodest, there are precious few of them. And I'll tell you something else - a secret, almost - I don't really hate them. They're not gray so much as they're silver - white even. They're not the bane of my existence. Sometimes I even think they're sort of pretty. Don't have a heart attack and die from the shock. I guess that's what happens when they don't start to show up until you're ready for them.

But lately - lately my crowning glory is not looking as shiny as it used to. Some days it's downright dull. It is still soft and it still behaves badly when I try to style it, but now it isn't lustrous. And I want it to be. Is that so wrong? The fast track to shine is color, right? And if it covers those couple few grays that insist on framing my face, well, that wouldn't be the end of the world I suppose.

All of this led to my Shakespearian inspired sonnet. Hamlet never had a dilemma like this. Plus, in the immortal words of The Boss, "I'm just tired and bored with myself".

Shakespeare and Springsteen in one post. Yeah.

If You Give a Mom a Margarita

I was at Barnes and Noble earlier this week (I'm at Barnes and Noble EVERY week) and I noticed a book called: If You Give a Mom a Martini. I thought it was a clever title and began perusing it. It contained no parody, and was really just a list of tips for making the most of whatever free moments you can steal. A noble cause, to be sure, just not what I was hoping for.

But it got me a'thinkin'...

With apologies to the original "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" and all of it's legitimate follow ups, I present:

If You Give a Mom a Margarita

If you give a mom a margarita,
she's going to ask for some chips to go with it.


When you give her the chips
she'll probably ask for some salsa.

When she's finished,
she'll almost certainly ask for another.

Then she will probably decide it is time to dance.

She will almost certainly ask the DJ to play 'something from the '80's',
and when he does,
chances are,
she will put her hands in the air like she don't care.

Then she will want to look in the mirror to make sure there are no visible sweat stains her hair still looks okay.

When she looks in the mirror, she might notice that there are some hairs on that lip and chin that she hadn't noticed before she left the house.

While she is fretting about that and realizing that she did not remember to put the tweezers back in her purse after removing a splinter from one of her kiddos,
she will probably notice that her lipstick needs to be retouched.

She will almost certainly notice that you are touching up your own lipstick,
so she will probably ask to borrow yours.

After you say, "Ew! No! Gross! Lipstick is not for sharing" she'll probably borrow some from a stranger in the ladies room.
She may even borrow mascara!

Before she walks out of the ladies room,
she will almost certainly want to adjust the straps on her shoes.

When she reaches down to adjust her shoes,
she will probably notice that her Spanx have rolled down below her belly.

And chances are,
she will decide that Spanx are stupid anyway and she will wiggle out of them right there in the ladies room and whip them around her head victoriously like a battle prize before stashing them in her bag.

When she returns to her table she will probably feel so free that she will order cheese dip and guacamole to eat with her chips.

And chances are,
if she eats the chips,

She's going to want a margarita to go with them.


Cheers!