I have been grossly remiss in posting about my friend Rachel Kramer Bussel’s steamy anthology Fast Girls, which came out a few weeks ago. I’ve been out of town too much and seriously backlogged with work, which meant I totally dropped the ball.

But I wanted to get this up while Rachel’s still touring this book because if you are looking for a hot and fun summer read, you should definitely check out Fast Girls (as well as her other anthologies). Oh, and this one includes a short story by another writer friend of mine, the inimitable Kayla Perrin.

I think Rachel and I first met over cupcakes—she’s the doyenne of the dessert and I saw a link to her blog from back when I was on the Debutante Ball. Her blog, Cupcake Takes the Cake always has the most creative and delectable-looking cupcakes; I often stop by just to slather. It’s a good thing I’m nowhere near Manhattan or I would be seeking out the awesome cupcakes she posts…

But hey, a woman devoted to food and sex—what’s not to love?

Now go check out Rachel’s other blog and find out more about Fast Girls, and then go buy the book!

Yeah, I know, sort of a lame take on the iconic 1990’s television commercial featuring an elderly gal with a medical emergency who urgently needed assistance with her feeble self. Thanks to “Life Call,” she had someone who was able to prop her up, and all was well.

So far I’m not in need of Life Call to rescue me from a frail bone-related fall, but I am in dire need of some sort of life call to save me from an increasingly enfeebled brain. They say the mind is the first to go, and my memory–which until recently I’d successfully prodded into action with a regular machine-gunning of reminder alerts on my iCal each day–has taken a day at the beach and decided it doesn’t want to return just yet, if ever.

Thus, I have placed practically my entire memory in the evidently disabled hands of my MacBook’s iCal, which it seems has aged in dog years itself and is failing in its own wretched memory to remind me of all that I can’t help but forget. Two operating systems ago, my iCal reminders worked regularly, even though I overloaded the application with unrealistic demands: most every function of my day popped up to remind me to do it, short of basic hygiene functions such as “remember to brush teeth.” So many demands that while it reliably reminded me, it also crashed constantly. So I upgraded to a new operating system and the failures became rampant. My reminders would pop up for one event, but not for the next. But I’d not remember to check my calendar to see what it was forgetting to remember. The next upgrade failed me even more. I’m a victim of the memory of both me and my fail-safe computer, failing all over the place.

Since my calendar can’t even remember to remember, I’m holding out hope they soon come out with helper dogs for failing memories.

I felt a little relieved after chatting with my friend Tana the other day on the phone while she was preparing to leave for the gym. As she was talking on speakerphone, I heard water running in the background.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to the bathroom,” she said. “I’m just filling up my water bottle.”

Well, of course any woman with good girlfriends knows that occasionally we all happen to race into the loo while on the phone—it’s a hazard of friendship. So I just laughed and told her it wouldn’t have mattered regardless. We talked for a minute more when suddenly Tana stopped.

“Oh, crap. Where’s my water bottle?” she asked.

As if defining my dilemma for my own affirmation, she did what I regularly do: forgot the simplest of things in the shortest period of time imaginable. It’s what we do best. All day long. And fight it with the meager tools at our disposal to keep us from having to purchase ear horns and walkers and resign ourselves to our dwindling age and capabilities.

The other day I suffered the hat trick of memory shortcomings. First, I lost my reading glasses in the time it took to swap out shirts. A few minutes later, I became vexed because I couldn’t find the enormous pile of tax information it had taken me an entire day to find, which I’d then put somewhere I’d know where to find it. Shortly thereafter, I needed to recall the brand of car I’d rented a few days earlier, as I wanted to be sure we didn’t consider it while shopping for a new car. I’d made a point of remembering the brand. To no avail.

And that’s the thing. I’m always putting things where I know I’ll remember them. And rarely do. I walk to a food cabinet while fixing dinner, forgetting in six short steps what I’d gone there to retrieve. I wake at 3 a.m. with brilliant ideas, but don’t want to wake completely to write them down, certain I’ll recall by dawn. Never do. Yet then I wake up in the middle of the night over mundane things, like forgetting to soak black beans for dinner, only to not be able to sleep, recalling everything I need to remember to do that I haven’t done and worry that I won’t remember to do it. I leave notes everywhere, only to not know where the notes are. I record reminders on my phone. Only to forget to listen to them later.

Maybe life’s pressing needs are actually squeezing my brains dry. Sounds like I could use a good vacation.

A conversation between me and Tana these days goes something like this:

“Did you hear about, oh, what’s her name? Long brown hair, lives up that narrow mountain road.”

“Yeah, the gal with six kids?”

“Exactly. And that dog that smells like death. Her husband played in a band when he was in college—”

“Oh, what is her name? It begins with a P, doesn’t it?”

“It rhymes with my mother’s middle name, I think.”

“What’s your mother’s middle name?”

“Amanda.”

“Nothing rhymes with Amanda. But anyhow, we’ll think of her name. But did you hear–they’re getting a divorce.”

“No! I always knew he was up to no good.”

“Who? Her husband?”

“Yeah. What’s his name?”

Well, you get the idea. We have all the minutiae committed to memory but the barebones facts have evaporated from our gray matter, by some brain-fog that has settled over our memories, doomed to cloak our thinking and force us into some Sherlock Holmesian effort to recall. Our trail of deduction requires mental bloodhounds, and it seems as if our dogs have got up and went.

“Between the two of us we have a brain,” Tana said. And she’s right. Which makes me think maybe I need to simply be paired up with someone, 24/7, from here on out. Because clearly at this point two heads must be better than one.

Sometimes I’m startled that I am as old as I am. Because despite the maturity that comes with age, I can’t help but occasionally revert back to juvenile middle-school behavior that I’d thought I’d outgrown.

In my attempt to be mature and worldly, I enrolled several years ago in my first yoga class. I needed to learn how to chill out a little bit, and figured being in touch with my inner Zen would help to center my balance, achieve yin-yang, and maybe I’d get a little feng-shui thrown in for good measure.

It was great. First class, I learned my sun salutation, stretched limbs so tight from lack of use that they deserved to snap like tree branches. My teacher, a former type-A New Yorker-turned-Yogaville devotee whose chosen Yoga name, Suraya, more closely resembled that of an Indian guru than someone from the Bronx, was very serene. His soothing voice tranquilized even the tensest of class members: me. In his calm coaxing tone, he encouraged us to rid our minds of any pollutants, to focus on our center, and be at peace within. Fine, I was on the same page at this point. I’d really started feeling that I could change, become a woman unfettered by the stresses of life.

The final fifteen minutes of class were devoted to complete relaxation. Cool, I thought. That is right up my Type-A alley. We all lay on the floor, eyes closed, focused on our own inner universe. The mesmerizing music on the boom box washed over me as Suraya talked us through letting go of whatever tensions remained. He began with the toes, worked his way up ever so gradually to calves, knees, thighs.

And then came the clincher.

“Relax your anal sphincter,” he said, as serious as an executioner, not even remotely cracking a smile.

What? That’s impossible. First of all, It defies the laws of nature. And secondly, even if we could, just think how nasty that would be! We can’t do that, I thought. Like a naughty kindergartener whose head is supposed to be face down on the desk during naptime, I snuck glances all around me. No one but me thought that was the funniest line ever uttered.

I could feel my laughter erupting, and from my unrelaxed belly it rose. I tried desperately to suppress it, but it was of no use. I cackled so loudly that the entire class opened their once-relaxed eyelids and glared directly at me. Even Suraya looked a bit uptight.

As the class drew to a close, the peaceful silence destroyed, I slunk from the room, somewhat embarrassed at my level of immaturity. But I actually felt more relaxed, having belted out a good belly laugh.

Yes, I realize I have gone from middle school to middle age, but isn’t it nice to know that you don’t always have to totally grow up?

We’re really into recycling in our household. We feel it’s an important service to the world to try to re-use products as much as possible before permanently discarding. And so I recently found myself in a dumping dilemma of sorts, something that needed some creative thinking to solve. Thank heavens for resourceful minds, because now I have 101 (give or take a handful) uses for discarded diaphragms, a service that will help keep landfills a little lighter, while serving the better good of America.

I’ve come up with over a hundred uses for discarded diaphragms, clever little things one could do after cleaning up the item first, of course. Warning: it is highly recommended that the product be thoroughly cleaned in a dishwasher before further use; plunging the diaphragm in boiling water may also be in order.

A good friend told me she came across her old diaphragm while cleaning out drawers recently. She compared it to finding your old retainer. Ha! After all, it is a retainer, of sorts!

Without further adieu, good luck, and let your imaginations take you away!

*send to 3^rd world countries for re-use, like used eyeglasses

*trick nose for Halloween costume

*votive holder (paint with poster paints for decorative flair)

*mini-frisbees

*breastplate decorations

*poke holes in it, then use to drizzle salad dressing, olive oil and such

*planting tomato seedlings

*funeral shroud for thwarted sperm

*collect enough and you can glue side to side, row by row, on wall for decorative textured rubber walling (create your own rubber room)

*bouncy toy

*teething ring for baby

*eye patch

*strong bandaid if used with tape

*knee protectors for gardening

*individual condiment servers

*salt cellars

*turn over, spear with skewer, makes great mushroom decoration for Yule Log

*door knob grippers

*cut out rubber insides and use for ring toss game

*paint ten black and ten red and use for checkers

*fill with sand, glue to a 2^nd one, and you get a fun hackysack toy

*turn upside, spear w/ skewer and voila, you have a Barbie Beach umbrella

*mod window treatment for portal window of you child’s doll house

*cover w/ foil and you have a delightful candle snuffer

*spear w/ toothpick, glue edge with fringe, and you have a fancy decoration for your Mai Tai

*stress-reducing worry toy (delightful spring action works for squeezing)

*hand-strengthener (again, squeeze, pulse, repeatedly)

*inexpensive sprinkler head for garden hose

*strainer for capers and canned wild blueberries

*candy dish (M&Ms)

*nose ring for Goth teens

*paint “X” on several, and use for clever tic tac toe game

*lid for cocktail shaker

*attach to chair legs to prevent sliding on or scratching of hardwood floors

*gynecologist’s sizing sample

*fill with sand, glue to another, and you get replacement Toss-Across beanbags

*line with cotton and you get a pygmy hamster bed

*nightlight cover

*earmuffs

*drain cover for sink

*earrings (large hoops)

*pendant (spray paint silver for the faux silver look)

*snowball mold (pack two together)

*fun floaty toy for the bathtub

*hollow out rubber middle and makes great choker necklace

*attach two together face to face to get clamshell

*nouveau demitasse for espresso shots

*dessert dish

*sorbet dish

*ponytail holder

*fill two together w/ warm water and use for cramps

*fill two together w/ ice for clever boo boo bear

*fill with water and freeze for attractive ice ring in punch bowl

*nipple shield (a permanent end to those nuisance high beams)

*slice out rubber insides and stack several for attractive arm bracelets

*remove rubber, cut through circle to create possible navel ring—simply insert through bellybutton piercing

*fingerpaint pot for the children’s painting enjoyment

*extra padding for bra

*juggling toys

*scooper for laundry detergent

*glue two together and make mini beach ball

*athletic cup for very small boy

*add tablespoon of sand, use as handy pumice device for callused elbows, heels

*mini bongo drums

*fill w/ whipped cream or shaving cream and sock your favorite politician in the face with it

*yarmulke

*build your own abacus (collect enough)

*great to store spare buttons

*pincushion

*makes great scooper for playing in sand

*coin storage in car (added bonus: rubber grips the coins, keeps them from flying out during sharp turns)

*place a dozen or so in swimming pool with candles for romantic evening poolside ambiance

*suspend from metal rod and lightbulb for stylish pendant lighting

*coaster(skid-free)

*dangle from rear-view mirror (paint first)

*one of a kind hood ornament

*glue feathers and hang from ceiling for spiffy Indian Dream-Catcher

*paint red and use as taillight covers

*dog toy

*measuring cup

*shot glass (shooters—sex on the beach, etc)

*ice cube tray

*paper clip holder

*shoulder pads

*fill w/ potpourri and cover, scent your underwear drawer

*gripper to open hard to open jars

*chin guard

*butter dish for lobster

*free prize in Cracker Jack

*McDonald’s happy meal toy

*toy inside box of Capn Crunch

*paint neon orange and attach to bicycle as reflectors

*paint glowing white and line the side of the highway with diaphragm reflectors to keep cars from running off the road

*Modern art collage

*heel cushions

*mouth guard for braces

*add propeller and use as beanie cap

*door knocker

*use for the number zero in house address signs

*fill with juice, add a stick and freeze, for a most unique popsicle

*science experiments

*Christmas tree ornament

*smear with peanut butter or suet, roll in birdseed, makes perfect birdfeeder in wintertime

*fill with coffee beans, glue another diaphragm to this, sealing edges, and voila, a castinette

*Finally, if you’re of dubious character…trap boyfriend into marriage by accidentally becoming pregnant while truthfully insisting you wore your diaphragm, yet omitting the details about it being old and full of pinholes

Last summer I attended a writing conference attended by a few thousand women. This is the third year I’ve attended this conference, which is professional in every way, shape and form. I always return home with reams of information, great ideas, and insight into the publishing industry.

 

But I arrived at the meeting with a level of perplexity about women and conferences. Now I come from a guy-centric background. Grew up with three brothers. The semaphore of my childhood was a series of grunts and groans. Even now, though I’ve got two girls, I notice with intent what my husband and son are like. Boiled down to their essence, men are simple, they’re basic. Women are complex. Now I’m not here to determine which is preferable (although I’d be a traitor to my sex if I said anything other than us!), but rather put out an interesting observation in relation to my conference.

You see, many weeks before the conference—no, really months before the conference—female attendees started chattering on various online writing venues. Discussing the finer details of the destination, scouting out restaurants, shopping, transportation options, and such. Fair enough.

As the conference drew closer, the level of obsession grew to disturbing details. No longer satisfied with spread sheets of local merchants and what pharmacies were nearby, women started dispensing sage coping advice.

“Drink plenty of orange juice in the weeks leading up to the conference so that you’re in good health,” one would say.  To this another would counter with advice on what cold-prevention methods are most effective. And then another would suggest the cheapest place at which to purchase it. In bulk. Echinacea, Airborne, Cold Eeze, you name it, someone knew which preventive measures were sure to beef up your auto-immune system to combat the dread Conference Physical Drain.

Soon we were being cautioned against even more fearsome doom. One author offered up helpfully, “I’ve pasted some exercises you can do to prevent the blood clots (Deep Vein Thrombosis or DVT) that can occur in some people from sitting long periods of time.”

I just thought I was going off for a few days of fun and education! I didn’t know I could well keel over from a blood clot unless I downloaded her exercises to my iPod!

There was the great jacket debate, in which a good handful of women argued over the degree of warmth they’d need for their travels from their jacket of choice. Someone actually wrote “Define jacket” when another woman suggested she pack a jacket. Um, back in my day, a jacket was a jacket! We need to clarify this?

Some more “who’d have thunk it?” tidbits from well-meaning yet perhaps a bit anal retentive attendees: 

°DON’T drink from the glasses in the bathroom. Find yourself a plastic cup 

°To cut down on trash that doesn’t get recycled, a better idea might be to take a tiny container of your own dish detergent. I’ve been doing that for years, & it comes in handy for other stuff that needs washed or if you want to use a glass for one thing, then need it to be clean again later for something else

Maybe it’s the three brothers’ influence on me, I don’t know. But I can’t help but cringe each time these women map out these bizarre high maintenance upkeep plans for the conference. Don’t forget your sweaters for chilly air conditioning! What’s the weather going to be like? Why does it matter? You’ll be indoors for 99% of the time! How will I deal with my computer? The same as the other several thousand people milling about the hotel do. It’ll be easy! Will there be WiFi? I don’t think a hotel exists in a large city that doesn’t have it at least in the lobby!). 

Find me a man–any man–who honestly would think twice about anything more than what time the meeting is scheduled for and is he prepared for it. I don’t know if a guy really gives more than a split second’s thought to whether he’s packed enough underwear. Meh, you can get more when you get there if you don’t have it. 

But thanks to these ever-vigilant ladies, I would be able to find everything I could possibly need in a city of 3/4 of a million people, where, no doubt, the concierge would have provided the same information to me in a moment’s time, were I to need it

It’s as if they need to be handheld through this world of professionalism. Now this is a group of very talented women, many hugely successful writers, many having come from previous careers as doctors and lawyers and the like. 

But what is it about this group that there is this crazy-obsessive need to freak out on just about ever aspect imaginable for this thing?

I guess I should just chalk it up to the complexities of being female. After all, I’m the first one to complain when my son doesn’t change his boxers the entire week we’re on vacation. But maybe there’s a happy medium in there?