My Oscar Dilemma

I’m getting nervous about what I’m going to wear to this year’s Academy Awards. Several designers have approached me with samples, but so far nothing screams my name. The dresses are all strapless and trailing long, not a good combination for someone who has tripped on the red carpet a time or two before. The last thing I need is a shot of me in the paper looking completely braless.

My stylist told me that Penelope [Cruz] is probably going with Chanel and Cate [Blanchett] with Armani, so I don’t have a prayer of getting a new look from those designers at such a late date. Meryl [Streep] is rumored to wear Prada, but I don’t know if she will actually do it. Perhaps she can give me a few hints since her 14th nomination is for playing the editor of Vogue. I scan my blackberry wondering where my assistant filed her number when I hear a blood-curdling scream coming from the bathroom.

“She used all my bubble bath,” my six year old screams, “now I can’t take a bath.” I look over at my four year old who is also hysterical.

“It’s my turn to take a bath first,” the youngest cries, “It’s not fair.”

Reality slaps me out of my Oscar daydreaming and back to reality: I don’t have an assistant, a stylist or for that matter a job in Hollywood anymore. I gave that all up to stay home and raise my children. Instead of negotiating script deals, I am monitoring the distribution of Strawberry Shortcake bubble bath in my Old Navy shorts and t-shirt.

Don’t get me wrong--I was no Harvey Weinstein. However, my various jobs as a movie executive and producer did bring me into contact with celebrities. Back then, I would never have told you about my meetings with Dustin Hoffman, Harrison Ford or Julie Andrews because name-dropping was just not considered cool. Now, it’s become a bad habit, especially at play dates when discussions of the best organic juice box or environmentally safe diaper run dry.

“Have you seen the second Pirates of the Caribbean?” I’ll begin with an innocent mom. “I agree with Johnny, you know Johnny Depp, that the first Pirates movie was better.”

“You know Johnny Depp?”

I’ll smugly reply, “You can’t believe how sweet he is…and good-looking, too” Depending on how the conversation goes, I will either stick with Johnny or move onto Tom Hanks or Susan Sarandon. I once had a woman drop to her knees and kiss my feet when she found out I had interviewed Johnny. Needless to say, I had celebrity status ‘til sundown hit the swing sets.

“You might as well start selling celebrity maps,” my husband suggests. “At least, you could make a buck or two while name-dropping yourself into a shameless oblivion.” I contemplate his harsh words on my shallow and pathetic behavior. Of course, I would rather be hanging out with my kids instead of celebrities, making memories instead of movies. I made that decision six years ago and have not regretted it since. It’s just that movie talk can be, well, so much fun.

The irony of my situation is that parenthood is full of movie moments--my six-year old explaining infinity or my yoga teacher asking me when I am due, a year after I delivered. Every time my mother-in-law tells me the importance of wearing lipstick and getting my hair done, even though I have no clean underwear, I chant, ‘this moment belongs in a movie.’

Perhaps one day when I am done with the laundry, the dance recital costume and the family’s taxes, I will sit down and write a script about a name-dropping mom who cracks open a major terrorist cell that operates out of her local park. She saves thousands of lives just by having a big mouth and knowledge of spy movies.

Finally, I will attend the Academy Awards with my husband and children. I will wear Chanel lipstick, a fabulous chignon and a gown by whichever designer I truly desire. Or at least whomever Meryl suggests.

Cupid, Februa and SpongeBob Valentines

I had an astounding revelation recently that I would like to share with you: Valentine’s Day is at its best when you are six years old.

First of all, you get tons of Valentines. You can potentially receive up to thirty or so, depending on your class size, and candy is a given since there is always some ultra-organized mom who also gives the goody bag. When picking out cards, it’s not about whether it says too much, too little or gives the right impression--it’s about true self-expression. Do you see yourself as a SpongeBob or NASCAR Valentine? My isx year old daughter is contemplating Bratz valentines for the girls, dinosaurs for the boys and homemade cards for family members.

As you get older, you realize that Valentine’s Day is actually about exchanging cards with one special person and that’s where it starts getting complicated. The expectations of having a romantic moment with that someone special always stresses me out, even after being married for sever years.

“You are such a cynic,” my husband says after hearing my Valentine’s Day-at-six-theory. “Everything is better when you are six.”

I reminded him of what he said to me last Valentine’s Day, “Did you get me a card? No? Good, I didn’t either.”

“That’s because Valentine’s Day was created by the card companies.” My husband says, in weak defense of his non-buying card behavior.

I know that the card companies created the one billion Valentine card frenzy, but I was curious about its true origins. It turns out that Valentine’s Day is most often attributed to St. Valentine, a Catholic priest who was considered by many to be a Saint. Some believe he helped rescue Christians from the Roman prisons where they were tortured. Others believe he would marry young couples, defying Emperor Claudius II’s orders for young men not to marry and become soldiers. There is also a story about how he sent a love note from prison to his sweetheart, and signed it ‘from your Valentine.’

However, my favorite origination story is the pagan holiday Lupercalia, a fertility celebration dedicated to Romulus and Remus, the doggies who founded Rome. On February 15, priests would sacrifice a goat and cut its hide into strips called februa. These strips were soaked in blood, worn by men as thongs and slapped on the backs of women. Supposedly a joyous moment for these women, they felt especially fertile and dare I say, romantic.

That is why I love history; how in the world did a blood soaked goat slap turn into a dozen red roses and a box of chocolates? I guess that is where Cupid comes into the equation. Fortunately, the little boy angel shoots people with arrows, not goatskin, and creates love between unsuspecting humans.

I can personally attest to Cupid’s power. Ten years ago, he shot my husband when I walked into a bar in Beverly Hills. I got the arrow a couple of weeks later and we became the unlikely couple of filmmaker-doctor, Kentucky-Brooklyn. Without much in common except for a love of Frank Sinatra and old cars, we fell in love and got married four years later.

This will be our tenth Valentine’s Day together and I still feel slightly nervous. What should I do to show him my love? What will he do to show his love? Will we have that romantic moment that is a testament to our ten year’s together? There’s probably a fifty-fifty chance depending on how the day goes; which kid is sick, household appliance is broken or fire needs to be extinguished.

This Valentine’s Day though, I have decided to take my own theory to heart and act like my six year old daughter who approaches it with unbridled enthusiasm and no expectations. That way, every kiss and hug will feel as exciting as the first peck on the playground.

And that beats a goatskin slap any day of the year.

Mommy Burnout

I am burnt out. I can barely butter my toast or make coffee. If I do make coffee, I forget about it by the time it’s brewed. I think my appliances are feeling the same way. Right now my washer, oven and blender are all broken. Thank God, the wine fridge is still working.
The girls and I gathered recently for some Chardonnay and adult conversation.
“I have mommy burnout,” I whined.
“You do not,” retorted Lisa. “You have wife burnout.” I don’t know why but that caused us to laugh hysterically. I guess when you’re burnt-out you have a heightened sense of humor.
“Being a mom is not exhausting, it’s the things you have to do around it that wear you down,” Lisa explained, “The constant picking up. I feel like I spend most of my day bent over.” I wasn’t sure if I agreed with her because I find my kids’ fighting draining, but I nodded my head in full agreement, too tired to disagree.
“And the laundry,” I added. Whenever Lisa and I get together, we spend at least ten minutes groaning over the laundry. Men discuss sport scores; we discuss dirty clothes. We always end the conversation the same way: ‘When will it end?’ we ask each other and then ritualistically shake our heads in silence not wanting to utter the word ‘never.’
I thought I was just exhausted from the holidays until I read an article on burnout in New York magazine (12/4/2006). The article was written for stressed out New Yorkers, but it sure sounded familiar. Various experts defined burnout as a ‘mismatch between effort and recovery’ and noted that due to our ability to multitask, our ‘leisure time isn’t restorative.’ That’s why I like going to the movies. I can’t fold laundry, answer e-mails or wipe dirty bottoms.
I shared my insights with the girls. They both looked a bit stunned as I re-introduced the old-fashioned concept of leisure time—feet on the ottoman, cocktail in hand.
“I would like to relax, but I can’t take the whining and fighting.” I finally shared. “I try to control it, but sometimes nothing works.”
“That’s when I lock myself in the bathroom. I go into a time-out.” I stared at Lisa in complete awe as if she had just re-written Einstein’s equation. I had heard that strategy before, but this time I got it. “That is downright brilliant. What do your kids do while you are locked in the bathroom?”
“They cry or whine a bit more. I ask them if they are done and if they say yes, I come out. It works—you should try it.”
I looked over at Annie who wasn’t saying much. I assumed she was feeling relieved that she went back to work full-time and wasn’t driveling on like Lisa and I were.
“I need to get you two together with some friends of mine at work.” Annie piped up, “You are the only ones who complain about being a mom. Everyone is trying so hard to be perfect and politically correct, they just suffer in silence.”
Lisa and I beamed, happy to be praised for behavior that our husbands would consider whiny and ungrateful. We finished our wine and laughed at things that probably weren’t funny, but we didn’t care.
I’m feeling better on the burnout scale. I’ve had a quiet afternoon filled with pockets of restorative leisure time. There aren’t too many distractions inside the bathroom-just the occasional locking and unlocking of the door.