You, Too, Can Be a Zombie!

 "Don't shoot me--I'm just really tired!!"

“Hey,” my beloved husband said last night, “There’s a contest to win a stagger-on role as a zombie on The Walking Dead.” No need, mon amour; I win that contest every night.

Insomnia is the latest fun surprise in this minefield known as midlife. (BTW, it’s only “midlife” if I live to be 96—which, if I don’t get some decent sleep soon, I won’t.) Possible reasons: Fluctuation in body temperature due to the roller coaster ride of hormones. Anxiety. Way vivid dreams. Or, my personal favorite: No reason at all. That’s some expert’s way of saying, “We have no f*cking clue, so we’re putting it down to ‘You’re going bat$#!t crazy.’”  That’s the medical term for it, and the best explanation I’ve heard yet.  

Some Well-Meaning Friends have said, “Just take Ambien.”

Me: “I’d have to take it every freakin’ night.”

W-MFs: “ . . . And? That’s what I do.”

Me: “Dude(s)—that’s like a mild drug addiction.”

W-MFs: “You say that like it's a bad thing.”

Some other non-addictive solutions include taking Valerian, an herb in capsule or tea form that promotes sleep; skipping the alcohol and caffeine at night (Get-out-of-town! Why didn’t I think of that?! ß heavy sarcasm); and getting your estrogen and progesterone levels checked. Whuffo'? 'Cause progesterone is the magical hormone that, among other things, helps you sleep. When it drops during this special time in life when Mother Nature’s trying to bench you permanently (more on that soon), it’s Night of the Living Dead time.

I’ve tried Valerian; it tends to work for about four hours, after which—bing!—I’m awake. I work at home, so I don't get anxious about falling asleep on the job the next day (what am I going to do, fire me?). I try to roll with the sudden wakey-wakeys; the wee small hours of the morning have been a good time for me to practice meditation, and some of my best ideas have come to me then. 

Howevs, if you have to get to a real job the next day and you're turning into a zombie from lack of sleep, use your last functioning brain cell to make an appointment with your doc. But read this interesting article from the Wall Street Journal first; it debunks a lot of the fear-inducing info going around about hormone replacement therapy. While HRT is not for everyone, it may be an iPOW (In Praise of Older Woman)'s only defense against becoming a zombiegrrrl. 

A hormone check with the Lady Doc is in my future, but until then I’m working the Valerian angle. I’m also going to try running again; maybe I can sleep through the night by wearing myself out. If not, at least I’ll be a superfit zombiegrrrl. 

"Arrrgh,"

Fabi

Trend I Shan't Be Following

The other day, I sat on the train next to a woman who was storing her cell phone in her cleavage.

I $#!t you not.

The cell was in a bright pink cover, which was cute and coordinated well with the girl/woman's outfit. But it was nestled securely in her ample assets, which, like the phone, were on full display. (It looked something like the photo above, but her look was less sportif.)

Perhaps her cell was set on "vibrate," and she either really didn't want to miss that call or needed a little extra joy in her life. Perhaps I'm getting old, not more mature as I like to say, and this is what the kids are doing now.

I was going to run off a whole litany of why this is wrong in so many exciting and varied ways, but really, that would be redundant. If only I'd had the moxie to take a photo of her... But my own phone was, tragically old-fashionedly fuddy-duddily, in my bag.

Qué-evah, chicas.

Lists: Much "To Do" About Nothing

A big part of spring cleaning for me is going through old notebooks--checking for numbers I haven't put in my phone, scraps of ideas for stories, and other important stuff that shouldn't be shredded. As I go through these notebooks, I see a lot of to-do lists over the past few years (it's been a while since I've cleared off my desk). And I'm noticing a pattern.

One recurring theme on the lists reads, "Study [fill in language here]." For years, I've wanted to be able to speak a second language. Sometimes it's French, sometimes Spanish, and I cheated on both of them with Italian. (Ho pauro il cane: I fear the dog.) After years of putting this on to-do lists, I'll finally be able to check this one off in about six months, if I continue with my Spanish classes. Ten years if I don't.

Another pattern: obsession with my weight. There are many, many--many--lists of what I ate on any given day. I won't bore you with the guessable, carb-free details. The lists are filled with joyless food and condemnation of weights I'd kill to be at right now. But if I had to eat what's on those lists, it would kill me. So I'm letting that one go.

Ah, at last we've arrived at My Point. I think I've previously mentioned a friend's mantra of "Fix it or forget it." My variation on that theme is "Do, or don't." Part of Fabulousness in any language is skipping the future tense and using the present ("I'm doing this now") or the past ("Done!"). I have to stop making lists that say the same freakin' thing over and over. There just aren't enough trees in the world.

The Big Fat Lie.

40s: not always fabulous. There, I said it. Now I can treat myself to a breakfast of pout on toast. Or make the best of a changing situation.

My 40s have been a total cakewalk--until this year. (Which would be the year I decided to start a blog called Fabulous, Never Better. $#¡t.) Until now, I didn't even know I was getting older. I looked the same as when I was 36, possibly better; I got married at 43, published at 45, and had more confidence and less crap in my head than ever. If this was getting older, I was in.

Then I turned 47. Lines appeared on my face for the first time in my formerly line-free life. That didn't bug me as much as the small but significant amount of weight I gained that took me into the next pants size, which would be O. Not zero--"O," for obsessive. My feelings of self-worth, self-esteem, self-blah blah blah are all tied up in these pounds. This leads to the snake dining on its own tail: I diet, feel virtuous, but am miserable as I love food; then I eat, gain weight, and feel sad, yet happy. Hours of boring, obsessive fun that keeps me from thinking about bigger issues.

Simply put: Women in their 40s start gaining weight due to metabolic slowdown. (Not my friend Christina, blogger of Fallen Princess, but she's got the Dorian Gray rotting-portrait-in-the-closet thing going on. Damn her.) That's just a fact, and not very fabulous news. Howevs, my fabulous friend Alice, who's in her 50s and in the best shape of her life, listened to my diet/no diet rant recently and said (wait for it, here's the kicker): "I can't turn every part of my life into work." 

I almost dropped my fried plantain over that one. She's right--between work, keeping the home from turning into Grey Gardens, relationships, exercising (for fitness, not to banish fatness), etc., do I need another project, i.e. judging every single thing I put in my mouth? <---sounds like hell to me.

Thus begins the experiment: striking a balance between relaxation and going to hell in an Apres Midi du Chien handbag. More on this soon.

Besos, beauties.

Now is Not the Time to Buy Green Bananas

My friend Dan taught me that saying. Translation: Don't waste time, because we don't know how much of it we have.

The question of the day on my favorite Spanish-language morning show--and I'm so darn proud of myself for being able to understand it!--was, "Do you think the world is coming to an end?" This was, of course in reference to the disasters of late, and you can take your pick from natural (earthquake, tsunami) or man-made (Libya, global warming leading to flooding). Given the news of the day, I voted "Sí."

One of the things I've been putting off for decades is learning how to speak Spanish. I took French in high school and in continuing ed classes. When I got to Paris, I could only speak in fragmented sentences about basic necessities, such as more wine and a larger size skirt. I had absolutely no idea what people were saying; it might have been, "You've had enough, lady," and "I could've told you that, J. Lo," for all I know.

The combination of getting older becoming more mature and el mundo looking very much like an Irwin Allen disaster film is making me re-examine life's little to-do list, mostly moving things up. I write cards to say thank you. I tell people that they're important to me. And since I've actually lost work because no hablo español, I'm moving the language lessons up from "someday when I'm in the nursing home" to "ahora." (Of course, part of the idea behind this entire blog was reduced to hilarious ashes here.)

I don't really believe the world is coming to an end, though I do ache for all the suffering that's going on. After prayers are said and donations are made, I choose to take advantage of the time I have by not waiting for any more bananas to ripen.

Besos, chuletas locas.

Linguistics, Semantics, and Other Awesome Words

Retirement: a concept that, post- or current recession (whether you're an optimist or a realist), probably has to be retired. In this case, though, I'm not referring to myself--I don't want to retire--but to certain overused, underage words. To wit:

Awesome.
Amazing. 
Cooooooooool.


I love these words. I've used them since I became aware of them back in the Tedolithic Period--that would be 1989, the year Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure came out. Linguistics experts would argue that modern "Awesome!"-speak can be traced back as far as 1982, when Frank Zappa's "Valley Girl" single created a whole new language, but I think dude-speak really took off as commonplace with B&T. Discuss.

Since I'm old mature enough to have been around for both, I wonder if it's time for me to stop using these words. For one thing, words like amazing are now very un-amazing, having been overused into impotence. For another, I wonder if someone with grey streaks in her hair--no matter how adorable they may be--sounds stupid when saying, "That's ah-MAAAAAYZING!" Or worse: Giving someone the thumbs-up of approval while intoning, "Awesome." I mean, who the f*c% am I, Keanu Reeves?

Even Kee, as those of us who worked in the teen mag world used to lovingly refer to him, probably does not say "Awesome." Yes, even Cool Breeze Over the Mountain probably wanted to sound like an adult at some point. And what a fine adult he's turned into...

... Jeez, where was I? Oh yes! My question: Woman over 40. Hair greying beautifully. Opens mouth and says, "Awesome" or "amazing." Wrong? Meh? Who cares? Discuss.

Besos, chicas fabulosas y hermano hotcha.

PS: I think I can still use "cool," since that's been around since the Jazz Age. Si? No?

It Works! Magic Face Oil for March Madness

March: A time of transition. Not quite winter, not yet spring. No longer bitterly cold, but oy with the chill already. We could still get snow, but we can also get potted hyacinths and tulips. Emotionally, there's hope; dermatologically, there's confusion.

It's time to move on from the winter moisturizer, which is good because I just ran out. Yet it's still too early for my secret weapon for summer (which I'll share about here in good time; chillax). What to do--clog or flake?

Neither, thanks to my connection, Beauty Mole, an industry insider who must remain nameless. Think of B-Mole as FNB's version of Deep Throat. If you're over 40, you'll get that reference immediately. If not, go here, but then come back quickly or you'll miss the whole point of this blog entry...

Are you back yet? Do you feel informed? Great. Now: help for skin in transitional weather. Beauty Mole slipped me a bottle of this stuff:

Clarins Huile Santal Face Treatment Oil. Verdict? LOVE. Loving. Lov-ing-it. I put it on and I feel nothing--just my skin. I daresay this oil and a decent night's sleep might cause one to get carded at the local wine emporium when purchasing one's nightly case bottle of malbec. I don't know if I'd feel this way in the winter, as I'll never give up my Clark's Botanicals Deep Moisture Mask, but for right now, this stuff is right on. As in, right on my skin.
The price isn't bad either. Average cost: around $42.

[And now, the disclaimer: How je would adore to be lost in the ethical swamp wherein I had to confess to receiving payola for my endorsements. Fortunately for you (if not my wallet), I can tell you that while I received this product as a gift, I was under no obligation to plug it. I'm merely doing my duty, fulfilling the mission statement of this blog: to help women who are 40, plus or minus, to be the best damn 40-ish ladies they can be.]


Bisoux, bellas. 

Just a Few More Style Notes from Paris

I can't bring myself to do a fashion post-mortem on the Oscars; fun, yes, but the style of celebrities on their most fashion-conscious night simply does not apply to my average Monday. Though I'm quite sure my husband would appreciate it if I served tonight's ratatouille wearing a floor-length archival Valentino.

Aside from a lovely pile of the latest magazines (I refuse to end my love affair with paper, dammit), I find myself referring back to the notes I made from Paris for mature fashion guidance. At least the lives of Parisian women are somewhat closer to my own, and I like what they're wearing to serve that ratatouille.

Hasta, cheries.

PS: A little "x" on a garment means it's in noir. And please note humor in my recommendation of cigarettes as accessory.

More Fabulous French Fashion Tips

I got such a positive reaction from my style sketches from the ultimate catwalk--the streets of Paris--that I'm posting more here. Seven years later, they're still surprisingly current.

Besos, mujeres magnifiques.

Some good reasons to blog about how freakin' great your 40s are (or can be).

1. Misery loves company. My 40s have been my best decade ever--really!--and I like laying waste to myths that life is all downhill after 40. Downhill is a good thing. Everything leading to 40 for me was an uphill climb, and I hate to sweat. I want to share the love for those of you approaching 40 or already in the trenches.

2. Whenever my grandmother was asked how she was doing, she'd say, "Fabulous! Never better." That's just too good a catchphrase not to use for a blog. Also, half the time she said it, she was lying her stylish ass off. My goal is to be able to say "F! NB" and mean it. And maybe even get you to say it, too.

3. I need a road map to fabulousness. Nana was my original role model, but if I try to emulate her, I'll look like a Mad Men hangover. How does a woman dress age appropriately while logging on to Facebook? As I mature (I don't use the term "get older"; older than whom, exactly?), I need advice on big life issues, such as whether it's okay for me to wear motorcycle boots at age 47. And not just okay, like, Can-I-get-away-with-it okay, because that's not really okay. I mean, is it attractive, or do I just look like I missed last call at the Limelight in 1992 and never left? I'll try to get experts to weigh in.

4. I can't type and eat at the same time, so blogging may keep me from developing the dreaded mature woman potbelly (please God).

5. I can't keep a secret believe in information sharing, so if I come across any news/clues that will make my (and, by proxy, your) 40s better, I'll pass it along in "It Works!" and "Eat Yourself Older/Younger" and other columns. And since I'm not taking payola from any sources (if only), any opinions expressed here will be free of icky ethics or conflicted interests.

Until next time, chicas fabulosas. 

This is the way I'd love to dress like, all the time. Unforch, this outfit costs more than I've made in the past few months. Also, I work at home; whose gonna see me wearing this Angelina Jolie-as-Salt getup?

Fabulousness and All Things French: What's Up With That?

I hear microblogging is the big thing these days--now you just Tweet and Tumbl your life in bitty sentences and tiny URLs. I love brevity--in theory. I'll try to make it a practice here.

A trend I've noticed among fabulous women (read: those of us over 40) is a penchant for all things French. Trips to Paris. Books on how we American women can be more like French women. And, of course, French fashion.

Why all the hoo-ha (as Mom would say) about les trucs francaises? It's simple: the French love their women--no matter what their age. And French women, being so honored, never stop being sexy. They also dress stylishly at every stage of life; they never give up and give in to elastic waistbands, figuring "why bother?"Why? Because sooner or later, you're going to run into a reflective surface somewhere, and you want to like what you see. That goes for any age, but especially when your looks are changing. Becoming more mature doesn't necessarily mean losing your looks; I, for one, think I'm far cuter now than when I was younger.

I spent my 40th birthday in Paris, and if there's anyone under 40 reading this, I'm telling you right now: book that birthday flight. To me, Paris is a not-so-young-ladies' finishing school, where I learned how to eat properly--i.e., avec enjoyment and sans guilt; to flirt without overanalyzing all the fun out of it; and how to dress.

Et voila: Straight from the best catwalk in the world--the streets of Paris--here are some fashion notes I took on my 40th birthday. It doesn't even matter that they're from 7 years ago; French fashion, like brevity to get one's point across, never goes out of style.

Moxie (and Some Man Candy)

The other night, my gorgeous friend L. up and quit her job. She'd been thinking about it, dare I say fantasizing about it, for months. It doesn't seem that there was any particular incident that led to the reverse pink slip, other than perhaps a desire not to end up like the woman who died at her desk--and none of her colleagues noticed until the next day. (Sarcasm here would be the written equivalent of too much jewelry: unnecessary and unattractive.)

Leaving a job without another one lined up, especially in a recession, takes a lot of guts, conviction, confidence, and faith. If L. were a man, she'd be described as having balls (always pronounced BAWLz, to give it that extra oomph). I prefer the more female-appropriate and frankly cuter sounding word moxie.

Moxie, I've found, is one of those 40+ perks. Women under 40 can have confidence, sass, audacity, cheek if they're British, chutzpah if they're Jewish. Sometimes, their boldness is just described as being crazy. Moxie is different--a more mature, elegant mixture of courage and adventurousness. It's backbone with a dash of dash. There's life experience in moxie, though it may be just as impulsive as its little sister crazy.

My utterly fabulous Nana had moxie for days. Also due to another impulsive job departure--Grandpa quitting his milkman gig--Nana found herself trapped in a remote farmhouse with no job and no friends, baking and watching her waistline thicken while her sanity slimmed. One day, Grandpa came home and found all the farm animals gone; Nana had sold them all and announced that they were wintering in Florida or she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. Because of this, my mother's code for an act of moxie is, "Sometimes, you just have to sell the cows." That's what L. did when she quit her job. It's a leap of faith, having the moxie to sell the cows. But what a view as you sail through the air.

And what does Mr. Depp have to do with moxie, or a blog about the fabulousness of the 40+ set? Other than that he's effin' h-o-t-t and I need a little window dressing for this blog or who the hell's going to read it, he's L.'s ultimato favorito. This is my way of sending her a Man Candygram, not for seizing life by a crude term for anatomy she doesn't possess, but for having moxie.

Besos, bellezas.

Fix It or Forget It

I'm in a blurry generational area, not quite Boomer, not X-centric, but I'm still of the age where I express most of my deepest feelings with pop culture references. To wit, my mood today is summed up very nicely with this movie poster:

While I don't subscribe to the tyrannical ultra-positive movement that suggests, with a patronizing smile, that we turn every single frown upside down, I do have a caveat to these times when I stare out the window like women in ads for depression meds. It's one simple rule:

Fix it or forget it.

I can't take credit for this little gem of a whine cork; that goes to Amy Gross, a true maven and role model. She's very serene and into meditation while still maintaining glamour and a chic wardrobe. She's got it going on.

Fortunately, though, my angst has nothing to do with being in my 40s; it's the same meaningful, sigh-inducing existential blah blah I felt in my 20s. No wonder I feel so young! [<---sarcasm] But to tie in that whole "Fix it or forget it" motto, here's a 40-something issue that can be fixed: naked-looking eyes. 

One morning I told my dear friend Shez, "I want to know who the f*c% stole my eyelashes." While never exactly a stand-in for Bambi, I at least had something to bat at the boys (and, later, my husband). One day, though, I realized that I was starting to look like (prepare for another pop culture reference!) David Bowie in The Man Who Fell to Earth:

Okay, not quite that bad, but you get my meaning.

Anorexic eyelashes are one of the less-great parts of getting older becoming a more mature, self-possessed fabulous woman. They're something you can, and should, fix rather than forget. You could try that paint-on chemical that Brooke Shields touts; a woman I know is having some positive results with it. I'm going for the easier, less chemicals-on-my-eyes approach: good ol' mascara.

In this situation, your mascara choice takes on the same level of importance that your decision for college did back when you had a full, lush set of sweepers. My independent, non-corporate funded (I wish) research has led me to two options in predictably varied price points.

If you still have a job in this recession and are willing to $pend, go for Lancome Définicils High Definition Mascara. Better for length than thickness, but will take your lashes from non-existent to knocking people over. Average cost: about $25.

If you're unemployed self-employed and tend toward thrift, go for Maybelline Sky High Curves. This mascara has it all: length and almost pornographic thickening power. Average cost: three ($3!) measly bucks.

I do love a problem I can fix and forget. And now, I can get back to staring out the window and sighing existentially.

Later, locas.