A mother. A daughter. A topic.
Topic: “OMG – I look/sound just like my mother!!”
{ Topic submitted by Jill M. }
Cindy Thinks
Ally Thinks
I do actually. Both look and sound like my Mother.
OY.
When I was younger I was always mistaken for my mom on the phone. Once in awhile that was fun (as in tricking sales people to thinking I was her and getting her appreciation for fending them off). But as a teenager, when someone would call and ASSUME I was my mother, I would always make it sound like it was a HUGE imposition, and respond in a dull teenage drawl with “NO…it’s not Del, it’s just Cindy…I’ll go get her” and stomp off to get my mom (‘cause we weren’t allowed to shout to tell her there was someone on the phone).
But mostly I hated it when people told me I looked like my mom. Don’t get me wrong. She was the cutest mom of all the mom’s I knew, and looking like her was not such a bad roll of the dice (no offense to my dad…but we all know I did better on that one!). I was just trying to figure out who I was, and what my look was going to be…and sometimes it felt like I was just a carbon copy of her…only 4 inches taller and many pounds heavier (she was a teeny little thing, damn her).
As I’ve gotten older however, I’ve realized I look more and more like her every day, and it doesn’t much bother me anymore.
In fact, I kinda like it.
I have short blonde hair like she did (we never did find out her “true” color…but we’re never gonna find out mine either, so what the hell). And, a round face like she did. And small, thin lips…and virtually no eyelids (like her), but somehow…it seems to be working better for me these days.
But mostly…I have the same hands. I look down at my hands now, and see my mom’s. I used to love her hands. They were small and warm and loving. And now I think I have them too.
(Luckily I haven’t inherited the arthritis that bent her fingers and restricted her ability to use them effectively, but I always thought they were beautiful nonetheless.)
The thing that used to irk the hell out of me, though, is when she ended up in my head…and her words ended up coming out my mouth.
What the hell was that all about?
I’d be in the middle of a conversation with someone and out of the blue would come one of my mother’s “isms.”
There were hundreds of them.
I remember once (when Ally was about 3 years old) I was trying to explain something to her and she kept asking “Why?” every time I gave her an answer (like EVERY 3 year old on the planet)…and without hesitation, out came the mother of all of my mother’s “isms” …”Because, there’s no bones in ice cream!”
OMG! Where did that come from? My mother used to say that to me and my brother ALL the time when she didn’t want to give us any more of an explanation.
Me: Mom, can I go to Nancy’s to sleep over this weekend?
Mom: No honey…not this weekend.
Me: Why not? I don’t have anything else planned.
Mom: It’s just not a good weekend honey.
Me: But why?
Mom: Because there’s no bones in ice cream…that’s why!
END…OF…DISCUSSION.
I was so outraged that I had used this tedious, outrageous tactic on my own little girl that I stopped my conversation with Ally…picked up the phone, called my mother and shouted “GET OUT OF MY HEAD WOMAN!”
Needless to say she was both a bit shocked at my call, and a bit pleased that her w-is-do-m had rubbed off on me!
When Ally got older she researched the whole no bones in ice cream thing and found out that there’s gelatin (which is made out of bones or something) in ice cream, and blew the whole thing out of the water…and COULDN’T WAIT to tell my mom.
My favorite “Del-ism”, however, is one that’s now being used by hundreds, if not thousands, of people who came into our sphere of influence over the years. It’s the “Tell the Pilot to Drive Carefully” ism.
I know. Pilots don’t drive planes.
It was just her way of telling someone to have a safe flight. But, somehow when she said it, it was more than that. It was a safety net she threw over you to make sure absolutely nothing bad would happen to you on your trip. And it always made me feel safer.
So I started to say it to absolutely everyone I knew who was going on an airplane.
As a family, we say it to each other (individually mind you) when we get on the plane. It sounds like a little chorus of well-wishing as we make eye contact and softly utter the words Tell the Pilot to Drive Carefully simultaneously to each other. (Brian always hated it but humored me by saying “TTPTDC” every time we flew).
I even used it at work within my company and it became a “thing” with my staff. At first, I think they (the collective “they” over 23 years with the company) thought I was crazy. But I gotta tell you, there wasn’t anyone who left on a business trip who didn’t make it into my office to get their own Tell the Pilot to Drive Carefully before venturing out to the airport.
And now, after all these years, it absolutely warms my heart to hear someone outside of my family (because my family members are just expected to say it), tell ME to Tell the Pilot To Drive Carefully when I’m leaving on a trip.
Yeah…I look and sound like my Mother, and there are still some times when I do a double take in the mirror or have to stop myself in the middle of a sentence, and recognize that the words I’m speaking could easily have come out of my mothers mouth (and probably did sometime during her life), but instead of wanting to change my look, or shout and get her out of my head…I find that I get this warm glow filling my heart instead.
In Loving Memory of Del Kram…I hope I look half as good as she did, and that she never leaves my head.
I remember sitting with a girl on the floor of a high school gym, waiting to be picked up from a day at summer camp. I can recall quite clearly that we were discussing why Jonathan Taylor Thomas was the hottest boy ever.
(He totally was.)
My mom walked in and started coming over to us. As she approached, the girl next to me looked at my mom, then looked back at me, and said, “That’s your mom? Are you adopted?”
“Um… no. I look more like my daddy?” What is a seven-year-old supposed to do with that?
(For a split second I actually thought to myself “OHMYGOD MY MOMMY ISN’T MY MOMMY.”)
(Again, I was SEVEN.)
Which parent I look most like depends on who you talk to. Talk to people that grew up with my mom, and they swear that I look exactly like her. Stand me next to my dad and his side of the family, and I look just like them.
I grew up being told that I looked just like my dad. We have the same darker coloring, and when I stand with his sister and my cousins, we are all clearly related.
It takes a little bit more to realize that I belong with my mom’s side. Her blond hair and shorter stature sort of throws people off.
(Notice I referenced your “shorter stature”, Mom, and didn’t just call you “short” or “little” or “small”. Because I’m polite.)
I would go out with my mom and grandmother and nobody would think I was theirs. Not that I blame them. What would you think if you saw two small (well, TINY is more appropriate when referencing my grandmother) blond women, and me, towering several inches above them with dark brown hair, black eyebrows, and skin a few shades darker.
My brother is a pretty clear mix of our parents, though, and him and I clearly look like siblings, so at the end of the day we all look pretty cohesive.
When you see the four of us together, all of the pieces fall into place.
I think that my personality and mannerisms are a pretty good and even mix from both of my parents. For example, I have my dad’s dark sense of humor, and my mom’s (slightly warped) view of life, and I’m perfectly happy with these things. I wouldn’t have it any other way, actually.
BUT, there are certain things that just throw me off.
Like how I make this sound when my dogs are doing something bad. It’s this “uh-uh” sound in the back of my throat that I break out if the dogs are inching towards an open door or trying to sneak away a napkin from the table.
(My golden retriever LOVES napkins, so I make the sound a lot.)
It’s an automatic reflex noise that drives Mike crazy, but (no matter how many times Mike claims that it does nothing) it works, damn it.
A few years ago I was at my dad’s house with the dogs when they did something naughty (the possibilities of what exactly they did are too vast for me to remember those details), and my dad spun around.
“Is your mom here?”
Wait… what?
Well, shit.
It’s not a huge deal, but how did that little thing worm it’s way into my head and manifest itself? Years of hearing my mom make similar noises at our dogs (or my brother) (but NEVER me) (because I NEVER did anything wrong) (seriously)? Is it genetic?
Do we all end up like our mothers NO MATTER WHAT?
I think this blog has been really interesting because it’s shown how much we ARE alike, whether we realize it or not. Like how we pick the same songs for our personal musicals or both have a slightly unhealthy relationship with shoes or both procrastinate (note: it’s Sunday evening and neither of us has finished this post for tomorrow).
There would be worse things in life than being told that I look or sound just like my mother. I’m still young enough that it hasn’t taken over my life (yet). I’m sure that once I have kids the similarities will be numerous, and I’ll be calling her daily to scream at her for screwing with me.
And who knows? Maybe I won’t just look or sound like her, but also start dancing and someday be able to throw kick-ass parties.
Again, there are worse things that could happen.
Topic: Undergarments (+ Giveaway!)
{ Giveaway from Yummie Tummie. Details below. }
Cindy Thinks
Ally Thinks
Until recently (I swear!) I had no idea there was such a plethora of undergarments available to women.
And now that I know, I am SOLD!
And quite frankly…I don’t know how I lived without them for so many years! You can literally transform your body in any number of ways using hundreds of new body shaping garments. I swear there’s one for every conceivable shaping need or want for your body.
You can lift, separate or push together your breasts using strapped, strapless, wired, no wire, padded, unpadded, plunging, high profiled, lacy or plain bras.
You can push up your tush, flatten it, round it out, or add to it. You can flatten your tummy, cinch in your waist, and slim your thighs. And…you can do only one of these things at a time, use different combinations at the same time, or pick one of those handy dandy multi-shaping garments that focus on specific “target” areas to provide you with an All Over shaped body.
Or so I thought.
Recently, we had a Bar Mitzvah to attend and several women in the family (well…really just me, one of my cousins, and, at times, a reluctant Ally) were consumed by discussions of which undergarments were available and would be PERFECT for each of our outfits. We spent hours on the phone, texting or emailing different styles, brands and configurations of undergarments as we each shopped and explored what was available to meet our needs.
Clearly…we had way too much time on our hands.
I planned to wear a lovely black dress with a shocking pink liner (from my closet – woohoo!) that had a form fitting bodice (that’s body shaping terminology for “upper body”) which required (in order for it to fit me properly) something that would cinch in my waist and hold in my tummy.
BUT…I also needed something to push up these ever lowering breasts (NO…they are NOT drooping yet thank you very much!) so they would peak over the fabric to give a hint of cleavage (realizing that this look would be acceptable for both the synagogue and the after party).
THEN…I wanted to lift and smooth my tush so that the fabric of the dress would lay seamlessly in that area, while slimming my thighs and still allowing the dress to swirl effortlessly on the dance floor.
SO… I decided to look for one of those multi-area shaping garments that target different areas of your body to meet all of my body shaping needs in one fell swoop.
No problem…until I went shopping.
Apparently, the undergarment makers of the world like to focus on two, MAYBE three “target” areas on the body at one time…but usually not six.
No such luck.
But, being the resourceful person that I am, I came up with the amazing idea to COMBINE undergarments to cover all of my needs. I mean, is that brilliant or what?
So I went looking for bra to lift me up, a corset-like thing to cinch in my waist, and a full (really full) panty to lift up and smooth out my tush, hold in my tummy and slim down my thighs.
I am pleased to report I found all three!
But when I put them all on together…I couldn’t move. And I looked like I was wearing Body Armor. And, bending was a complete impossibility. And, breathing was more than difficult. And…here comes the deal breaker…dancing would have been totally out of the question.
So I took them all off and started to negotiate with myself. It was clear that I couldn’t wear all 3 pieces at the same time, so I decided I had to pick the most important parts to shape for the event.
OMG! Which parts are more important for a dressy event? The tummy? The tight cinched-in waist? The peaking cleavage? The raised and smooth tush? Slim thighs?
I ask you…can being a woman be any more challenging??
I ended up finding two items that successfully achieved some significant body shaping in 4 out of the 6 areas (no, I’m not telling which ones). And I was happy…enough. But I wasn’t comfortable. But that didn’t bother me because according to the rules my mother laid out for me when I was young and impressionable: dressing for an event is not supposed to be about comfort. So I didn’t expect to be comfortable.
But that’s just wrong. Why shouldn’t we be both beautiful AND comfortable!?!
Well…I’m happy to tell you that now we can be both.
After the Bar Mitzvah, Ally introduced me to an undergarment (by Yummie Tummie) that she found awhile ago that she loved! Then they sent me one! It hits at least 5 of my target areas (no I’m not telling you which one it doesn’t touch) and is pretty damn comfortable and pretty.
I practically live in it.
FINALLY!!!!
*Note: Let’s be clear. Part of my enthusiasm in finding the perfect body shaper is that I really thought I could get that perfect looking body without doing a damn thing on my own to make it happen. I mean seriously…why else would I go through all the trouble to bolster my body in all that armor? Answer: so I could get the look without doing any of the work! And…I don’t think I’m alone here…but we all know it doesn’t really work that way. Damn it.
I’m not going to talk about regular old bras and panties. Yes, they’re necessary, sometimes they’re fun to shop for, and sometimes they’re incredibly annoying. Instead, I’m talking about the kind of undergarments that promise that you’ll look 10 pounds thinner by wearing them.
You know how they promise that? They suck you in and don’t let go. Sure, you can’t sit down or take a deep breath, and your ribs are probably permanently bruised, but damn it, you look good.
Recently, I needed one of these magic pieces of clothing to wear underneath a little black cocktail dress. I ventured to a department store and grabbed half a dozen different types of “shapewear”. Some were slips the length of the dress, some were just bottoms, others were corset style tops.
I took a deep breath (because it’s physically necessary), and started with one of the corsets. You’re supposed to step into these things, and then shimmy them up into place. Did you notice I said “supposed to”? Can you guess why you’re supposed to do the step and shimmy?
I do.
It’s because if you try and put the things over your head, you’ll end up like me, standing in a department store dressing room, with half of my head sticking out through the top, my arms pinned together at the elbows, my wrists flopping around in front of my face. And you, like me, will think of a variety of options that you then have.
The initial panic that set in told me to just rip the damn thing in half. I could either swallow my pride and bring it to the cashier and pay for it, or throw my clothes back on, brush my hair in front of my face, throw the stupid thing in a ball on the floor and run for it.
I didn’t appreciate either of those options, so I thought about an alternative. I could call for help. I can’t have been the first person to get stuck in one of those things. In fact, something like the following should be on the job application for any store with these types of undergarments:
“A sales associate in this department must have excellent customer service skills, superior organizational skills, and be willing to help customers who find themselves immobilized by our merchandise, with little damage to the product or patron.”
Thankfully, I didn’t have to do that. Instead, I was able to claw my way out of the damn thing with no damage to the devil piece of clothing and minimal damage to me. I had a pretty sizable bruise on my left arm, and almost popped my shoulder out of its socket in the process, but overall, I survived.
I ended up buying something, but hated the way it squeezed me so hard that my internal organs were in danger of rupturing.
And then I went BlogHer 2010, and an awesome party called Socialluxe, where I met the crew from Yummie Tummie. The founder, Heather Thomson, was there, telling us all about her company. She said that her products are different because they work without being uncomfortable. Sure, I thought, I don’t believe that for one second. But, when they offered to send me one of their products for free, I jumped on the offer.
(Of course.)
When one of their employees asked if I wanted a tank top or a pair of briefs, I asked which would be better for my little black dress. “Oh! This is what you need,” she said as she handed me a beautiful little undergarment that was a top and bottom together. She said she’d get it to me in a few weeks. Later, when I reached out to them on Twitter saying that my dress needed to be worn sooner than I thought, they sent it overnight to me.
LOVE THEM.
The Teddie is beautiful, it smooths everything out, but it never feels like body armor. It made me look hot, and it gave me a much needed confidence boost (which, really, is why I forced myself into the other items in the first place). Since I received the Teddie, I’ve bought the Original Tank for myself, and wear it all the time. It’s great to layer with, and my internal organs don’t feel like they’re shifting when I wear it.
AND, all of their clothes come with a little tag telling you how to put it on, so I have yet to get stuck.
Win.
Now, my wish list for the holidays is full of Yummie Tummie products.
And Now For Something Special:
We each received a Teddie from the wonderful people at Yummie Tummie for free. We didn’t want to leave you all out, so those same wonderful people at Yummie Tummie are allowing us to do our first giveaway!
One lucky reader will randomly be chosen to win a gift from Yummie Tummie. The winner will have a choice of one of the following fantastic products:
The Teddie
The Slippie
The Briefie
The Shortie
To enter, all you have to do is Suggest a Topic using this form. Anyone can enter, and we’ll choose a winner next Monday. Please send us as many topics as you have, but your name will only be entered into the giveaway once. The winner will be announced next week and contacted via email.
A note for our male readers: feel free to enter this giveaway! If you win, you can give the prize to whomever you want. HOWEVER, we feel we have an obligation to warn you that you shouldn’t randomly give a woman shapewear unless she's explicitly asked for it. (Read this post we wrote in August for some more insight into why that's probably a bad idea.) Might we suggest sending her a link to this blog and letting her enter herself? It’s really up to you, though.
Good luck, and thank you to Yummie Tummie for being awesome!
Topic: What gives with women’s shoes?
{ Topic submitted by Brian K. (Uncle Buddy) }
Cindy Thinks
Ally Thinks
I’m almost embarrassed to admit it…but when I watch the commercials for DSW my heart begins to race and I find it a bit difficult to breath. I don’t know if it’s that jazzy/Latin style music they play, or the flashing of various styles of shoes appearing on my TV screen. But I truly begin to hyperventilate.
It’s not something I’m proud of.
Maybe I’m sick.
Maybe I’ve developed low blood pressure due to shoe intoxication.
I don’t know…and I don’t care. I just want to rush out to DSW (or any other store selling shoes) and see what magical shoe wants to jump off the shelf into my arms for that day.
But that is now…and it’s important to know that I wasn’t always so excited about shoes. When I was much younger, I cared about boys, not shoes (I had no idea at the time how incredibly linked the two were), and…I didn’t do outfits. I did jeans and T-shirts and usually grabbed whatever shoes were closest to the front of my closet so that I didn’t have to exert much energy to find them when running out the door.
Then I got a job.
And, I began to interact with people who seemed to get up in the morning and put their clothes on in a “meaningful way”…including their shoes.
I was fascinated.
I remember shopping for my first grown-up work clothes in catalogs such as Newport News and Spiegel and they would show brightly colored two piece suits with matching colored high heel “pumps.”* A turquoise suit with turquoise pumps…a peach suit with peach pumps. It was a virtual sherbet sundae of working woman clothing…and I couldn’t wait to eat it up.
(For those who are unfamiliar with the classic “pump” style…it is a simple design that has endured over decades, promising to elongate the leg, slim down even the thickest of ankles, and guarantee any number of foot ailments due to years of squeezing five toes into a narrow pointed section of leather at the bottom of a 45 degree angle.)
I quickly learned that shoes came in other styles besides turquoise or peach colored pumps and couldn’t seem to get enough shoes into my life (or into my closet). I started buying shoes in every combination of shapes, heel heights and colors. Some worked. Some didn’t. But through it all, I began to develop a knack for figuring out which style of shoe would best compliment each piece of clothing in my close and how to build an “outfit” using shoes as the anchor piece.
I was in heaven! I was struttin’ down the street in classic loafers with rolled up jeans, or wowing business associates with subtle yet classy pumps (no more turquoise for this lady!) or tempting my man to take me out (and back home for a “lovely” night) with a pair of drop dead stilettos that made my legs look like they came out of my shoulders.
Each pair of shoes had a specific purpose that was expressly stated when combined with the appropriate outfit. As I walked into a room, you would instantly know what I was saying…like, “take me seriously at work” -or “I may be a mom, but I’m still a sexy momma!” – or – “let’s walk on dirt”…you get the idea.
It was a great system and I loved the challenge of figuring out what shoe would best express the purpose at hand.
And then…I developed bunions.
On both feet.
And had to stop wearing 99% of the shoes in my closet.
I experienced my first ever serious shoe slump. Following surgery on both feet at the same time, I was relegated to a pair of large, clunky, foam filled, Velcro closing, open toed “bunion boots”…for 6 WEEKS!
As I sunk into a deep shoe withdrawal depression, my doctor explained that at the end of the 6 weeks, I should have at the ready, a pair of …(it’s hard for me to say these words) … “sensible shoes.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. It took me the full 6 weeks to figure it out. Finally, I found a pair of shoes I could walk comfortably in for the next year.
And, they were kind of cute.
No…not really.
They were wide, and brown, and flat and boring. But they didn’t hurt.
It took 12 months, 3 weeks and 4 days before I was able to get my feet into a new cute shoe.
You would think that during this time (including the years of pain leading up to the bunions and resulting surgery) I would have been cured of my serious shoe addiction. But no.
Instead, it taught me an important lesson…that with both patience and perseverance, I could search out new styles, heel heights and colors that could still be DROP DEAD perfect, but…with a bit of moderation (that would mean no more 4″ heels), they didn’t actually have to cause any more bodily harm.
I WAS FREE AGAIN! Free to once again start buying cute (and sometimes still comfortable) shoes. Free to re-embrace the challenge of building great outfits while allowing my shoes to state the purpose of my day as I walked into a room.
And free to let the joy and excitement creep back into my life as a new DSW commercial aired on TV.
I have a love/hate relationship with shoes.
I love cute shoes. Pretty shoes. Ridiculous shoes in ridiculous colors with ridiculous pointy toes that cost a ridiculous amount of money.
I love to put them on and look at them on my feet, see how they peek out underneath extra long skinny jeans, make my extra large feet look tiny.
I love to paint my toenails a pretty pink and see how cute they look against my favorite pair of black strappy sandals.
I love shoes with heels that are 3-inches, I love wedges, and I love adorable flats in fun colors and patterns.
The love stops, though, when I actually have to stand up in those ridiculous shoes and, you know, walk somewhere. Suddenly, those adorable shoes with the pointy toes go from things of beauty to horrible torture devices.
When I was a kid I always thought I’d grow up and be able to walk in heels. I’d hit a certain age and it would be easy. It’s in my genes, for god’s sake! But alas, here I am, 25, an “adult”, and I still look like some disabled duck waddling around when I put heels on. I don’t look like some confident, sexy woman who could strut around New York City with Sarah Jessica Parker.
I blame this on the fact that I outgrew my mom’s shoe size at a very early age. When I could fit into her size 7 high heels, I had no interest in shoes. By the time I wanted to practice walking in pretty shoes like my mom wore, I couldn’t cram my size 9 feet into them. I can only assume that I missed some vital point in my adolescence that has left me lacking in this department of my “womanhood”.
(Though, now that I think about it, it’s not a skill exclusive to women. Have you seen “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” recently? Tim Curry dancing in those stilettos puts me – hell, most women – to serious shame.)
I try to be pickier about what shoes I purchase. (Not having a steady income really helps with that.) I try really hard not to get shoes that are even slightly uncomfortable when I try them on in the store.
(Sadly, I totally still fail.)
Part of me wants to say “fuck it” to all of the annoying and uncomfortable shoes in my closet. “Screw you” to the ones that gave me blisters that required me to shell out 4 bucks for 3 Band-Aids at the hotel gift shop while on a trip earlier this year. “See ya” to the ones that caused me to sit on the side of the bathtub, weeping after an evening out, pouring warm water over my sore feet.
But, alas, I can’t let go. They sit there, strewn across the floor of my closet, hanging on the back of my bedroom door in one of those organizer things from Target, or underneath my bed. They stare at me, and I just can’t get rid of them. Yes, they hurt, but that incredibly irrational voice in my head says “But they’re SO PRETTY!!”.
(Yes, that voice sounds a lot like my mother.)
So I save those shoes until I forget how bad they’ve hurt me. I save them because at some point I’ll put on some clothes and realize that those devil shoes are required to make the “perfect outfit”.
When all is said and done, it’s tough for me to decide what my philosophy is when it comes to shoes. Either life is too short to wear shoes that cause you pain, or life is too short to wear ugly shoes.
That voice in my head (Hi mom!) tends to scream the latter at me.