Okay. Technically, I can’t miss something I wasn’t alive for when it was at its fashion peak. But frankly, I didn’t need to be born in the 40s to know that deep down in my bones, I miss that little fashion item known as THE BED JACKET.  

What the heck’s a bed jacket, you ask? If you’ve ever seen a Rita Hayworth movie where she lounges in the boudoir or taken a gander at an episode of I LOVE LUCY…you’d be familiar with THE BED JACKET. It’s a lovely and practical little jacket a lady wears over her nightgown.     Ah, the 40s. That should have been my era. Big bands, bed jackets, peignors, decolletage.  Everything about it seemed so….glamorous.  Well, except that women only washed their hair once a week because it was such time consuming an ordeal. Good for getting out of social obligations, not so good in the hygiene department. But I digress.

ANYWAY….the REASON I miss the bed jacket is that, like a lot of women, my temperature does not radiate an even 98.7 degrees throughout my body. No, much like a tri tip, there are parts of me that get cooked first, or better, than other parts.

For example, pretty much from my belly through my ankles, I’m comfortable. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a metabolism thing or maybe it’s the  padding that seems to have settled in as a result of my weekly wine and appetizer habit. (Why is that? Why not the breasts where I need it? Damn you nature!).

Whatever. The point is, when I go to bed, the mid to lower half of my body is comfortable and longs to wear a silky nightie. However, my arms, shoulders, barely there breasts and feet… FREEZING COLD! Now, I can wear my silky nightie and throw on a pair of socks and have done with that part of it.

But my upper body?

I admit it.  I sometimes crawl into bed with my robe. But after a while it gets too hot and too cumbersome for comfort and I end up ripping it off. And then, you guessed it, my upper body plummets to arctic temps again.  

Not so much of a problem after I go to sleep, as I can pile on the blankets or siphon off Randy the Perfekt husband’s body heat (I had that written into the marriage vows).  But prior to that, while propped up on my pillow reading the blarney in FITNESS magazine which features only gravity-defying 20 year old butts on the cover or watching the latest episode of THE GOOD WIFE (how can she forgive him?! Has she NO self respect?!) I am just downright chilly.  

And there you have the reason behind my longing for the return of the bed jacket. Yeah, I know there are “versions” of it still around. But you have to hunt them down (they’re not in Target’s lingerie department) and they lack the class of the bed jackets of the past.

Okay. Okay. I admit it. If I’m really honest with myself, there might be a little of the longing for the glamour of a bygone era. When songs had lyrics like “When I want rain, I get sunny weather. I’m just as blue as the sky.” Or “You go to my head, like a sip of sparkling burgundy brew. And I find the very mention of you, like the kicker in a julep or two.”

Sigh. I guess I’ll have to settle for a Snuggie and a Starbucks.  

Rita Hayworth sans a bed jacket. But isn’t she just gorgeous?

Okay, first of all, I didn’t even know that you could go to rehab for anxiety. Second of all, uh, SIGN ME UP!

Seriously though. Rehab? For anxiety? How is that even a thing? Don’t we all have anxiety? Especially us women? Especially us women who are moms who are trying to do way too much and feeling way too guilty that we aren’t able to be super human and be every place all the time and may, therefore, be failing our children?  

Reality check. Anxiety comes with that little territory known as life. I know plenty of moms who suffer from it.  But you know what? We don’t go into rehab. Know why? We don’t have nannies and housekeepers to take care of our homes and kids and jobs while we’re finger painting and talking about our feelings to a person highly paid to listen.

Not like Chynna Phillips, she of Wilson Phillips fame. She who is married to actor Billy Baldwin. I’m not saying she can’t get stressed out like the rest of us. I’m sure she has her issues. I mean,  it couldn’t have been easy to hear that her dad was carrying on an incestuous relationship with her half sister MacKenzie Phillips for 10 years. Heck, maybe that news brought up all kinds of terrible memories from her own childhood in relation to her dad. In which case, get the help you need Chynna!

Then again, maybe Chynna’s just fed up with the other-focus of motherhood. I mean, when you’ve been a pop star and the center of attention for so long, it’s hard to then realize you’re over forty, your best bikini years behind you, and that you’ve spent the last few years of your life focusing on everyone else but yourself.  Also, she’s 42 so it’s likely that whole perimenopause thing has started rearing it’s ugly head. And there’s nothing like a two week period to make a gal really, really cranky.

The point is that most of us regular moms don’t have the luxury of checking out from our lives for a few weeks to deal with our anxiety.

No, we make due with our limited resources. Instead of finger painting and talking to paid professionals, we set up a table where our kids can fingerpaint while we talk about our feelings to our mommy friends who do listen for FREE. And I don’t know about you, but my girlfriends are some of the best listeners and therapists on the planet. They’ve gotten me through some pretty rough times.

Yep. There’s nothing like a good girlfriend to take the edge off the anxiety. Also, sometimes, margaritas and meds don’t hurt.  And the best part of it all, no deductibles.

Poor Chynna. Maybe she doesn’t have the kind of girlfriends I have.  Which just goes to show you that even people who seem to have everything, don’t always.

My girlfriend Terena gave me this for my B-Day. It says it all.

Available at www.TraylorPapers.com

Despite a suggestion from a MAMMAKAZE reader that I may be over-indulging my child and therefore creating a spoiled brat of a monster who will come to expect everything handed to her and may one day have a public breakdown, shave her hair in front of paparazzi and blame me for all her shortcomings… we continue our party prep.

In for a penny, in for a pound I say.

Today we showcase some of the crafts (handmade and otherwise) that we hope will add to the ambiance of Hogwarts (aka my garage).

As anyone can tell you, one cannot be a witch or a wizard worth their salt without, you guessed it, a wand. And therefore, we have handmade wands for everyone, courtesy of our friend Al E. (Al you rock!) who hand carved all 30 of them. Julia and I stained them and individualized them.

Handmade wands for all witches and wizards. No unforgivable curses please.

Julia staining wands. She was really good at it! And very determined and specific about having a variety of shades.

And since I refused to cough up the $25 bucks it costs to purchase the sign on Amazon, we made our own Platform 9 3/4 Hogwarts sign which was meant to hang in the courtyard, but probably will hang in the house since rain is in the forecast.

And while we couldn’t get life-sized Quidditch brooms for all attendees, we did get them little broom pens with the words “Hogwarts School of Magic” embossed on the side.  A fun keepsake AND amazingly cheap!

As Julia used to say when she was around 18 months, “How you think?” Cool, huh? Tomorrow, house flags, the Hogwarts banner and also the Ollivander sign (if it turns out okay). Have gold spray paint, will…uh, create signage.

Again, feel free to comment on my madness. It makes for controversy and controversy is good for traffic! Until tomorrow!

As usual Uma Thurman, that paragon of motherhood, is at it again. I mean, I can’t tell you how many times she has come to my rescue when I have felt confused as a mother. Doling out advice on how she handles the trials and tribulations of being a working mom. I so relate. It’s like she’s my mommy doppelganger (well, except for the long legs, the international fame and the billionaire boyfriend). But otherwise, we are one, Uma and me.

It’s gotten to the point I don’t even need to ask her for the advice (which is good since she’s apparently unlisted). It’s as if she reads my mind or something.

Like the other day, I was painting and cleaning when I realized I was out of food and dinner time was rapidly approaching. But my window of time before Julia got home from dance was very narrow. So I ran to Trader Joe’s in my full house cleaning regalia (paint stained ill-fitting overalls from 1997, ratty Keds and a white shirt that has come in contact with more of my Starbucks than I have). Naturally I was embarrassed to run into absolutely everyone I knew as I went up and down the aisles.

What a loser I am. What must they think of me, looking like I was just pulled from a dumpster? And then fellow Mammakaze ERIN sent me this picture.

  Erin said:

“This is how Uma does motherhood.  It’s like some weird homeless chic look. I knew I should have renewed my W Subscription. I’m so out of the fashion loop these days…”

And to further reinforce Erin’s point, here’s a photo of Patricia Arquette and her actor husband Thomas Jane that hit the internet that very same day! (I love the internet. The immediacy with which it feeds my need to scoff.)

Again, thank you Uma (and Patricia). Turns out I don’t need to feel crummy about my appearance in public. Turns out homeless chic is in.

And THANK YOU Erin. I can hit Target today without caring that anyone I know will see my wood stain stained fingernails (the result of staining Harry Potter wands for Julia’s upcoming birthday) and judge.  Cuz no matter how crappy and untended I look, I’m “in”, baby! Oops, gotta go. The phone’s ringing and it might be In Style calling.

So last night I had this dream. I was at the grocery store and I saw a register with no line. I know, only in a dream, right? Anyway, I smoothly and expertly drove my cart into it and began unloading my groceries. The CLERK looked at me and said,” You got here in the nick of time.” He indicated behind me and I looked. And there was a line of people at least 50 deep.  At which point I felt such an amazing sense of pride that I had been so efficient (although I don’t know how getting to a line first made me efficient. But it was a dream, so I went with it).  I continued unloading my groceries onto the belt and literally beamed with that overpowering sense of pride.

Then I woke up and as that feeling of  pride slowly dissipated, another feeling came over me. One of horror… mixed with a little bit of disgust. What the heck kind of dream was that?!

I mean, I used to have AMAZING DREAMS. Dreams with elaborate storylines and vivid imagery. In color even. Dreams about a post-apocalyptic Earth, still in the throes of turmoil. You know, A Boy and His Dog and Mad Max kind of place.  Danger lurking everywhere making survival tough. UNLESS you had the wit and wiles to survive it. Which, naturally, I did, it being MY dream and all.  And not only did I survive in a very Sarah Connor T2 sort of way, but I helped others survive, too. Along the way I would take time out to save what was left of the world and help bring it back to order. Because see, I could fight off the madmen (and let’s face it, there are ALWAYS madmen in such scenarios). Madmen with names like the Colonel and Little Psycho - drunk on the newfound lawlessness of a civilization thrown into chaos AND who, if it were a movie instead of my dream would be played by Dennis Hopper or that guy who played the crazy Nazi in Inglorious Basterds. So in my dreams, I would fight off these madmen while at the same time bringing the ragtag band of survivors together to start civilization anew. And better, of course.

I mean it was exciting and inspiring stuff. We’re talking the stuff of which Roland Emmerich would be in awe. And now my accomplishments in my dreams are getting in the grocery line first? WHAT THE HECK?!

I know. As Freud would say, “Sometimes a grocery line is just a grocery line.” But I’ve always been more in Jung’s camp. Because truthfully, don’t our dreams reflect our inner selves? And if so, does this mean that I have gone from a leader to… a housewife? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But really. THIS is what I find satisfaction in now? Getting in a grocery line first? Geez.

Then I think about it and I think, you know… some of the lines in the stores ARE really long. And aren’t we all thrilled whenever we can avoid them? Come on. Admit it. I will. I’M THRILLED WHEN I CAN AVOID THEM.

Okay,  so I’m no longer dreaming about saving the world. But maybe I’m getting satisfaction out of saving something equally as precious… TIME. Because as you get older and you have less of it to waste, you kind of realize the importance of it.  And you realize that every minute you save is a minute you can spend with your friends, your family, doing what you love.

So I guess instead of lamenting the loss of my grander dreams, I’ll celebrate the shifting of my priorities to the more realistic and, yes I’ll say it, more important ones.

And as I think about it, maybe June Cleaver didn’t become a beloved icon because she was the perfect mom and wore pearls while basting a pot roast. Maybe it was because she had her priorities straight.

That’s how I’m gonna rationalize the dream anyhow.

I’ve been married a long time now. 11 years last August. Okay. Not a long time in terms of, say, dinosaurs roaming the earth (165 million years) or even those Old West marriages where people married at 12 and stayed married 70 years provided they didn’t die of influenza, rattlesnake bites or their prairie skirts catching fire. Still, 11 years is impressive if you consider the fact that I’m carrying on a marriage IN Los Angeles… D-I-V-O-R-C-E central.

That’s all a long-winded preface to my point that -  after a few years and a few kids, married couples usually get pretty complacent. And in fact, pretty much start going through the motions by rote. Yes, even sex. And it isn’t until life tests them in some way that they get a true sense of the foundation upon which the marriage is built. Tests such as job loss, the death of parent or furniture requiring assembly.

Any of these things can make or break a marriage. Especially the latter which is why, I’m convinced, most couples after marriage, stop shopping at IKEA.

Randy the perfekt husband and I did. Post-nuptials we began buying our furniture at places like MACY’s or ETHAN ALLEN where they deliver things FULLY ASSEMBLED - at a greatly increased price, natch. But hey, we were responsible grown-ups now. Besides, the marriage was fresh. Too soon for any major tests.

Well, flash forward to 11 years later. Recently, just before the holidays I fell in love with and BOUGHT a dining room set from, of all places COST PLUS. 

Now let’s be frank. Cost Plus is simply the Ikea for tonally darker tastes. Instead of blonde furniture with names like Mitvig and Bjorkvalla,  the furniture comes in colors like Espresso and Black with names like Sourav. Instead of Sweden, the items are manufactured in India. Instead of being translated from English (which all the Nordic countries seem to speak with fluency) the instructions are translated from Hindi to Chinese to English, which ultimately means jibberish. But for all intents and purposes, when it comes to price, lack of delivery options and necessity of assemblage by purchaser, these two places ARE THE SAME.

Putting together this dining room set, with sideboard and 8 chairs was a daunting and emotional test that, truthfully, could have gone either way.

We’d had a near-miss furniture assembly life-test a few years back. We had purchased a bed for Julia from, yes,  IKEA. I know. I know. You’re thinking. I thought they swore off Ikea! Well, we’d just had a baby. A baby that cost us a helluva lot more than we thought it would. I mean how many diapers can a new baby go through in a year? Turns out it’s around 10,000.

Anyway, we were trying to save money. We were weak! We found ourselves roaming the the convoluted aromatically meatballed walkways of our old haunt and actually purchasing a bed.

After we got it home (ourselves) and opened it up, my immediate thought was “why don’t we just draw up the final divorce papers already?” I mean, what is it with the Swedes that a simple bed has over 400 pieces? Is it the bleakness of their landscape that makes them crave complexity? Isn’t having to figure out the meaning of Bergman’s “Cries and Whispers” challenge enough?

I’ll admit, at the time I wasn’t secure enough in myself, my marriage or my ability to hold a slat straight enough to please my husband who, in addition to being perfekt, is also a perfektionist. Also, I still hadn’t lost my baby weight which made me really cranky.

But alas, the marriage was to continue, untested. Because as it turned out the assembly of the bed coincided with a visit from Randy’s folks to see our new house which meant Randy could recruit his father BILL,  whence the perfektionist gene had originally sprung. And let me say, it was a grueling 8 hour marathon of bed building that nearly ended their multi-decade relationship. They’ve only just recently been able to look at that bed without old animosities bubbling to the surface.

So it was back to REAL furniture stores for for us. Until I saw that dining room table. And my desire for it outweighted any fear I had for my marriage. Call it maturity. Call it devil-may-care. Call it “I was of a certain age” and DESERVED that set. But the fact was that the furniture assembly test I had managed to avoid all these years had finally come. And I couldn’t get out of it this time. Randy’s dad had no plans to visit anytime soon. And even if he did, he had long since sworn off furniture building.  So I had to put up or shut up because I CHOSE that dining room set. The one that  took multiple trips to get home. The one that had the words HEAVY FURNITURE - TEAM LIFT REQUIRED stamped all over the boxes.

Despite my resolve to HAVE THAT DINING ROOM SET, once I opened the boxes, I got really scared. The dining table and the sideboard weren’t so bad. Except for the part where I didn’t hold up my end of the 120 pound table and it ended up on Randy’s toe. But he has ten of those, so I was good. But then there were the chairs. 24 pieces of hardware x 8. That’s 192 pieces!

And wanting desperately to make the whole process go as smoothly as possible, while Randy was at work I took all the chairs out of their boxes. Put all the bottoms in one pile. All the backs in another. So we could do it assembly-line style. BIG MISTAKE! Because “handcrafted in India”  actually means each chair is unique in its, shall we call them, mistakes? The screw holes varied from chair to chair. So we spent hours trying to line up backs with bottoms that belonged together. This caused much irritation on Randy’s part and considerable defensiveness on my part. Two big buttons that should NOT be pushed simultaneously. But ultimately, to my surprise, even Randy had to admit, having grown up in a cookie cutter society, that he hadn’t foreseen this problem. I told my attorney I’d call her back.

Once we got the tops and bottoms back with their original partners, to my great shock, things went amazingly smoothly.

In fact, somewhere around chair 3 Randy and I became like a surgical team. He - the surgeon. Me, the surgeon’s very attractive head nurse. I was anticipating his every move. I knew which part he wanted even before he knew it. I was so there. WE were so there. Working, screwing, as one. Well, you know what I mean. And we put all eight of those chairs together and there was a great sense of accomplishment… and relief that we had survived such a grueling test.

And a thrill discovering that after all these years we were not only up to the test, we were yin-ing and yanging each other. We had forged an unspoken bond. The kind usually only found between mother whales and their calves or college roommates during a game of TABOO where they only need to throw out a one word hint to get their partner to guess it.

During the 11 years of our marriage, Randy and I had unknowingly formed that bond. And, I’ll admit it, it was a turn-on. And the result was that our new dining table wasn’t the only bit of furniture that got a LOT of use that week.

Okay. So it’s a little goofy that the booze and clandestine meetings of our youth have been replaced by “furniture assembly” as an aphrodisiac in our relationship. But then as you get older, your tastes change. You go from blonde wood to dark. From fear to surprise. And from complacent to assured. I think THAT’S what they call maturity.