10. Don't get bombed in front of the kid...

...or drunk or stoned or however you want to put it. There's just nothing that makes this alright. We've all slipped up at some point and had too much to drink. When you're spanning 20 or so years of drinking, the odds are you've worn a lampshade or over-shared with a semi-friend or woken up with that guy/girl who was a lot cuter at 2:00 a.m. (or so I've read about in books and seen in movies!).

But now you've got kids. This is no longer an option. Sure, it's fine to have a glass or two of wine with dinner but when it becomes a bottle or two long after the last dish has been put away (or not put away, depending on the kind of drunk you are) then it's time to sit up and take notice. Change your ways. Look in the mirror. Do an about-face. (You get the point).

Truly, this is a no-brainer, but we've all forgotten on occasion and the look on Junior/Juniorette's face when the apologies abound in the light of day is one of the most sobering moments in a parent's life. And there are parents who have more of a "live and let live" attitude than I do. We've probably all heard the refrain, "When I was a kid, my parents did ________ and I turned out fine". Well, I suppose that's one philosophy and it also depends on how one defines "turning out fine". I'm not so sure I fit that bill, but I'm harder on myself than I should be. Besides, isn't the cycle of life that we want better for our children than we had, whatever that may be? 

Perhaps topping off that glass can wait for Mommies' Night Out or Poker With The Guys (yes, I've stereotyped the sexes). 

Or, as my brother puts it, "Bar time".

 

 

9. Ipod+bad rapping= no no!

When this song came out, I was flitting from one club to the next in downtown NYC. It was the days of Deep, Soul Kitchen and Nell's on a Sunday night. I thought I was so f*****g cool with my Def Jam bomber jacket, fat sneakers and bamboo earrings. But the truth is, I looked like a poser. I'm a white girl from the Midwest. What was I thinking? Well, there it is - I wasn't thinking. I was young, I was searching, I was in the thick of the coolest thing in the country.

But it's 20 years later. I'm not on the cutting edge of anything (even using that tired cliche proves my point) unless you count subscribing to KCRW and shopping at Trader Joe's. 

I love music, and I manage to stay current. Occasionally, though, I'll take a trip down memory lane.

I've learned it's best to keep that to myself, at least when singing along.

8. Rein in the self-righteous indignation in front of the kid

This is a big one. It's also not terribly funny and I struggled with blogging about it. But it's important for me to not only point the finger elsewhere, but also take myself to task.

I learned this lesson the hard way, and I know that this event will be a "jump out" for my son when he looks back at his childhood. Just as I remember my parents not allowing me to go on a class trip in 8th grade, so will he remember his mom's self-righteous indignation resulting in getting kicked off a plane on the way to Spring Break when he was in 2nd grade.

Here's what happened. The irony of this story is that the night before we were leaving, I'd gone to see "Friends With Money" and horrifyingly related to Frances McDormand's character and thought "I'd better watch my Ps and Qs" (well, it probably wasn't as platitudinous as that). Just because I think things would work much better my way, I wasn't running every single business on the planet and it was possible I looked like the jackass and those other people might have some clue as to what they were doing.

But twelve hours later I forgot all of that. Twelve hours later I was on an overcrowded plane. Southwest had changed their policies without alerting me (what?!), and I'd ended up in Boarding Group C. Inching our way to the back of the full plane, immediately paying the price for carry-on overpacking, there were no two seats together. I looked around, panicked (with my 8 -year-old and my abandonment issues) and wondered how I'd get through the flight 16 rows away from my son. I saw the harried flight attendant, and asked her gently -- okay, my version of gently -- if she would mind making a request to the rest of the passengers to switch a seat with a mom and her son. 

Here's what happened next: no one heard her announcement, I asked her to repeat it, she berated me in front of the other passengers and my son for not having "wakened up early enough to get to the airport on time", and a nice woman near us offered up her seat. This mercifully put my son and me one row apart, both of us in aisle seats. I got us situated, seat belts fastened, cream cheese on his bagel, and then I stewed. I sat in my seat boiling, repeating her chastisement like a mantra in my mind. And that was the moment, that life-changing moment we've all faced, the moment in which I could have made an out-of-character decision (remember? last night? "Friends With Money"?) and I didn't. Instead, I got up, walked to the back of the plane and told "Amber" that I "didn't appreciate the way she spoke to me in front of my son and the other passengers".  I said my piece, then sat down in my seat, ready for the flight.

The next thing I knew, my son and I were being escorted off the plane to the terminal, where the FBI waited with questions. "Amber" had decided to exert her power, and linked the word "threatened" to me. That's all it took. We were banished, our luggage brought to us and our flight cancelled.

In the end (phone calls, tears, my son's father demanding restitution, etc.), we were on a flight out the next day, apologies from the airline overflowing and only mild schedule irritations on the other end.

However, I knew that my self-righteous indignation, whatever its roots, caused the Event. Maybe it was time to look inward. 

Maybe it was my business that needed some overhauling. 

In response to a comment from "Anonymous"...

Does this work for you?

7. Don't introduce your booty call to your kid

It's okay to have that person you call when you get a little lonely or have had too much to drink (or both). But your kid doesn't need to meet them. Don't fool yourself - those feelings you're feeling are hormones, not "this is my future, this is my soul mate". That's fine. Really. All that puritanical nonsense is just that - nonsense. Sometimes we need what we need, when we need it. But what our kids don't need is to meet our late-night friend. We don't have to use our children to justify our actions. If the day comes that booty turns into love, then by all means figure out a way for Junior to adjust.

But seriously, what's the likelihood of that happening? Until it does, have fun, be safe and lose the guilt!

I broke my own rule...

...and wore a hat I favored in my 20s. Guess what happened? It blew off about a mile from the coast when I was fishing on Saturday and immediately sunk.

I think that's what one calls "eating one's words".

5. Either turn the hat around or take it off.

You're not 12. You're not in a garage band, you're not in middle school, you don't look hip. You look like an old dude who thinks he's gangster. 

Please, let's start again. Change out the flat brimmed hat, put on a nice shirt, shave and smile. Then let me know if anything has changed. I think it might. 

A moment of tribute...

So, I just came from happy hour with a couple of friends (who suggested my happy hour knowledge should be a blog on its own, but that's neither here nor there at this moment) and it was pointed out, with a kind of "ahem", that maybe I was being a little harsh. Looking over this blog, I can see how that would be construed.  Aging in Los Angeles is not pretty, it's unforgiving, and when you find yourself single - in whatever capacity - over 35 (or even 32!), it's an uphill battle to maintain your sanity and your dignity. It's impossible to compete. And truly, that's the point of this - DON'T COMPETE! Be yourself. Be your age. Be graceful. 

Having said that, I must talk about Tony Alda, who died today. I didn't know him as well as a lot of people, but the time that I did spend with him was special. He had a way of making fun of me (note: the above photo where I'm tilting my head to get the "best angle") that almost no one was able to get away with. When he laughed at me, it really was "laughing with me", as cliche as that sounds, and he'll never know because I never told him how much that meant to me. Tony didn't get to "age cringelessly" because he was young when he died today, but he was graceful and loving and an amazing presence in the world.

He will be missed.

Now this is aging gracefully...

Of course, they are all movie stars...but so are the others I posted pictures of. What's the major difference? 

In a word: Acceptance. These four women are all examples of accepting who they are, and as closely as I peer, I don't see an orange spray tan on any of them, nor would I guess that any of them are borrowing their daughter's clothes.

4. Ease up on the Spray Tan

Okay, I know that a spray tan is only the tip of the iceberg with Donatella - but it would be a start. There's just no reason to be that...orange. There is nothing youthful about it, it doesn't scream "I've been in St. Bart's for the month". It just sends a sad message that a tan equals youth. And it does! That is true! A tan recalls summers squeezing lemon juice into your hair and rubbing baby oil onto your legs and belly. But those days are over. The sun's rays are poison, and looking that tan naturally is a sure death sentence. Looking that way because of a spray tan seems desperate. I'm sorry, but that's the word. Desperate and - and here's where I understand some angry reaction - old. The whole point of this blog is to find ways to look great without looking desperate, and there's just no getting around the fact that the tanner one looks, the older they look. You are defeating your very objective! While spraying yourself orange to maintain a youthful glow, you're only succeeding in calling attention to your no longer smooth, plump skin.

My advice? Sunscreen, hat, and Retin-A.