Katy McDermott

Unless you’re a drug kingpin or a Real Housewife of Wherever, chances are you live in a normal-sized house and don’t need roller skates to navigate your faux-Italian-granite floors. In other words, you’ve settled.

I’ve gotten pretty interested in residential real estate lately. I’ve spent a number of weekends helping to get my mother’s house ready for sale, and I’ve also been looking at new homes for my own family. The operative word here is “new.” There’s nothing like sorting through 30 years worth of belongings in an old house – books, clothes, photos, letters, dust, and (it must be said) rodent droppings – to make you appreciate a just-being-built development.

I used to have a bias against new construction. It was so – well – new. All that Tyvek I would see as I drove past. All that flimsy-looking plywood framing. Yuck.

Now I feel differently. I’m not interested in character or history in my house anymore. I’ve embraced the Tyvek, made my peace with the plywood framing. I want cathedral ceilings, 42” cherry-finish cabinets, and a full finished basement, thank you very much. The latest energy-efficient appliances, please. And, of course, a “Great Room” – I’m not sure exactly what its function is, but I feel certain I’d be inspired to heroic feats just by being in it.

Part of my problem with new developments used to be that I felt like such a sucker when I visited. I’d stroll, goggle-eyed, though the model home, ready to mortgage my very soul to own it, only to discover that the model boasted around $100,000 worth of “upgrades.” If you bought the base house at the base amount (pretty pricey to begin with, in this area), all you were guaranteed was a certain number of square feet, several walls, and possibly a roof. Those lovely chocolate-colored marble countertops you fell in love with in the model? An upgrade.

One thing you learn pretty quickly when touring model homes is that, if any item is part of a “package,” it automatically costs triple. My husband and I investigated a recently-built home last weekend, and were impressed to see that every windowsill boasted a recessed candle-shaped light that could be raised in December. Turns out, these lights (and only these lights) comprised the neutrally-named Holiday Package – and were, of course, an upgrade.

But my complaints don’t really matter. You see, I’ve got a raging case of REF, or Real Estate Fever.

Perhaps you’re familiar with this disorder? Perhaps you’ve even suffered from it yourself at some point? Symptoms: pupils that dilate when you’re presented with a model home floor plan. Palms that sweat from pure longing when you’re confronted with a list of house options. (Did you ever think that crown molding and chair rails could inspire such passion? Me neither.)

REF has some interesting side effects. For one thing, even the most progressive, independent, non-dinner-cooking female becomes inordinately interested in kitchen storage. Lack of pantry? Devastating. Built-in spice rack? Mania-inducing.

Women can also develop a previously unknown fascination with window treatments. Blinds versus shutters, shades, swags, and valances – all the topics that used to be viable only at Linens & Things staff meetings – suddenly become objects of intense speculation. Sconces and chandeliers are a whole other conversation – don’t get me started!

Men, of course, just compare the size of their decks and call it a day…

REF can cause another intriguing symptom. Call it Price Obsession. Call it Money Hyper-Awareness. Regardless, it simply means that part of the “courtesy lobe” in your brain is temporarily removed. Think about it. Would you ever ask someone how much their recent vacation cost? Their new car? The snazzy new wardrobe they just bought?

Didn’t think so.

And yet, when we’re in the grip of REF, we think nothing of starting a sentence with the utterly meaningless “Do you mind if I ask you…?” and pry into interest rates, down payments, and mortgage terms. (And what an awkward position that places the hapless homeowner in! It’s tantamount to inquiring about someone’s salary.)

There are some housing developments that you should know better than to even visit unless you make half a million dollars a year (in which case, can I have your job?) Anything named “The Estates at…,” for example. Trust me on this. “The Villages at…” probably means townhomes, which are affordable to middle-class folks (if not particularly spacious). “The Estates at…”? Go win the lottery, and then we’ll talk.

A few weeks ago, I decided to torture myself by looking at an “Estates at…” property. Mistake. Now, the perfectly nice townhome my husband and I can actually afford pales in comparison to the sprawling compound I saw with its 3-car garage, sub-zero freezer (what does that mean, exactly? Isn’t “frozen” frozen?), and master bathroom the size of a small cottage.

But we’ve crunched the numbers, reviewed our options, and it looks like we’re going to wind up officially buying a new construction home sometime in the near future. In spite of the inherent hassles, we’re kind of looking forward to it.

It will be uncharted territory for us both, to be sure. The builder is sort of like a car mechanic. He can say, “You need enclosed wiring in the HVAC room to comply with state code regulations,” and how am I supposed to respond? “I have no idea what you’re talking about?” He knows that already.

So we may not get that 3-car garage.

But at least there won’t be any rodent droppings.

Not for nothing do they call smell the most evocative sense. I got a whiff of Jungle Gardenia perfume recently, and in an instant I was a guilt-ridden 5-year-old again, tempted to look over my shoulder to see if my mother had caught me pilfering between-meal cookies.

This intense cologne reaction can go several ways. I was once tempted to deck a complete stranger in an elevator because he wore the same after-shave as my ex. The scent of Jontue (don’t lie, fellow 40-something women – you bought it too) takes me right back to my senior prom, complete with French-braided hair, a Styx power ballad, and a fake-flower arch where my date bent his arm unnaturally to highlight my corsage as we got our picture taken.

I’ve left my Jontue days long in the past, but Old Spice will forever smell like argument to me.

I suppose I’m thinking of smells so much because my husband recently commented that he can’t escape the scent of mulch. And he’s right – it’s everywhere. A sharp, tangy smell that selfishly obliterates every other aroma in a 2-mile radius. But after the winter we’ve had, mulch = Spring. It has a perfume all its own.

So, oddly enough, does cow manure. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to smell it without thinking of a local farm at which I’ve spent many happy hours enjoying the chance (along with hundreds of other suburbanites) to “get my rural on.” The milk from those cows has been magically transformed into far too many mint-chocolate-chip ice cream cones. And when I visit the calves in their tiny individual pens, it’s easy to convince myself that one specific calf – I can even identify her by the number tag she sports like a low-rent earring – has eyes only for me.

What is it about baby animals? Puppy-belly smell renders me completely helpless and delighted. I imagine God made puppy-bellies smell so good so we wouldn’t be too angry when they ate entire sneakers (puppies must have impressive digestive tracts!)

A close cousin to this phenomenon is that of kitten-breath. I have a cat who’s broken a lamp through her feline skittishness, shredded several box springs with her claws, and frequently tumbles head-first into her food bowl, scattering Science Diet pellets throughout the kitchen. But she has only to lick my nose and all is forgiven. Kitten breath. They never outgrow it, and it’s irresistible.

Would you believe that I even have a soft spot for the odor of horse dung? It’s true. Combined with the smell of deep-fried, powdered-sugar-laden funnel cake and meticulously oiled leather saddles, it never fails to put me in mind of a favorite local horse-show-cum-country-fair.

I guess scents mean different things to different people. You’d think that fresh-cut grass would be a universally positive aroma, but to a landscaper, the association with endless sweltering days of pruning unruly hedges and gallon jugs of lukewarm ice tea teetering on yet-to-be-mown lawns would conjure up anything but a relaxing image. The smell of newly-fallen rain is the stuff of misty-eyed, romantic dating commercials for some – but to me, it just signals a dreary sky and a slick commute. For good memories, I’ll stick with horse dung, thank you very much.

However, horse dung isn’t everyone’s cup of tea (ew – horse dung tea!), and an entire industry has grown up around making our environment smell good. Way back, there were “sachets,” which resided in your grandmother’s nightgown drawer and were the forerunners of potpourri. Potpourri is an interesting racket: gather whatever twigs, dead flowers, and shriveled fruit you can find in a local park, pour some scented oil on it, package the whole lot in a clear cellophane bag tied with a raffia ribbon, call it “Apple Harvest” or something – and charge $11.00.

But with potpourri, the aroma-industrial complex was just getting started. The real money lay in candles. Impressively molded into the shape of everything from jars to lamps to miniature rabbits; striped, swirled, and blended in every shade on the color wheel; and even more creatively named than paint chips, scented products have probably neared the top of their “market penetration” arrow on this year’s Yankee Candle annual meeting PowerPoint.

(I’d like to have a word with the folks at Yankee Candle headquarters, though. How exactly does a hunk of scented wax conjure up a “Midsummer Night?”)

The newest thing is “reed diffusers” – basically, you plunk a bunch of balsa-wood sticks in a bottle of scented oil, and it perfumes the whole room without the danger of an open flame. Full disclosure: I love reed diffusers. I have two in my office at home (I’m still trying to mask the smell of smoke after being quit for months) and one in my office at work. This hippest of aroma-trends, though, is also the most confusing. The names of these scents aren’t even remotely literal (it makes me long for “Midsummer Night!”) Someone walked in to my office the other day, asked me what smelled so good, and I said “Serendipity.” My colleague found a reason to leave pretty quick.

I’ve got real estate on the brain these days, and it’s amazing how big a role aroma plays in “staging” a home for sale. Holding an open house? Make some chocolate-chip cookies or (better yet) an apple pie that morning. It really does make prospects more likely to make an offer. I don’t know if they think you’ll stay on as their personal pastry chef or what…

But forget artifice. My clearest scent-memories are the simplest ones. Truck exhaust fumes smell like my commute. Thin-crust barbecue chicken pizza calls weekends to mind. Salty air smells like Cape Cod – and the excitement I always feel at visiting my family there. Alfred Sung eau de parfum and Armani cologne smell like Date Night, Garnier shampoo like my frequently wet-haired niece. Cigar smoke used to belong to my grandfather, but now it smells like my husband, as does Guinness (and the far more wholesome Irish Spring soap.)

I could probably replace sight (guide dog, Braille) and hearing (Cochlear implant, lip-reading). But I couldn’t do without my sense of smell.

The water that caused her “eureka” moment? To Helen Keller, it must have smelled like nectar.

If Canada ever decides to attack us, or an earthquake destroys our townhome development in suburbia, I’m all set for supplies. I just got back from Costco. I have two dozen of everything.

I go to the warehouse store every few months or so, and the variety and volume of their merchandise always amazes me. Floor wax, ketchup, batteries, frozen chicken wings, vitamins, grapes – as long as you want vast quantities of it, you can probably find it. There are some drawbacks, of course. Every brand of shampoo comes in 72-ounce bottles only – far too big for my delicate hands (which unfortunately don’t match my waist circumference…)

Because I don’t have a pre-Vatican-II-Catholic-sized family (in fact, it’s just me, my husband, and our niece), I only buy non-perishable items. The only fresh foodstuff we could consume before it spoiled would be the chocolate chip cookies – and since we’d each have to eat 6 a day for a week, I just don’t bring them into the house.

Bar soap, however, is a different matter. Some time ago, I came home with a huge pack of Irish Spring bars. Every time I head to Costco now, I ask my husband if he needs replacements. Every time, he replies, “Nope. I’m good.” His hygiene is excellent – but he’s been saying this for three years.

Speaking of hygiene, do you happen to have an especially – productive – infant? If so, Costco’s the place for you. You can buy a package of 900 baby wipes there. 900. Not a typo. I don’t have kids, so I can’t say for sure, but I think your child could be well into grade school before you could go through them.

But before babies enter the picture, you first have to pair off with someone. Did you realize that your local warehouse store can be a tremendous relationship ally? For the courtship phase, you can procure some extremely tasty Belgian chocolates (yes, I tried them – it was research!) and lovely violet-and-rose bouquets. The fresh flowers may seem incongruous, displayed as they are between gallon jugs of disinfectant and 350-count bottles of Pepcid, but they’re there.

When the relationship turns serious, you can browse the fine jewelry section for an engagement ring. So what if there’s about as much romance in this as in a locker room full of post-game basketball players? The prices can’t be beat.

As for a bridal registry, who needs Tiffany’s? Ask your guests to procure their wedding presents at the warehouse store, and you’ll not only get the pots, pans, cutlery, and salad spinner you so desperately need, you’ll also be set for life in terms of condiments. And since no bridal registry is complete without a slow cooker, you can add that to your list as well. On my most recent trip to Costco, I saw a Crock pot that came with a mini Crock pot included – so it can take up even more space and be even more useless!

When you’re planning your honeymoon, don’t forget about those racks of brochures at the front of the warehouse – Costco can arrange everything from a luxury cruise through the Aegean isles to a romantic getaway to Bora Bora. And of course, once you buy your first home, look to Costco to provide your garage door, heating system, custom countertops, carpets, and “window fashions” (I can’t help visualizing a bay window asking a transom “do these curtains make my panes look fat?”).

You can find mattresses, patio furniture, leather recliners, home office furniture, and even several types of ferns in addition to your standard bulk-quantity items. In fact, it might be a good idea to purchase an extra-large storage shed to house the extra-large stuff you buy.

Of all the enormous items I’ve seen at the warehouse store, though, none was as laugh-out-loud-in-disbelief astonishing as the 12-pound chocolate cake in the bakery. You heard me. Twelve pounds. It looked like an unusually appetizing tree stump. (In a forest I’d love to get lost in, by the way.)

But as much as the concept of an elephantine chocolate cake appeals to me, I can’t help but wonder if it’s quintessentially American to want more and bigger stuff. Are there Costcos in the UK? Sam’s Clubs in Bulgaria? Warehouse stores in – sacre bleu! – France? (I must admit, it’s tough to imagine a 12-pound baguette.) A quick Google search tells me there are. Forget McDonald’s, Microsoft, and Disney. I think Costco wants to take over the world.

And apparently, those of us who shop there have never heard of the environmental movement. It makes me wonder if Costco’s ever inspired sign-wielding protesters to block its doors. The hard plastic, cardboard, and cellophane that shroud pretty much everything in the store seem designed to last well into the next millennium. (You’re welcome, Future!)

But perhaps I’m getting overly political here. Perhaps it’s just a question of others shopping at Costco for the same reason I do – to save money. The siren song of the 24-pack of paper towels can be pretty tough to resist. I’ve seen actual rich people shopping there. Back when I was a pharmaceutical salesperson, I called on cardiologists. I saw one of my former clients at Costco last week, and I assume he makes a pretty good living. Probably drives a Porsche and lives in a 5,000-square-foot mansion in a gated community designed to keep riffraff like former pharmaceutical salespeople out.

Still… 460-count dryer sheets…

I enrolled in karate classes a few months ago. Schedule conflicts forced me to stop attending, but I plan to return. I’m nowhere near being able to shatter a cinderblock with my bare foot yet.

I started karate because I needed to get in shape, and given the level of dust that’s accumulated on the treadmill in my basement, I figured it would be good to have an outside place to go several nights a week. A traditional fitness club was out. I’d gone that route before, only to leave after one aerobics class, intimidated by the legions of hard-bodied members in skintight, bulgeless workout gear who clearly didn’t need to be there.

My local shopping center has a karate place, and one day I checked it out. I observed a class full of children, obviously at the advanced level already. Well-behaved moppets in neat white “gis” (a “gi” is the traditional martial arts outfit) kicking, chopping, shouting “yah!” as they executed particularly strenuous moves. At the end of the class, they bowed and thanked their “sensei,” or instructor.

How very civilized!

“I could do this,” I thought. After all, if 4^th graders were performing roundhouse kicks, twirling nunchucks like extras in a Bruce Lee movie, and flipping much larger opponents, how hard could it be?

Besides, I liked the gis. Very forgiving.

In order to prevent the “taking one class and never coming back” syndrome, I paid for a month up front, was given my gi, and told the date of the next Adult Beginner class.

“Adult Beginner” class. Sounds just right, doesn’t it?

Well let me tell you, the studio owner used both the words “adult” and “beginner” pretty loosely. There were ‘tweens in those sessions who could kick my ass.

The first challenge, however, was simply putting on my gi. The pants (mercifully loose) were no problem, although since we worked out in bare feet, I could see that I’d need to schedule regular pedicures. The jacket, while hiding the evidence of any number of chocolate truffles and triple decker club sandwiches with extra bacon, bristled with an alarming array of fabric strips which had to be threaded through specific holes and tied to other fabric strips.

The sash was the real puzzle, though. For one thing, it was about nine feet long. For another, it required such a complicated sequence of looping and folding that I knew I’d wind up looking like someone’s “My First Origami” project if I tried to do it myself. I adopted an air of casual lightheartedness as I sought help from a middle schooler. He called me “ma’am.” I longed to karate chop him then and there.

The lessons were remarkably effective, however. They started with a merciless workout (I’m convinced the sensei was an off-duty Green Beret). Do fifty jumping jacks to get the blood flowing. Balance on one foot like a sleeping flamingo. Fall over. Lunge in every direction. Hold until your thigh is quivering, your muscles are burning, and you’re beginning to question your sanity in signing up for this @#$%^& class in the first place.

Switch legs.

After the warm-up, we performed stretches with a partner. Karate classes tend to be filled with men, so I was paired off with the only other female. As this deceptively sweet-faced and petite brunette forced my leg to go to places it hadn’t seen since high school, I became convinced that she too was an off-duty Green Beret.

Once we were sufficiently warmed up and stretched out, it was time to begin the meat of the class. Surprisingly, this involved neither boards, bricks, nor cinderblocks, but rather self-defense. Within twenty minutes, I’d learned how to break the hold of someone choking me, trip an assailant by simply stepping in front of his knee, and escape from a thug who’d pinned my arms from behind. All I’d need to do would be remember these techniques during an actual mugging, as opposed to employing my more instinctive “scream and sob” reaction…

(To give credit where it’s due, most people take martial arts classes for longer than a few weeks, and the techniques themselves become instinctive. I certainly saw a few 12-year-old black belts I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.)

The self-defense portions of the lessons were a lot of fun. I was working out and learning to protect myself at the same time. We were paired off for many of these exercises, and since they didn’t involve the somewhat immodest “stretched-out inner thigh” posture, these pairings were gender-neutral, and we rotated partners throughout the hour.

I have to admit, I gulped a bit when I lifted my eyes to squint up at one of my “opponents.” Remember the enormous villain who bites through the wire holding up a cable car in one of the James Bond movies? That size. Thankfully, he appeared to view me as his rest break, and “attacked” me with only the lightest of touches, patronizingly saying “good job” while he pretended to fall down as a result of one of my feeble jabs.

My female stretch partner wasn’t so kind, however. A nicer woman you couldn’t hope to find – outside of class. During class, she almost broke my arm and karate chopped my carotid artery while practicing a particular move. I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d done to offend her. Clearly, she didn’t know her own strength – or my own weakness.

But Bond-movie-sized “bad guys” and a bruised shoulder weren’t the end of it. Oh no. Just when we thought we’d finished, and were ready to bow and thank our sensei, he had us gather in the back of the studio and perform “line kicks.” Kick one leg, then the other, in front of you as you travel up the entire length of the gym, then back down, then up again, then down, and twice more for good measure. By the end of class, I was bright red and sweating (man, those gis are hot – it’s like wearing a sauna), and I tottered to my car on shaking legs. 

It’s too bad I had to stop taking classes. I can’t remember how to break a choke-hold, and I’m convinced I’ll get mugged shortly. Plus, I’m getting flabby again… One of these days, my schedule will calm down and I’ll start over.

In the meantime, I just hope I don’t come across a pack of martial-arts-trained ‘tweens in a deserted parking lot.

It’s hip to bash Facebook these days, but I have to admit I kind of love it. I think of the site as a modern-day version of a medieval village square – without that inconvenient risk of catching bubonic plague.

Today’s society has made us so dependent on gadgets and technology that we often forget to interact anymore, and Facebook certainly contributes to that new reality. But happy surprises come with it too – what an unexpected little pleasure it is to trade movie quotes with someone you haven’t seen since high school graduation. Facebook can make you feel less alone, ironically. During a recent spate of snowstorms, I drew a lot of comfort from looking at the blizzard images posted by my “Facebook friends” and realizing that mine wasn’t the only deck smothered in two feet of frozen flakes.

On Facebook, everyone shows up eventually… the boss, the ex, the third cousin once removed. Instead of a town crier, there’s the News Feed. Instead of the stocks, there are links to Z-list celebrities’ embarrassing YouTube videos to fulfill our hunger for public tomato-hurling.

You’ve doubtless read stories about people being fired due to drunken pictures they’ve uploaded or status updates they’ve posted declaring how much they hate their job/boss/company. I have no sympathy for these people. Facebook is a public forum! If you reeled through the square, well into your cups and proclaiming that your boss was a fool, word would get around pretty fast. You might not be publicly flogged, but within a few days, you could very well find yourself back in the basement of your mother’s hovel while a more grateful employee was apprenticed to the blacksmith.

I’m guessing that back in the day, people donned their best breeches and brooches to gather in the village square. Similarly, Facebookers have profile pictures. Those of us who use an actual photo of ourselves (instead of a picture of our baby, pet, or other adorable dependent) spend hours choosing the perfect image. Is someone else in the shot? Crop them out! Is it from 20 years ago? Well, it’s still us, isn’t it?

Looks matter on Facebook, which is why you need to be careful uploading pictures to a photo album. You may think your friend looks terrific – but she’ll demand that you delete the photo at the slightest hint of a single crow’s foot or the merest shadow of a double chin.

Of course, there’s an etiquette to be followed when you “friend” or are “friended” by someone from your past. Regardless of gender, and even if your friend now resembles the Crypt Keeper, you should always comment on his or her agelessness (“Verity! You don’t look a day older than you did during the Crusades!”)

Facebook has also become a powerful way to demonstrate your affection for your significant other. The “like” button is the modern-day version of the sidelong glance, while a loving “comment” has replaced the bold hand-holding that once announced your betrothal to the populace. More than once, my husband has taken pains to point out his Facebook status to me in the hopes that I’ll comment on it – while we’re at home, together! And when we’re apart, it sometimes seems that the ultimate act of devotion is to search the other’s name on Facebook, much as you would have once made the effort to seek out your beloved in a jostling throng.

I’m guessing that your average village gathering offered plenty of opportunities for the townsfolk to waste time. Some things never change. The local palm reader may have been replaced with a daily horoscope app, dice games by Farkle, and livestock auctions by the far less smelly Farmville, but the principles are the same.

The site is what you make of it.

I use Facebook for many reasons. It’s a way to stay in touch with people I used to see only at parties. It’s a way to get back in touch with people I went to high school with – our lives have diverged, but it’s amazing how much common ground there still is. And of course, it’s a way to stay connected to far-flung family members: I doubt that I would ever have learned of my nephew’s paintball obsession or garage-band aspirations during a dutiful phone call.

The site can also be a fascinating reflection of history. I’d connected with a woman in Kenya for work-related reasons – she told me, via Facebook, that the residents of the tiny village where President Obama’s father was born were sacrificing goats and dancing in the streets as the returns poured in on election night. CNN and Time Magazine may have provided extensive coverage – but “sacrificed goats” was a detail I could only have learned through Facebook.

There are downsides to Facebook too, of course.

It’s easy to spend too much time on the site – to the detriment of your “real life.” It’s one thing to stay in touch, but when you find yourself eschewing face-to-face interactions with your family and friends in favor of updating your status and uploading links to funny YouTube videos, it might be time to rethink your priorities.

Then, of course, there’s the dreaded “defriending.” People might just be cleaning out their Facebook friend lists, or deactivating their Facebook accounts entirely, but a defriending can seem like a catastrophe. “What did I do?” “How did I offend So-And-So?” “Was it too many Farmville updates?” It’s almost like a public shunning, with townspeople averting their eyes as you try to greet them and buy them pints of grog…

But on balance, I think Facebook’s added a lot to our lives – to my life, anyway. Not only do I know things about people I never would have known otherwise, I’ve also found it an incredibly valuable tool as I try to get more people to know about (and hopefully like) my writing.

Actually, the fact that you’re reading this essay is probably evidence that I should remove that Scarlet F. That secret love of mine isn’t so secret anymore, is it?

(Deep breath… Happy place… Exhale slowly…) My name is Katy, and I’m 46 years old. I’m also a member of the growing Denial Demographic, and a “person of interest” to the medical profession.

Turning 40 was the catalyst for a number of “you’re going to stick that where?” medical tests. To add insult to invasion of privacy, these tests are not cheap. The speeches from my doctor went from standard (“a healthy diet and regular exercise are important for better health”) to scary (“you need to lose weight and exercise more NOW if you don’t want to be on heart medicine for the rest of your life.”) I quit smoking last year, now eat salads more often than I eat pizza, and absolutely have to get at least 7 hours of sleep a night.

Basically, I’ve made a 180-degree turn from my college lifestyle.

This fact is brought home to me by a certain 21-year-old. She lives with us, but I seldom see her, because she’s usually still asleep by the time I leave for work, and she’s usually dressing for the evening when I’m retiring for the night, a slave to the insistent 5:30am summons of my alarm clock.

She can eat whatever she wants too – sugary cereal straight from the box, chocolate-chip pancakes on weekends, fat-laden lattes every day – and she still weighs about 100 pounds. Loving her doesn’t make me any less annoyed by this…

I wonder how much money I’ve spent over the past few years trying to lose the pesky 10, 15, and now 20 extra pounds that have been among the dubious gifts of middle age. I’ve bought diet books, exercise equipment (Ab Roller, anyone?), workout DVDs (ha!), gym memberships (double ha!), special low-carb meal bars, sugar-free candy (what’s the point?), and clothes designed to camouflage my ever-thickening midsection.

This has probably run into the thousands of dollars by now.

Then there are the self-indulgent self-pity purchases. The logic behind these doesn’t hold up too well. It starts with the reasonable “I work really hard. I’m finally earning a decent salary. I can start putting away money for retirement at last.” But wait! Somehow, it morphs into, “I work really hard. I’m finally earning a decent salary. Why don’t I buy that fancypants SUV or book that Caribbean vacation I’ve always wanted?”

See what I mean? See how quickly this kind of thinking can get out of hand – and make your budget go off the rails?

We also have vanity. Vanity is extremely expensive. We’re caught between the party-til-3:00am-and-still-look-perfect-for-that-8:30am-class resilience of our 20s and the everyone-has-wrinkles-at-this-age acceptance of our 70s. We still harbor fantasies about those bodice-ripping novel covers, but our bosoms are now sagging rather than heaving, and Fabio never ran his fingers through a mane of iron-gray curls…

Enter the colorist, the aesthetician, and for those who can afford it and are willing to accept the risks, the plastic surgeon. Surgery scares me, but recently I did cave and visited a dermatologist’s office for a “skin evaluation.” They had a diabolical machine that “x-rays” your skin, then shows you what’s going on beneath the surface. Horrifying. Here’s how it went:

Dermatologist: See there, there, there, and there? (points out multiple spots on my face) That’s sun damage.

Me: Those are freckles.

Dermatologist: No, I’m afraid that’s sun damage.

Me (with fingers in my ears): I’m telling you, they’re freckles! I’m Irish! They’re natural!

Dermatologist (less patiently): Sun damage.

Me (finally remembering all the hours I spent slathered in baby oil at the shore in my youth, trying desperately to find the tan that always eluded me): Oh.

If I didn’t want (or, more accurately, couldn’t afford) to inject fillers or Botox into my face, it seemed I’d need to start taking care of my skin. Taking serious care of it – I tried buying generic eye cream at a drug store (hey, it was only $15.00!), and developed a rash that made me look like a raccoon after a hard night’s drinking. (Silver lining: I had vivid, livid proof for my husband that I was allergic to the cheap stuff.)

After the drug store eye cream disaster, I went to a makeup and skincare superstore. (Were there this many superstores 20 years ago? Is the fact that I remember a world without them simply further evidence of my age?) To say that the 16-year-old salesgirl saw me coming wouldn’t be quite accurate. She took one look at my panicked expression and started calculating how much skankwear at Hot Topic her commission would buy.

I learned a lot that day. It seems that the more words in the name of a product, the more expensive it is. Skin-Enhancing Intensive Super-Hydrating Facial Serum for Day with SPF 20? Yeah, here are five $20s – I won’t wait for change.

Then the salesgirl said the magic word.

Anti-aging.

Hallelujah! Price is no object! I’ll take three!

(Told you she saw me coming. Probably added black leather jeans to the cropped t-shirts she was already getting.)

As she was ringing up my purchases ($138 for a tiny tube of moisturizer – what hath my dermatologist wrought?), she threw a handful of samples into the bag. There were little packets of skin-smoothing night cream, fine-line-reducing “facial revitalizer,” and a product simply called “Heel Repair.”

“Heel Repair?” My heels are deteriorating too? What’s next – “Earlobe Rejuvenator?” “Five-Minute Forearm Fix?”

“Heel Repair.” Sheesh.

I won’t be buying that, but you can bet I’m going back for more anti-aging moisturizer the second I run out.

My name is Katy.

I’m 46 years old.

And I’m fighting middle age like a toddler fights bedtime.

I want to enjoy St. Patrick’s Day, I really do. But in America, it’s become an amateur-night drinking-fest that turns otherwise normal people into escapees from an Irish Spring commercial.

Granted, the stereotype of “Irishness” lends itself to a raucous holiday: roguish charm, infectious songs, massive beer consumption. Think about it. Is there any other nationality that has an entire holiday devoted to it?

The fact that St. Patrick’s Day – in Ireland – is actually a Holy Day of Obligation (meaning Catholics have to attend Mass) and is usually followed by a sedate family meal no longer matters. In the American version, starting with the first St. Patrick’s Day parade (not in Dublin but in New York City, in 1762), March 17 is a Celtic ethnic free-for-all. How authentic are you? How many “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” buttons, shamrock ties, and Kelly green sweaters are you wearing? Do you know all the words to “Danny Boy?” Have a small Irish flag to wave at your city’s parade?

I braved a bar once on St. Patrick’s Day. I was in college (and therefore adventurous). We arrived early, stayed late, and heard what we assumed was traditional music played by a trio on fiddle, penny whistle, and guitar. The audience slurred along, and the band was resigned to performing those St. Paddy’s Day stalwarts that would guarantee them good tips. (Bonus points for a brogue, real or otherwise). As the night grew later, we grew louder. Poor band.

These days, I don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in any meaningful way (although I confess to wearing a “McDermott’s Celtic Ale” sweatshirt I stole from my husband). I guess my trip to Ireland 4 years ago spoiled me for the “Lucky Charms and green beer” route the holiday seems to be taking over here. I know it’s not right to generalize, but there are aspects of my personality that I never fully understood until I was there.

I’ve been mocked for years for being too forthcoming, too open to talking (and listening) to complete strangers. In Ireland, though – well, it was like coming home. Everyone talks a lot. Everyone listens to stories from strangers. Not just the obvious people like bartenders and bus drivers – regular people. Regular Irish people. An elderly gentleman told me about the many exploits of his newly-confirmed grandson. A Cork city cab driver regaled me with tales of sharing whisky in a paper bag with “the Rastas” in New York City’s Stuyvesant Park. Talkative grandfathers and verbose cabbies. Land of my fathers!

But while I expected the Irish people to be gregarious, nothing could have prepared me for their fierce, almost tribal loyalty to a sport most Americans have never heard of: hurling. (Yes, it’s called “hurling” – go ahead and snicker – I’ll wait…)

Early in our vacation, my husband ventured out in search of unusual souvenirs – no Blarney Stone key chains for him. We were in County Cork, and he returned with a sports jersey for what looked like soccer or rugby – in bright red. Now, non-traditional is one thing, but I admit I wouldn’t have minded a bit of green. But if he wanted a bright red sports jersey, so be it – besides, I had my eye on a sterling silver Celtic cross necklace that was at least recognizably Irish.

My husband’s not the neatest of men, so he tossed the bright red jersey to the floor of our hotel room, where it lay wadded in a heap while we took in the sights. When we returned hours later, Housekeeping had clearly been in to clean. The linens were freshly changed, the bathroom sparkling, and our clutter tidied into piles. And the center of the bed featured the bright red jersey, unfolded, de-wadded, and lovingly positioned “just so.” But it was only a jersey, right? In order to unravel the mystery, it seemed a discussion with the garrulous front desk clerk was in order…

Turns out the jersey was a hurling jersey, and we learned that each county in Ireland fields its own team. The Irish don’t choose their hurling teams – they’re born into them. Hurling is sort of like lacrosse, but with no nets at the end of the sticks. Oh, and no pads either. Or picture a game similar to soccer, but with all the players wielding vicious-looking clubs. It’s wickedly fast and features a murky scoring system that everyone in Ireland understands from birth.

By the time we’d reached Dublin, my husband and I had acquired a number of other hurling jerseys. They turned out to be quite the conversation starters (and I thought the Irish were talkative before!) A young tour guide fondly recalled a match he’d seen back in the 1990s that amounted to “organized thuggery.” A waitress struggled to retain her “be nice to the tourists” demeanor as she asked politely if I supported Galway, since I was wearing a Galway jersey in Dublin.

(Oops.)

On our next-to-last day in Ireland, it rained, so rather than trek through sodden ruins of medieval churches and distilleries, we took a behind-the-scenes tour of Croke Park in Dublin. Croke Park is where almost all hurling matches in Ireland take place: an enormous, multi-tiered facility reminiscent of a typical football stadium in the States. We visited the locker rooms and the players’ lounge (with its own ornate bar.) We discovered its political history (it seems that every site in Ireland is connected in some way with the Irish Revolution, and Croke Park is no exception – along with the hurling matches came a bloody uprising in 1920). We learned that, astonishingly, all the players are amateurs. Schoolteacher or plumber by day, world-class athlete by night – and no paycheck at all. No wonder they have an ornate bar…

We subscribe to a special cable channel now that sometimes features hurling matches. It’s lovely to hear those accents again, even if the scoring system still defies our understanding.

The fans, though, are eerily familiar. They wear Kelly green sweaters, sport shamrock ties up in the executive boxes, wave Irish flags, and guzzle beer like crazy.

Kind of like St. Patrick’s Day here.

People are boring.

This was the only conclusion I could reach after a recent visit to a pet supply store. Animal stuff is just so much more exciting than human stuff. And the clientele is pretty exciting too – large dogs dislocate their owners’ shoulders straining at leashes, small dogs launch themselves four feet in the air to lick the face of anyone who glances their way, unkempt dogs wrestle with groomers (and leave with bows in their hair that will last approximately 6.5 seconds), Shih Tzus sniff the butts of Dobermans. What human store offers such raw drama?

And the merchandise is stop-in-your-tracks astonishing. A friend of mine got a puppy not long ago, so I visited a pet supply store to pick up some toys and treats on my way to meet him.

Wow. Good thing I’m not a vegetarian (although I’m beginning to consider it!)

The dog treat aisle at your average pet supply store is a PETA member’s worst nightmare – actual cow hooves, “pork chips” made of pig skin, and my all-time gross-out favorite: beef trachea. (Ingredients: beef trachea. Honestly, what can you add to that?)

There are also lots of toys designed by people who are humorous, sadistic, or both. Toys in the shape of feet and fire hydrants and ducks. Toys that squeak. Toys that mimic the calls of migratory birds. (Which must be such a welcome sound to dog owners at 3:00 in the morning. I can just picture the scene: a bleary-eyed, pajama-clad husband mumbling, “Honey, did you forget to put the goose out again?”)

Increasingly, dog clothes are becoming quite the thing, and this particular store had a rack dedicated to coats, t-shirts, booties (yes, booties), and even caps for every size and shape of chilly hound. Perusing the t-shirts was especially fun, as it was clear some anonymous copywriter had a hoot and a half coming up with these slogans: “Desperate Housedog,” “I Chase Tail,” and my personal favorite, “Bitch Magnet.”

But these stores don’t just cater to dogs, of course. Cat accoutrements take up roughly the same amount of shelf space as dog accessories, and what cats’ equipment lacks in evisceration of larger species, it makes up for in sheer perversity. Most cat toys are designed – on purpose – to make cats crazy. This claim is emblazoned on many of the packages containing everything from laser lights to remote-control mice: “Makes cats crazy!” As if that’s somehow a desirable thing, as if cats are overly sedate by nature.

Clearly, the manufacturers have never met an actual cat.

We have several, and I’ve had many in my lifetime. Far from being sedate, most cats I’ve known could benefit from being sedated. They chase imaginary leaves, for God’s sake, and rocket from room to room, slamming into walls, for no reason at all. You want a cat toy idea? How about Valium-filled furry mice?

At a pet supply store, you can even find an entire aisle dedicated to hamster wheels and treats for your guinea pig (“Veggie Puffs – Rodents Love ’Em!”). Which makes me wonder: how can you tell if a guinea pig has been especially good and deserves a treat?

Then there are the lizards. Full disclosure: I’m not a reptile person, but I admit I fail to see why anyone would pay good money for a Burmese Python who looks like its favorite snack would be your fingers.

But back to the mammalian clientele for a moment (snakes creep me out, and I’d like to change the subject…) Aside from people, of course, most of the customers you see in these stores are dogs. (Have you ever seen a cat on a leash? Of course not – they’re too busy chasing imaginary leaves.) The dogs add most of the entertainment value.

A few months back, I accompanied my friend as she took her “puppy” (I use the quotation marks advisedly – he’s a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, and at that time weighed something like 40 pounds) to get his shots at the in-store veterinary clinic. As she signed papers, she turned Phineas over to me, with instructions to “let him pick out a treat.” I did my best to control him – and at the very least, I did prevent him from eating an appetizer-sized Chihuahua.

But Phin had some definite opinions when it came to choosing a treat for himself. I tried to interest him in a normal-sized bone, and even proffered a genuine pig’s ear. Phin, however, was insistent. He’d chosen a peanut-butter-filled rawhide bone roughly the size of his own foreleg, and trotted up to my friend with an air of such joyous possession that she had no choice but to buy it for him. One glance at his floppy ears and hopeful eyes was all it took. It kind of made me wish I was a dog.

That’s the true magic of the pet supply store. Otherwise responsible adults spend actual money – money they could use to pay bills or buy groceries! – on ferret hammocks and elaborate scratching posts. Dogs are aware of this – in fact, they exploit it, which explains the market for foreleg-sized rawhide bones. Of course, I wouldn’t buy overly expensive and largely useless items for my pets. Those Christmas stockings filled with tuna-flavored treats and chase toys that make crinkly sounds were exceptions – after all, it was the holidays…

It turns out that people aren’t just boring. They’re also suckers.

It happens every year. I swear I’m not going to be seduced by the hyperbolic come-ons (“our most controversial audition ever!”) of American Idol, but every year I am anyway.

Currently, I’m watching American Idol, The Biggest Loser, Project Runway, and Survivor. Over the summer, I never missed an episode of So You Think You Can Dance, and I took occasional detours to the Jersey Shore (oh, the shame!) and spent a few hours with some Real Housewives. (Side note: Real Housewives apparently have no jobs and multimillionaire husbands. All of them. Somewhere, Gloria Steinem is crying.)

I’m not proud of this.

Part of the problem is all the associated written content (thanks for the recaps, EW.com and Project Rungay guys) – I’m a big fan of the written word, obviously, so half the reason I watch these shows now is to see what assorted brilliant and funny writers will say about them. Then, of course, there are several hilarious video blogs devoted to the most popular programs. Can’t miss those.

The scheduling conflicts with the scripted shows I watch are a bit of a challenge. I also have a problem with the near-constant sleep deprivation as I wake at 5:30 each morning and drive, bleary-eyed, to work. The worst thing, though, is my lack of eye contact when one of my family tries to talk to me during “my” shows. Sometimes, it seems like our most profound interaction is over the unjust ouster of a hapless reality show contestant…

Good God, what is happening to me?

Six hours of inane reality TV in a good week. If I’m going to watch TV, at least it could be something intellectual like a documentary on PBS or a nature show on BBC America. But no – it’s Top Chef for me (how on earth do they chop an onion so fast? And without crying too?) The best I can figure is that it’s my insecurities coming out. I can’t sing, dance, or design clothes. I can’t even chop an onion properly. I would certainly never eat bugs (I’m in awe of anyone who goes without proper bathrooms for 40 days) or work out for 9 hours at a time. My theory: I’m fascinated by reality TV because I like watching people do stuff I can’t do.

Proof positive: I’m bored by the Bachelor and all its “Love” iterations (Rock of/Shot of/Flavor of/etc.), probably because I’m content in my own relationship. Being happy with my guy? That’s something I can do.

Nowadays, in addition to the old standbys, it seems like there’s a reality show for every taste…

My favorite of the up-and-coming “stuff you’ll never ever do but are secretly fascinated by” reality TV genre is Deadliest Catch (RIP, Captain Phil!) Those guys are NUTS, and it’s so much fun to watch. More than once, I’ve cheered their discovery of a full-to-bursting crab pot from my anything-but-icy living room in the placid suburbs of Philadelphia. I had a company holiday recently, and was as pleased as a 4-year-old girl who got a pony for Christmas to spend the entire afternoon watching a Deadliest Catch marathon. 

Then there’s the “you could totally do this – why don’t you try it?” type of reality show. Ace of Cakes, Trading Spaces, and the like. I may not be able to make a multi-layered Deathstar-shaped confection for my husband’s next birthday, but by God, I can do better than a store-bought sheet cake with a few glutinous icing roses and his name spelled wrong. As for Trading Spaces, that looks ridiculously easy. Find a pair of fantastic matching bookcases at a yard sale, repaint them (it only takes a minute and a half on the show, after all), add a few colorful throw rugs, and impress the heck out of my friends. (Although I suspect some of those shows are rigged. The only yard sales I seem to find are the ones with broken-down Big Wheels and some mismatched crockery displayed on a wobbly card table.) 

I also enjoy reality shows in the “don’t you feel smug and superior?” genre. Shows like Half-Ton Teen and Ruby – no matter how dissatisfied I may be with my weight, I always feel better after an hour of watching someone who’s 700 pounds. That makes me a bad person, doesn’t it?

The one I admit to not getting is the “watch these spoiled rich kids!” genre. MTV is the head-scratcher network for me, as far as reality TV is concerned. I’m hardly their demographic, but still – My Super Sweet Sixteen makes me want to throw things at the screen every time I see it. And I can’t help wondering what those parents DO for a living – are they all drug kingpins or something? My husband and I work hard at professional jobs for solid companies – but we could no more have given our 16-year-old a convertible Porsche than flown to the moon. We rented a tent for her party, and considered that a big deal!

Of course, I can’t forget the “morbid curiosity” shows like Trauma: Life in the ER and Mystery Diagnosis. Will so-and-so survive his blunt-force trauma head wound? Can this infant come through 18 surgeries to correct her potentially crippling birth defect? Of course, the patients are always fine in the end, which makes me feel better about occasionally wallowing in this “slow-down-for-the-accident-scene” reality TV genre.

So wait – that’s actually more than American Idol, The Biggest Loser, Project Runway, and Survivor, isn’t it?

Jersey Shore, Real Housewives, Deadliest Catch, Top Chef, Ace of Cakes, Trading Spaces, Half-Ton Teen, Ruby, My Super Sweet Sixteen, Trauma: Life in the ER, Mystery Diagnosis… and that’s not even counting my new faves in the growing “bet you wish you had a dog” genre of reality TV: Dog Whisperer, Dogtown, and the ever-compelling Underdog to Wonderdog.  

As I mentioned, I’m not proud of it.

But thank God for Tivo!

Over six months ago, I quit smoking. It sounds so casual when it’s written like that – but honestly, that wasn’t the case. The first time I tried was 17 years before I finally succeeded. In the meantime, I tested every method of quitting short of getting my jaws surgically wired shut…

Nicotine gum? Tried it. Nicotine lozenges? They tasted disgusting, but I tried them nonetheless. Nicotine inhaler? Tried that too. The patch? Yep. That led to my most successful previous attempt, as a matter of fact – close to 2 months back in 1997. (Of course, I was entirely miserable and driven into therapy by the end of it, but that’s another story…) Naturally, I tried the pharmaceutical methods as well – first Zyban and then, years later, Chantix. Ever read the fine print on those? (And I do that for my job, so I know what it means.) Sca-ry! I stopped taking them pronto.

I didn’t ignore alternate medicine on my quest. Acupuncture didn’t work (perhaps because my abiding fear of needles left me so stressed out that I smoked with shaking hands on the way home from every session.) Neither did hypnosis. I bought a pack of cigarettes on my way home from my first appointment. However, I was determined to find my “magic bullet” – some way to quit without it being hard. I even drove 6 hours last year to a hypnotist called the Mad Russian who was celebrated for “curing” almost 100,000 smokers. All that hype – and I was smoking again within hours….

Of course, I can’t forget to mention my many, many attempts to “taper down.” Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

(They didn’t work.)

However, in the past several years, I grew increasingly desperate (hence my pilgrimage to the Mad Russian). A former coworker was diagnosed with lung cancer, and I had several health scares of my own. Together, they made me realize that it had to happen. I had to quit. I first tried the cold turkey method (with neither education nor support) last February, and lasted 5 days before I broke, drove to the nearest convenience store, and bought a pack of True Menthols with the mingled shame and relief of a true addict. Oh, the “security,” the familiar feel of the pack in my hand, a cigarette between my lips, my lighter at the ready! Within about 48 hours, I was back to my old level – a pack a day.

In July, though, I decided to give stopping cold turkey one last shot… Enter the website whyquit.com, the result of an internet search. (God bless technology!)

At the site, I found TONS of education, and that education made the difference. I can’t claim that quitting cold turkey was easy – it wasn’t – but it wasn’t impossible either, as I’d always believed.

And the key? I wasn’t alone! There was a support section on the website, a message board frequented by people from all over the world in different stages of their quit-smoking journeys. (Those white-knuckle first few days seem to be the same no matter what the time zone.)

A fellow in China had to figure out how to avoid the many cigarettes offered to him on a 30-hour train trip to Mongolia… several residents of the UK and Australia needed to re-learn how to enjoy their games of soccer without the demon weed… a Danish woman faced her first vacation (in the Alpine forest) without cigarettes… a Bulgarian girl cheered everyone on, no matter what… an American ex-pat living in Austria tried to deal with life in one of the last European countries to allow smoking in bars… an Italian doctor wrote of sneaking his smokes in between visits to the bedsides of emphysema patients… closer to home, a wonderfully supportive dog groomer in Florida shared her dismay at being virtually surrounded by smokers, both at home and at work, and a former healthcare professional in Texas remembered smoking in the nurse’s lounge at her hospital…

Everyone had an individual story, but the common thread was that we’d all decided to quit.

The knowledge that despite our cultural, linguistic, and political differences, we were all facing (and beating!) the exact same challenge, was exhilarating in the extreme. That’s global cooperation in action! Even though many of us have months of not smoking behind us now, we still turn to each other. We celebrate each other’s milestones, lean on each other when we have a difficult time with staying quit, commiserate when life throws us curveballs, and even share strategies for losing the few pounds some of us gained while quitting. (And as a fun aside, I now know some interesting British slang! Which I’ll take care never to use in a London pub!)

In time, some of us formed our own support group on Facebook (it’s called “Nicotine Freedom For All,” if anyone’s interested), but the education at whyquit.com is what helped many of us to quit in the first place.

The support? The support is what’s helped us to stay quit.

The members of this international group have a special acronym – NTAP (it stands for “Never Take Another Puff”) – but it’s pretty loosely organized for a secret society, I’ll admit. There are no bylaws, no rules (other than continuing to not smoke), no executive committee, and no dues. The only law is the “law of addiction” (“administration of a drug to an addict will cause re-establishment of chemical dependence upon the addictive substance”), and the only dress code is “any article of clothing without cigarettes in the pockets.”

It’s helpful and wonderful and all the rest – but we really need to get to work on a members-only handshake and some funny hats…