The Interesting Thing About Candor

Candor.

This topic has been consuming me lately. Honesty is a virtue, right? So, how do we differentiate between telling someone the truth and being an asshole? I think the answer lies somewhere in the marsh.

I most recently read a Young Adult book called Mockingbird by Katherine Erskine, told from the point of view of a fifth grade girl with Asperger’s syndrome. It was really quite a good read, revealing the challenges of the disorder for people who haven’t quite figured out to filter appropriate comments and, as it seems, must learn empathy. As I read, I wondered how one is diagnosed since there are some people in the world, without Asperger's, that prefer to be bold in their talk, unrelenting or unfeeling of the consequences of their words. I think you know the type. You might’ve flinched a time or two in his or her presence. Sometimes, though, just sometimes, you might've smiled to yourself and thought, "Finally! Someone was brave enough to say it." 

I have not studied (aka, done a google search) to see if there is a correlation between candor and gender. In our household, I can't say there's a trend. My daughter is pretty straight-forward...much like her father who definitely calls a spade a spade. The jury is out on the eleven-year old boy. As for me, I like to be honest. Yet, I absolutely hate hurting feelings. So, please don't ever ask me to try any of your coconut dessert. It will send me into turmoil because I hate coconut, but I'd love to tell you how delicious it is since you seem so proud.

The other night when we crawled into bed, I remarked with delight, "Ooh! I love the smell of clean sheets!"

My hubby flatly responded, "Wash them more often then."

Thanks for the wise advice, Hon. Of course, my thoughts immediately roamed into a discursive about the fair division of household chores. But I decided it best not to go there, because it had been a nice weekend. And truly, I think Doug was just trying to be helpful. Then, almost within the next thirty seconds, before we kissed each other goodnight, my love sweetly said to me...

"I'm sorry about your face."

This made me laugh out loud. I had been going through a rough patch of dry skin, and apparently it was duly noted. I guess it was nice of him to empathize.

My husband is honest. Brutally honest. And I appreciate the fact that he tells me if something looks ridiculous in the morning. (Although sometimes I suspect an ulterior motive when I find myself changing a number of times while he judges.) Candor can by ticklish, of course, with a teenage daughter. Of course, approaching any topic with a teenager is ticklish; it actually can be downright...messy if you're prone to pronouncing judgement.

To be fair, my husband says I can be fairly abrupt with him. He often asks me after we are quarreling about some spreadsheet on his PC, "Do you talk this way to your staff at work?" Of course, I say no. I would never be this impatient with them. It would make for horrible working relationships. But surprisingly, we have a pretty great marriage.

Married 18 years!

I think we all use candor on a spectrum for a variety of occasions. In terms of staying outside of the marsh of candor, I love the fact that there is one person in the world that I can completely and openly be myself with. Even though he doesn't always appreciate it, he gets to live with me for better or worse...and that is my husband. What I find interesting is that he manages to stay out of the marsh with just about everyone in his sphere of influence. But that's just his style. So if he tells you he's sorry about your face, at least you'll know, he likes you.

Battle of the Bulge

I've long been convinced that my doctor was going to tell me he suspected a tumor growing in my stomach. Every year at my annual exam, I asked specifically if he agreed since my middle protruded so abnormally. He was always quite congenial, had me lay down, and pushed around on my belly. But he then shook me off to state that there was no such affliction. It was just...fat. I didn't quite accept it.

Then when I got my hysterectomy last year, I was certain my stomach was going to flatten out. After all, the surgeon would be scooping a bunch of those extraneous organs out. Finally, finally I wouldn't have to walk around sucking in my gut anymore. Well, that didn't quite go as well as I hoped. As a matter of fact, it almost seemed to backfire.

Every morning, I step in the shower and notice this disturbing shadow–a shadow of a woman who appears to be three months pregnant. I'm blaming age. Everyone says things drop dramatically once you cruise past forty...boobs, metabolism, ability to remember...But it seems this metabolism thing is diving at ridiculous proportions. I sort of want to say, "Ok. I accept it. This is the new, middle-aged me." But then again...what women is ever happy with themselves?

Look at those abs at 42!

Yesterday, my husband was watching some show which ranked the most beautiful women, and I caught a glance of Gwen Stefani. I couldn't careless about her breast, hair, or pretty face. But her abs! I'm insanely jealous of that rock hard midriff. And guess how old Gwen is? She's only a few months younger than me. Yeah, yeah, yeah. She's famous and can spend about five hours a day doing crunches. But I'm thinking I could spend at least...five minutes doing a few sit-ups. So, now I'm motivated. I'm going to try the Gwen Stefani ab work-out. Not sure if it's a six, seven or eight minute routine (ha-ha), but I'm willing to give at least a few minutes of it a try to dig into my apple-like figure.

Any bets on how long my program will last?

Book Review--Killing Lincoln

Anyone read this book? Despite knowing the outcome, it's quite a read. Here's my review on my other blog.

Read.Write.Share

Nora Ephron, Britney Spears, and Me

Perhaps I've just been wistful about Nora Ephron this summer–and how she felt badly about her neck. But I don't think so. I've been particularly neurotic this week about a defining feature of mine. And I suspect a good many of us women share the same affliction from time to time. And since I haven’t blogged in awhile, I thought I’d make my re-entry to the blogosphere with a confession.

It’s about my hair. I feel badly about my hair.

I don’t like it. I can hardly think of anything else lately. And I’m really, really embarrassed to admit how much of my time this consumes me–given the triviality of the subject matter.

I wasn’t blessed with beautiful locks. My mother has made that known to me for as long as I could remember. Mousy texture. Unexceptional in color. And now that I’ve crossed over to the forties, it’s not getting any lovelier despite my recommended dosage of Biotin.

With that said, I have a dear friend who is my hair stylist whom I love to pieces despite her ability to slay me at Words with Friends. She covers my gray so brilliantly, and despite my repeated attempts with Sun-In and Loreal, I can’t compete. I'm usually pleased with how she cuts it, but every once in awhile I get antsy. I just don’t know how I want it. All I know is I yearn for change, but I can’t quite articulate what I want. So, she’ll start snipping away. And she'll work some style magic; I leave the salon with an adorable do. Then I wake up the next morning. After a shower and a hair dry, I'm befuddled. I start working on my hair and suddenly my tresses have become a rubik’s cube. I get frustrated. The cube isn't coming together. So just like the kids who pulled the stickers off the cube to rearrange the colors, I grab a scissors and start snipping strands of hair myself. Yeah, it usually doesn’t work out so well.

Lately, I had been doing quite a bit of chopping at my hair, so I decided to schedule a pedicure and a haircut with a different stylist. Maybe she’d give me a fresh perspective. Well, I must admit, I felt like I was betraying my friend. But in away, I also felt like I was giving my friend a break because I was starting to think that maybe I’m not the easiest customer in the world. Just maybe.

Back in the days when Mom did my hair.

Anyway, as my new stylist cut, cut, cut, my hair, I tried not to widen my eyes, because it seemed…a bit short. Awfully short. But I trusted her—she is so very stylish herself. And then, of course, she styled it adorably–as all those hair people so effortlessly do. So, I left happy; albeit feeling guilty.

Then I awoke the next day. And showered. And dried my hair. And as you can guess, I was faced with another damn rubic's cube.

I took those scissors and started whacking even more. It looks fairly ridiculous now. But there’s not much I can do. My hubby’s going to kill me if he hears another word about my hair. I can’t go back to my faithful friend. Heck, I cheated on her. And the other stylist? I’m too embarrassed to tell her that I was just messing around with some scissors.

I totally get why Britney Spears shaved her head.

Your Turn

Countless ballgames. Alex's birthday–along with her adventures in Drivers Ed. Completing Charles Dicken’s ambitious Great Expectations. I’ve had a plethora of blog material, yet my blog has sat idle. (I have scribbled a few lines here and there on my never-ending project, aka, my novel.) But the true reason that I have failed to commit to my writing goals? Words with Friends. While I downloaded the game ages ago, I never really played. Now, that I've got a few games going with my dearest of friends (and kids), I find myself somewhat...ADDICTED. I'm sneaking peeks at breakfast. On my lunch hour. After work. Then! I'm calling my friends terrible names when they place those 45 point words. Will our friendships survive? Who came up with the name Words with "friends" anyway?


I knew I had a problem when I was a few minutes late to Cole's ballgame tonight because I was coming up with a stupid word. (It was only worth nine points.) Guess what? I missed his only homerun of the season. Okay, perhaps I need to learn this word: PRIORITY.


Now, here are some kids who know how to put their iPods away and play in the sand.

Baseball Romance

The running joke in our family is that my husband's mistress is named "Lily". We can't decide if she was borne from Blazing Saddle's character Lilly Von Schtupp or The Who's peppy song "Pictures of Lily." Doesn't matter really.

I decided today that with 85 percent of our life consumed with America's favorite pastime, that Lily is real. She's called baseball.

Almost symbolically, a stargazer bloomed this weekend-a very pretty lily!

What to do?

Until next season...

My friend, Diane, has the lexicon of a motivational speaker. She was reminding me the other day, “Remember, it’s the journey—not the destination.” I try to think that way. I really do. But at this time of year, I can't help but feel a tremendous amount of satisfaction when I see a few activities getting crossed off on the list. 

• Piano lessons
• Soccer
• Lessons/practice after school
• Graduation parties
• SCHOOL
• Getting the kids to bed before the news. Okay, before Chelsea Handler.

 We’re down to baseball and driver’s ed.

So after I get caught up on laundry, which should take approximately three weeks, I still need to whittle my to-do list, which isn't quite so consumed with maternal-like duties like those above. Let's see, what to do?

• Finish reading that Charles Dickens novel…the crazy-ambitious read that I happened to suggest for book club?
• Pound away on my manuscript now that my amazing editor has given me a college semester's worth of commentary? How many times can I rewrite this book? It's too embarrassing to admit.
•  Or, dig in my garden to create an impossible botanical oasis I’m certain not to accomplish?

Holy buckets! Apparently I forgot it's summer. I'm watching Idol. And Neil Diamond is performing Sweet Caroline! See ya.