Mother's Day is Not Just a Sunday in May

When my oldest child got engaged fourteen months ago, one of my personal missions was to make sure that the last person I Iooked like was the typical “Mother of the Groom”.   I just don’t feel that old. I didn’t want to look Lie I was trying too hard, I didn’t want to be a MILF, I just didn’t want to look like the dowdy mother of the groom.  I spent the entire year before the wedding contemplating what I would wear - what would be appropriate, not “mothery” (think of the late Queen Mum.)

With great care I shopped the mid-west, I tried on hundreds of dresses that would say, “Yes, I gave birth to the groom” without saying “and I never got my body back” or “I’ve been too busy mothering to care how I look.”  And, I found that dress, a tasteful bronze and champagne gown that allowed my “girls” to defy gravity, and artfully arranged material that covered my middle section.  No dowdy jacket for me (and seriously, at my age, the menopausal heater has kicked on.  A jacket is a torture device), instead, well draped satin and a silk wrap.  

I faithfully appeared in the chair of my personal miracle worker (read, trusted hairdresser) every 5 weeks for color and cutting, ensuring that my long flowing locks remained so in a stylish and age appropriate manner.  We discussed hair options, she even agreeing to drive the 90 miles to Chicago the morning of the wedding to do her magic. 

I searched every shoe store in Chicago, scanned every footwear web site on the nets, stalked the specialty stores for the perfect pair of unmotherly looking shoes to complete the ensemble.  And, I found them!  Ann Klein, a not to high pump with jeweled strap that matched my dress exactly.  These shoes screamed, “BUY ME” and I did.  I even bought them in two sizes, my size and a half size up. . .just in case.  Good thing because the bigger shoes felt better, for about 20 minutes before it became apparent that if I wore the perfect shoes, there would be no Mother of the Groom walking down the aisle - someone would have to carry me.  Plan B, a concession I was sad about, but smart enough to know the importance, blinged out Steve Madden flats.

On The day of the wedding, I stepped into my dress and silk wrap, put my hair in an updo done by my Personal Miracle Worker, had my make-up professionally applied and donned my sparkly flats. I felt like a million bucks.  

Now, a few weeks after the wedding, pictures are coming in and I eagerly and happily add them to my wedding file.  My son and daughter-in-law look genuinely happy.  My younger son, the Best Man looks proud, my husband handsome.  But, in each and every one of those pictures I find myself looking, for all of my stop gap measures, like the Mother of the Groom.  But, you know, I’m not bothered by it.  I WAS the Mother of the Groom. I have never been so happy or proud of my son as I was that day.  I wouldn’t want to look like anyone other than his mother, even if I don’t feel old enough to be that person.

Being a mom is the most fulfilling thing I have ever done and I'll take it thick neck, fat arms and all.

In honor of Mother’s Day, all of my books have been reduce to only .99 each if purchased through Kindle on Amazon.  This special Mother’s Day price will last all week!  Just type Judi Coltman in the Amazon search on the upper left side of this page, it'll take you where you need to go  or go here http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_1_7?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=judi+coltman&sprefix=judi+co%2Caps%2C652

Samantha Brick Thinks SHE Has Problems

Women hate me because I am beautiful.  That's what she said, that's what she wrote and that's what she spent the last week defending on American television as well as in England.  Women hate her because her beauty threatens them in some way.  In fact, her beauty is such a burden that she is often stopped on the street by strangers wanting to give her gifts http:/http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2124246/Samantha-Brick-downsides-looking-pretty-Why-women-hate-beautiful.htmlShe has taken a lot of flack about this article, been called narcissistic - a new and useful buzz word, and generally snickered at by millions of women worldwide who have looked at her and thought, "She's attractive, but beauty beyond words?  No."

I sympathize with her.  I really do.  You see, I suffer from a similar affliction.  I have been graced with, well, fabulous fingernails.  I have long nail beds, which means that even at the difficult times when my nails are short, they look long, luxurious even.  I can't tell you the number of times I am stopped in the checkout line of Target by the clerk who comments on their beauty.  I am always gracious but does she not know the torment this causes the others waiting in line?  Not only do they not possess the blessing of the nails, they are now forced to wait while she stops the line to fawn over my hand.  I can feel daggers shooting from their eyes and I want them to know I feel their pain.  They'll never believe me.  I'm sure they think I have it easy when the truth is, my fingernails are a burden.  I can't quickly and easy pick up the odd coin that is laying on the sidewalk.  I struggle with buttons which puts an insurmountable barrier on my wardrobe choices,  a dilemma I find discriminatory.  And my greatest burden is the moral obligation I feel to those less fortunate when they present their backs to me, suffering, begging.  I must heed the call and so, I scratch.

All of those jealous people who scorn my nails and sneer at my perfect manicures with the mistaken belief that I can't possibly expose them to any harsh work conditions - try this one for size.  My chosen work puts my nails at risk every single day posing great challenges to my work product.  I write.  The words in my head flow forth to my fingers that fly over my keyboard but sometimes those nails slide off the keys, the message gets muddled and it looks like this:

Dobn;t hate me because my fibfer nas are beautifyl.

All of that creates EXTRA work for me and less time to scratch the backs of others.  And the girl with the stunningly beautiful face thinks she has problems.

Coltman is the author of two books. Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! is a humor book based on her blog. Her most recent book, In The Name Of The Father, is a suspense/thriller that reviewers have called a true page-turner. Both books are available through amazon and Coltman's own website.

Blame it on the Spanks!

If you happen to work at Target, or you know someone who works at Target or you have a chance to go to the Christmas party at Target, then you just may see me on the annual Christmas montage of Stupid Customer Tricks.

I have been searching high and low for a Mother of the Groom dress with painful results. I’ve been all over Chicago, traipsed through every dress shop between Sterling and Monroe, WI and I almost even purchased a dress in Monroe, but got cold feet when  it came time to order.  “Is there a problem?” the very patient clerk inquired and I broke into tears, “It’s just too fluffy for me,” I sobbed and walked out of the shop.  So, it was a last attempt moment when I discovered, right in my own yard, that Don Galani has exactly what I was looking for.  I had thought they were just a prom and pageant dress shop, but it turns out that they have a very elegant Special Occasion line.  Ok, commercial over.

I waited a full week after my initial visit to ponder the dress and then, decided Monday, it was time.  But first, I needed a new set of Spanks.

I figured if I was going to be making this rather pricey purchase, I wanted to feel good doing it.  So, I went to the gym, showered, DID MY HAIR, PUT ON MAKE-UP and donned a cute red sweater tunic with black leggings and even cuter boots.  Then, I skipped my cute little self to the Spanks store and bought a shiny, new set of Spanks and put them on in the store.  Did I mention they were shiny?  And slippery?  I redressed, admired my compacted shape in the mirror and left, skipping my cute, little, newly compacted self to Target to pick up a few items before heading to (cue the singing angels) DON GALANI.

I was pushing the cart around the Target, looking for odds and ends when I noticed it was getting harder to walk. But, I looked so cute, I disregarded the friction at my knees and headed to the front of the store to check out.  Did I mention that Spanks are both shiny and slippery?  Yeah, so I’m standing in the front aisle, the grand aisle in Target and I aim my cart for the shortest line, take a step and trip, forcing my cart forward into the person ahead of me.  As I balance myself on the cart, the person in front of me, who is, apparently, not in the holiday spirit, turns to stare at me.  I followed her eyes as she looked me up and down.  And there it was, the cause of my walking friction, the reason I tripped, and the impetus for what happened next.  Clearly, the shiny, slippery spanks which hold me in so nicely had no grip on my leggings and they had slowly descended to my ankles as I sashayed around the store, wrapped and caught in the buckles of my cute boots and caused my momentary trip into the person in front of me, who stood horrified and speechless.  I looked at the black leggings bunched up around my boots and did the only thing I could do in that moment.  I reached down, grabbed the waistband and pulled those suckers all the way back up, lifting the tunic in the process and exposing about everything underneath.  Oddly, no one but the lady in front of me even seemed to notice this whole scene had occurred, but I know better.  I worked retail, I know where the cameras are located.  And sure enough, located right behind me was a Target camera.  What else could I do?  I turned around and waved, mouthing the words, Merry Christmas!

As for the dress, I did get to Don Galani and I did order it.  But, I will NOT be wearing panty hose at the wedding, it’s too dangerous.


Coltman is the author of two books.  Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! is a humor book based on her blog.  Her most recent book, In The Name Of The Father, is a suspense/thriller that reviewers have called a true page-turner.  Both books are available through amazon and Coltman's own website.

Channeling My Grandmother

Grandmother’s have changed since my childhood.  I know several women who are grandmothers and they are gorgeous.  I often find myself trying to figure out where they hidden the fountain of youth.  My grandmothers were unique too.  My mom’s mother Luna, was a musical prodigy, a concert pianist and professor of music in the 1920’s.  My dad’s mother, Nadine (Nadine and Luna, you gotta expect greatness, right?) went to nursing school but didn’t like the sight of blood.  Nadine was a housewife.  But, she was a HOT housewife.  Nadine liked stylish clothing, blingy jewelry, strappy high heels and hats.  Nadine loved a good hat.  I am more like Nadine then I am like Luna. The problem is, I have hidden my style underneath blue jeans and sweatshirts for a lot of years.  I decided this year, when fall arrived, that it was time to honor my heritage and “up” my style.  I went shopping (which I hate - see the Mother-of-the-Groom article for details) and did everything in my power to NOT buy blue jeans, straight black tops or a simple pullover.  Uh, uh.  I bought sweaters, dresses, boots (I LOVE my boots) and a coat.  I resisted the urge to fall into my black “go to” color and picked up some reds, grays and blues.  Feeling so satisfied with myself, I even bought a hat.  Yes!  A hat.  NOT A RED HAT, but a very stylish black fedora that a) fits my fat head and b) looks darn cute.  In fact, I put it on there, in the store, and wore it home.  I wore it all day long and when Moondoggy came home, I had changed into one of my new stylish outfits as well.  I felt downright adorable.  

Moondoggy, who has learned to look for changes when I greet him with such enthusiasm at the door, held me at arms length and said, “Wow!  You look great!  We should go out to dinner,” ooooh the husband points he earned in that statement!  Good job!  I spun around and he nodded with approval.  I pointed at each new piece I was wearing (but I left out the new purse, he didn’t need to know about that) and asked, “Are you sure this doesn’t look stupid?”  He reassured me at every turn.  Finally, I asked him what he thought of my hat.  Without hesitation he told me he LOVED it.  LOVED THE HAT.  

He went to change while I gathered my coat and purse and then we headed to the garage for a surprise date night.  Before getting into the car, Moondoggy stops and stares for a moment before asking, “Are you really going to wear that hat?”

And you know what?  I fought the urge to ask, “What am I trying to prove?” and I WORE THE DARN HAT ANYWAY.  So, if you see me in my rakish new black hat and you think I look stupid. . .don’t tell me.  I want to be a hot grandma some day.

Coltman is the author of two books.  Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! is a humor book based on her blog.  Her most recent book, In The Name Of The Father, is a suspense/thriller that reviewers have called a true page-turner.  Both books are available through amazon and Coltman's own website.

Amazon Link

judicoltman.com

It's About The Victims, Not Paterno's Reputation

The news of the past week has churned up a past memory that I had already processed and laid to rest.  Like a stubborn hemorrhoid, it emerged again with the breaking story of Sandusky, the Penn State coach. There was a huge uproar when the University Board fired the President on down to the famed Joe Paterno (although not the actual Grad Asst. who witnessed the rape of a 10 year old boy).


When I was 11 years old, I was the victim of inappropriate touching, groping, if you will, by a man 6 times my age.  My grandparents were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary in Coronado, CA where they had retired from a Naval career; my grandfather a naval Captain.  There were many people at this party, many in dress uniform and I knew none of them.  Dressed for the event, my little sister and I were tucked away in the den with the television, coming out for snacks and drinks.  On one such foray into the party, I made a stop in the bedroom to grab my book, Nancy Drew, and that's when I heard the door close.  An older man, in a suit, entered the room, making small talk.  He asked me my name, whose child I was, how old I was.  He asked me if I had started menstruating yet, his eyes on my chest.  I don't remember if I answered him because he had gotten so close to me, first grasping my arm before helping himself to my emerging breasts.  I know I pulled back.  I remember he quickly calmed me by letting go and backing up.  I don't remember who left the room first because I know I just wanted to get out of there.  I know I didn't tell anyone until much later, it might have been after we returned to Michigan.  My mother was mortified.  I don't know what she did about it, I do remember she wanted to report it and I begged her not to but I answered her questions anyway.  She made some phone calls.  I just wanted it over with.  I do know that it scared me.  I do know that I was embarrassed, I do know it had a profound effect on how I looked at myself, carried myself.  It wasn't a rape, it was a grope.   I tell this story because it is an example of how quickly it happens, how intimidating it is, how close it may be to all of us.


I imagine the victims of Sandusky and it makes me sick.  No one took this to police.  As an adult, I say screw protocol, this was an emergency that should have been reported immediately to the police.  That NO ONE saw to it was a failure to that child, and any other child Sandusky violated. And that child takes precedence over any person, their position or their fame.

The Susan Boyle Complex

One of the surprising aspects of finally obeying my muse and settling in to writing books has been the reaction of other people, many of whom I have known for a very long time.  I'm not kidding, people who have seen me at my worst (morning; sheet lines pressed against my face, hair bent in wonky directions, mascara migrated toward my nose), silliest (42nd birthday, Queen of my own birthday parade, driven in the back of a van up and down the beach, fuchsia gloves, blue sequined dress, official princess tiara and a cocktail in my hand - surrounded by my court),  or most serious (ok, I'm blank here) have suddenly muddled into these weird groupies uttering lines like, "Now, I know a famous author!"  Sometimes I think it must be exactly how Susan Boyle feels when people fawn over her.  Ok, so I don't sing like Boyle and the writing game is a little different than the entertainment game, but still. . .


Famous?  Not so much.  Unless famous authors spend their days like this:


Wake-up
Let dog out, wait while he sniffs every other spot he has already marked and ultimately decide he's not ready yet.
Watch morning news to be current on Kim Kardashian, Lindsay Lohan and Occupy Everywhere
Check email
Check Facebook
Check email again
Check Facebook again
Convince self to go to gym
Back to email
Second cup of coffee
Force self to go to gym
Return, remove stinky, sweaty clothes and start shower
Dog needs to go out NOW
Hastily cover naked body and crouch as you run through the house to door, attach him to lead and wait.  And wait.  False alarm
Return to HOT shower, wash and get dressed.
Emerge from morning stupor to begin a day of writing.
Find dog pile in living room and dog asleep on the couch.
Check email
Check Facebook
Repeat


Finally, Fight with publishing people about why Amazon and Barnes & Nobel have not picked up paperback yet.  Get assured it will be a few more days (like I was told 10 weeks ago).
I guess if that is famous. . .


In the mean time, I did make a little movie to promote In The Name Of The Father.  Please feel free to check it out and share it with EVERYONE YOU KNOW.  I want to be famous.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a0ArMOD7kYc

A Puppy and a Jetski Walk Into A Bar

Recently a friend of mine took a fall and sprained both wrists.  She was lamenting, among other things, her sudden inability to text and subsequent withdrawal symptoms thereof as well as the utterly stupid way it went down -- literally, she fell off the sidewalk. Can you imagine?  

She received all sorts of unique ways to explain her wrapped wrists from, “Doing a video for Jimmy Buffet’s ‘Margaritaville’ - slipped on a pop top, blew out a flip flop” to telling people it was a long story that involved, “a jetski and a puppy.”  Really anything is better than telling someone you fell off the sidewalk. . .

said I, until yesterday.

I was on my way to the gym for a work out.  I ride my bike because I’m cool like that.  I’ve got my gym bag hung on one shoulder pedaling at a moderate rate when I decide to take a shortcut onto the sidewalk that leads to the gym parking lot.  I live with men, I know how to take shortcuts.

I smoothly guided the bike up onto the sidewalk, slowing down to be safe.  I am always aware of my safety, that’s why I wear a helmet.  In the unlikely event that I fall, I don’t want to risk a head injury.  

As I slowly pedaled up the sidewalk, the gym bag fell from my shoulder, landing safely at my elbow, but jerking my hand off the handle bar causing a chain reaction whereby, my left hand over corrected and the bike veered off the sidewalk.  The chain reaction continued with the bike tipping slowly sideways into a very thorny bougainvillea bush, followed by my very 50 year-old body crashing down on top of the bike and the bush.  Did I mention the bush was thorny? Luckily no one was around to witness my epic loss of dignity so I picked myself up before anyone drove by and spotted me prone on the bush.  Unfortunately, my left arm and leg were cut-up enough to produce prodigious streams of blood  - good thing I wear a helmet and it was quickly apparent I had to get somewhere to clean it up and stop the bleeding.  The closest place?  The gym. . .full of people.

Where are a jetski and a puppy when you need one?