Delia Ephron

Screenwriter, Playwright, Author

Posted: February 3, 2010 01:13 PM in HuffingtonPost.com

I haven’t been watching many reality shows lately because of the crying. There is simply too much of it. Last season on Project Runway, Christopher cried because he was sure that he was the only person in the world who would design a dress inspired by a rock (something I am sure he is wrong about). I have no idea how much crying there is on The Hills, since I was never a fan, but it did catch my attention in People magazine that Heidi Montag, star of the show, cried after she had ten plastic surgery procedures in one day. Heidi, I know from a quick Google search, is 23, although since her plastic surgery she looks 33. Which is actually something to cry about.

I have been interested in and done research on this subject spun slightly different: What happens if your mother (not your favorite reality star) has plastic surgery? This is the subject of my new novel for teenagers, The Girl with the Mermaid Hair.

If, as a teenager, you spend hours in front of a mirror deciding, say, whether one nostril is larger than the other or worrying whether your breasts point in different directions (typical teenage obsessing), do you outgrow this madness or make more radical choices if your mother comes home with larger lips, a smaller ass, a new chin, a different nose, bigger breasts? How do you feel if your mom suddenly doesn’t have any expression in her face? Or if you look into your mother’s eyes and no one is home?

Your main job as a teenager is to learn to love yourself. How can you do this if your mother hates herself?

In my research, what was so startling was how aware all the teenage girls were of their mother’s fear, or, more accurately, their hatred, of aging. One girl said, “Every time I wrinkle my forehead, my mother points it out and tells me not to. Even if I’m in the middle of a really important conversation.” Another spoke about “competitive dieting” with her mom, how she couldn’t help but engage in it even though she thought her mother’s obsession with fat was “crazy.” There is a study out this week from the Girl Scouts of the USA telling us what we already know, which is that the fashion industry and its use of ultra-thin models is making teenage girls too obsessed with being skinny, and distorting their body image. In my more limited unscientific research, the mothers are as strong an influence. Going on shopping trips with mom, usually a bonding experience, became all about hearing moms moan about their fat and rolls. Or seeing your mother trying on something, look in the mirror and say, “”I look ugly.”

I have vivid memories of my own adolescence when the main purpose of shop windows was not to see the clothes in them but my own reflection, when hours could be spent in front of a mirror deciding if my eyebrows matched. Emotionally, teen life is no different today, but now you can act on your own insecurities. You can fix them.

A lot of healthy acting out occurs in the mirror, as my research showed. Singing and dancing and even telling off people who hurt your feelings or trying on new identities. But there was also a lot of obsessing about body image. One girl got dressed using four mirrors, running from one to the next: one had good indoor lighting, one was a “skinny” mirror, one had natural light, one she could get the closest to. “If something is wrong with you,” a teenage girl said, “the mirror magnifies it.” Another said, “If I think something’s wrong with me, like my thighs are too fat, when I look in the mirror that’s all I see.”

God knows, I am not advocating growing old naturally, just to remember what a tender fragile time adolescence is. In my research, one teenage girl confided, “Seeing my mother after her surgery scared me to death.” We need our moms to be stable and secure. I have so many friends who will tell me with surprise, when looking at photos of themselves when they were younger, “Hey, I was really cute. I didn’t realize it.” No one does. You have to get older to realize it. Imagine if you got older and realized that you’d destroyed your younger self. You had operated it away.

Now that’s something to cry about.
Books & More From Delia Ephron
Frannie in Pieces (Laura Geringer B…
The Girl with the Mermaid Hair

It had snowed about 4-5″ and we were the only ones around, beside the snowplows.  Needless to say we were ALL positively ebullient: there was enough snow so the 3 kids were forced to do their bunny imitations. As lorra applied science to create a successful leash management strategy, the kids insisted on RUNNING, all with giant smiles on their open-mouthed faces. We were the first out after only the street plow, so when we got to the foot path along Riverwoods Road we were forging a new trail. Bravely. Lots of conversing: “o, is there something good to smell there? let me, let me!” and ‘if YOU’RE gonna pee there, I’M gonna pee there…”– stuff like that.

Meanwhile, between managing the leashes and the ankle deep snow, lorra was joyfully engaged, waving at anyone who drove by. (Again, mostly snowplowers.) She was particularly impressed by Penny, who was as energetic as the others, and as incessant. In addition to the heavier load she carries, she had the biggest, baddest snowballs around her feet and ankles. She found them annoying, but she didn’t let them stop her!

After several blocks our tracks joined some others; from a dog and person who’d gotten there first. We went quite far, until lorra felt going any further (farther?) might have meant having to carry someone at least part of the way home. There was quite a bit of running on the return.

Then came the good part.

With a fresh bowl of water in placed the garage, the 3 were let off leash while lorra shoveled the driveway in the coming-down snow. So many decisions to make! Barking and chasing the lead edge of the shovel, or scream-barking at Dixie, the golden barking back from her end of the cul-du-sac, or barking at the snow plow (back again to redo the street), or just running like crazy together thru the yard? So so so fun. for everyone. for about an hour! But we weren’t done yet.

Next stop- laundry room. Where each doggie got his/her own time in the sink to melt off those annoying snowberries with comforting warm water. Followed by a long, cuddle-massage in a giant towel. And some blowdrier on the warm, gentle setting. Penny couldn’t get enough of this part. Winnie was concerned about Penny’s safety, being attached by the roaring drier, until Winnie got her own dose and understand that it was okay.

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Now, it’s often a soft internal utterance. Just stating a fact. From the part of me who will always be your daughter. From the little me for whom you will always be ‘my mommy.’

When I want to ask you a question about something that happened, that no one else would know, to clarify my memories, I want my mommy.

When I feel a new appreciation for something you did or who you were, when I want to thank you, I want my mommy.

When I want to share, mother-to-mother, I want my mommy.

When my son does or says something I am proud about,  I want my mommy.

When I see the late autumn day sun illuminating wildly colored leaves, I want my mommy.

When I realize no one has critiqued the recording on my answering machine, I want my mommy.

When I want to revisit a conversation we had 45 years ago, I want my mommy.

I know, I know. I can speak to her. I can hear her. She is alive in me, certainly. In a way.

Still, I want to see her make a goofy face, hear her sing quietly to my son as he falls asleep. I want to hold her hand and play with it during services, hear her talk in funny dialects and watch her laugh till the tears come.  I want to see her (my) feet. I want to smell her skin, smooth her eyebrow with my finger, to give her head a scratch and scratch that same place on her back under the bra strap, to love her.

Still, I want to give you happiness. Make you happy. See you being happy. Give you love. Love you. Lay with my head in your lap, your hand stroking my hair. Get your love.  That unique, uplifting, universe-filling, life-saving love I always got, could only get, from You and Dad.

I want my mommy. I want my mommy. I want my mommy.

This was Julie’s idea: our HWW logo on a pink shirt. So there you have it, black with white dots on the BEST pink cotton shirt.

now available @: http://www.hardworkingwoman.com/store/catalog/

Shaunna Russell
Why she deserves to be celebrated as a hard working woman: Shaunna is a mother of 2, a wife, a minister, a full time cook for a catering company.  She never has time for herself.  She is always thinking of others.  She takes kids to camp in the summer and teaches them how to cook in her so called spare time.  She is the absolute hardest working woman I know.  She never just has down time.  When she does have time to do anything else, its spending time with her wonderful family and remodeling her beautiful house.  Shaunna deserves to be recognized as a hard working woman, as she is the epitome of what that actually means.

THANKS, Shauna, for all you do.

Love, HardWorking Woman

Another trash game I have has become a ritual. It’s when I’m on the golf course. When I see a little piece of litter (again, NOT including used tissue) I pick it up and stuff it into my golf bag. Here’s the good part: that one teeny act insures that my next shot will be a good one!! It’s the karma effect. I mean, one gum wrapper is not going to turn me into an Anna (Sorenstam), but if I’m on the karmic line between making a great shot or a poor one— having just done a good golf deed makes a big difference.