Slippers in Public and Benefiber Shots. Sign Me Up!

By : Kelly Sinon

After reading a great article in The NewYork Times about what we learn in our 40's, I felt compelled to share my very vast knowledge. Stop laughing.
It struck home because well, I'm 40...ish and it's happening.
In our 40's, we're stuck in the chasm between "40 is the new 30" and magic "age-defying wrinkle cream" elixirs. I imagine I'm like a lot of 40-somethings- alternately whining about getting older and embracing wearing slippers to the store and not caring who notices.
 Also, like a lot of 40-somethings, I am finding myself an almost empty-nester, with one more left to fly the coop in a couple of years.
 Being so young when we started our family, my husband and I are rediscovering our youth. Impromptu trips to The City, sleeping late, breakfast out together, antiquing (I know...that sounds like something I'm supposed to do in the next decade or so, but when your spouse is from Connecticut, you learn to appreciate good history.)
  I imagine us growing old together in separate bathtubs, on a bluff overlooking the ocean and holding hands at sunset (minus any uncomfortable discussion of little blue pills, of course).
  I'm almost certain that it's not okay to wear slippers out in public, and in my 20's, it never would have happened, but looking down at my Ugg-slippered feet as I got out of the car on a chilly winter evening to grab dinner, I didn't care. It wasn't a conscious choice to not care. You know, like, "Oh, no. I have slippers on. Well, I just won't care about what people say." I'm saying that this barely registered on my radar. I looked down, I saw the slippers, shrugged and kept walking. Better still, I had to skip a bit to catch up to my husband. Who was also wearing slippers. This is what happens to us.
  Don't get me wrong. There are still firm boundaries. I won't leave the house without make-up on. It's not even for me. It's for you. Trust me. But I do foresee that my color palette will change as I get older. For some reason, in our youth, red lipstick, blue eye-shadow and even blue hair is a no-no, but I suspect I'll be sporting an amazing shade of periwinkle on my eyelids and tresses. I won't fight it. It's just going to happen. I am prepared for this.
 Not only that, suddenly that topic of laxatives and fiber will become commonplace game material with your friends. And it's a card game now, not a drinking game. Unless you're doing Benefiber shots.
 Obviously, I'm getting ahead of myself, but I am just so excited! Age is a hall pass to do things you wouldn't in your 20's.
  I like that my 40's have become "The Decade of So What?" I'm more comfortable with myself than I was in my 20's. I'm open to learning more and not sweating the small stuff. It seems that's the magic elixir.

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Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon.com

Forty Pounds of Footloose, and Not a Video Was Spilled...

By Kelly Sinon

 As kids morph into adults, sometimes, both the kids and the parents miss it, it happens so fast. Just ask my dad. Or me, for that matter.
 Standing in my garage with Dad, as he tells me the proper way to operate our water softener that never came with directions and sat unused for 8 years, I realize that I am completely engrossed in his instruction; listening intently, and committing his words to memory for later "download."
 Twenty-five years ago, I might have been listening, but something else would have been in my head playing at the same time so it would have sounded like, " Fill the water softener with Footloose, set the clock on the panel so it will cycle through one Kevin Bacon. Don't fill it with more than one bag or it will MTV all over the floor and then you'll have a lot of videos to mop up."
 You can see why Dad asked me what the hell I was doing a lot when I tried to follow instructions. Didn't he know that I was either dancing or singing or even writing in my head at any given moment? I got the finer points. You know...Don't stick a fork into the toaster to retrieve the stuck English muffin. Don't bring the radio into the shower with you, no matter how long the extension cord is; important stuff like that, that I was able to pass down to my kids who I know were only half listening, when I told them to collect all the trash from the house, and then bring it from the garage to the curb for garbage day. It made it as far as the garage. Where the water softener lived.
 As I absorbed all of the information Dad was giving me, I thought to myself, "He is still teaching me. I'm 43 years old and he is still teaching me." I was grateful that he was. I was grateful that he has the life experience to teach me something that turned out to to be very simple, but I didn't know. What I was really grateful for was that he still wanted to teach me, even when sometimes, I know I must have seemed almost unteachable 25 years ago. Parents don't give up, thankfully, or my water softener would still be unplugged, unused and mocking me every time I chucked something into the recycling.
 It makes me fast-forward to my kids' future when they are 46 and 40. I hope I can teach them something then. How to change the oil on the hover car...how not to over-cook the steaks on the hover B.B.Q. (Hopefully, all of our possessions won't be of the "hover" variety but you get the idea. It's the future.)
 Anyway, after The Husband dumped a 40 pound bag of salt into the softener and I plugged it in and set the clock, I was rewarded with the gurgling sounds of success. And not a single video to mop up. _________________________________________________________________________________________

Kelly Sinon lives in gilroy with her family...and 8 year-old, newly functioning water softener. She can be reached at kellysinon@gmail.com

Parental Advice that Lives On...And On

By Kelly Sinon

Parental Wisdom and Advice; we've all been the recipient of it at one time or several. My parents were full of Parental Wisdom and Advice. Now, as a parent, myself, I can look back and say, "What??"

Mom-isms from back in the day, were plentiful. A sampling would be something like this:

"No, go fix your hair. Girls who wear side ponytails are sluts." Okay, this was the late 70’s and early '80's and side ponytails were as big as...leg warmers, Dove shorts and Pac-Man. And I was the only girl who still had to wear braids or sport a Dorothy Hamil 'do. Yet, we were allowed the occasional tube top. Go figure.

"Don't play with Terry down the street, he'll pull your pants down." (What??) Keep in mind that Terry was a seven year-old boy who did in fact run around naked in his front yard, but that's another story. Mom must've gotten some sort vibe from him, because six months later, I was sitting in my bathroom with a washcloth over my right eye, because Terry had scratched me, and Mom chastising me that she told me so. I was also seven. I still have the reminder of it to this day. Never mind that he could've pulled my tube top down.

Dad-isms were also constructive and firm.

"If you two don't knock it off, I'm going to make you put your seat belts on," While glaring at us in the rearview mirror and traveling 85 miles an hour up I-5, as my sister and I played the "Stop Touching Me" game, on the six hour drive to Hayfork. Again, in all fairness, this might have been in the mid to late 70's and the crash test dummies had yet to drive (or crash) their point home.

Frustrated dads say things like, “I told you not to be stupid, you moron,” but then ten minutes later, tell you how smart he thinks you are. Just don’t let him catch you rolling your eyes. Or worse.

It caused me to wonder what my kids will giggle about when they are my age. What pearls of Wisdom (and Advice)  is  so ludicrous that they simply demand to be put down in print. I'd like to think that everything I impart is good and needlepoint pillow-worthy. Like this gem when my oldest was seven and making me crazy with...Oh, who even listens, I don't know.

"Katie, if you don't knock it off, I'm taking away all of your books." Okay, I'll say it for them... "What??"

Or to my youngest:

"Kirk, I really don’t like that kid you insist on playing with. He reminds me a used a used car salesman." Again, this is me, talking to a seven year-old. What's up with seven year-olds?

I love relating my parents' funny bits to my friends, especially friends who knew my parents, and I am vindicated in my "What??”

Those Parent-isms sure have stuck with me. Never once, did I wear a side ponytail (out in public, anyway. I still had to see what the fuss was about), and I knew that my sister and I would always play the “Stop Touching Me” game, so my seatbelt always goes on (Thanks, Dad).

This might explain why Katie has tons of books. Or why Kirk did in fact stop playing with that kid. Kids really do listen.

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Kelly Sinon lives in Gilroy with her family and can be reached at sksinon@aol.com.

Wine, MacGyver and Triangles. Oh, My! (did I mention wine?)

By Kelly Sinon

With my upcoming …ahem…20-something class reunion slated for next month, I am brought back five years ago to our fist 20-something class reunion (I’m class of ’88, if any of you are inclined to do the math. That’s 1988, not 1888).

I spent months fretting about the perfect dress, not to mention shoes; oh, and the purse to match, of course. I even had the dress altered. Apparently, I’m short-waisted. Is that a somewhat polite way of saying short? This was not a news flash.

This time, our Reunion Guru, Shannon was kind enough to spare us all the agony and booked a nice local place, with a casual dresscode. I could almost hear all of GHS Class of ’88’s collective sigh of relief.

We are free now, in our more… advanced years to focus on the more important things. Seeing old friends, and reliving old times.

Ever wake up to one of those “Winky Blinky” traffic barriers on your front lawn? I have …and so did my Dad, as she shook his head, walking down the sidewalk towards his’86 Firebird on his way to work. That “Winky Blinky” made the rounds to all of our friends and their unsuspecting parents. One of them had the misfortune of finding it in the middle of their living room (Love you, Gil and Sandy!).

Stuntwoman-like driving skills that cost a muffler over the railroad tracks, but a call to a guy friend, had us up and running again with MacGyveresque skills and a wire hanger.

These stories always require wine, and that’s where my house comes in. Just like back in the day (Sorry, Dad). Did someone say more wine?

Having The Triangle over afterwards to dish the dirt and giggle. The Triangle consists of four… yes, that’s right, four girls (Okay, women, now). We were “The only triangle with four sides.” It made perfect sense to us at the time and was uproariously funny. Only this time, we are without one of our “sides” as she lives abroad. You might think that now it’s a perfect triangle. But it’s not. The Triangle has also grown to include spouses, significant others and kids. Not sure what shape that is.

When we all see each other again, we will still be 17. We will still have full heads of hair, all of our own teeth and not a wrinkle among us. Our cars are nicer, though, and we won’t be carded when we hit the bar. Rose colored glasses are nice.

Did someone say more wine?

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Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com. She lives in Gilroy with her family of four, and sometimes, three, as The Girl is off to school. Yet, another Triangle.

I Got This....Just Watch Out for Rolling Cans of Corn

By: KELLY SINON


 I find that when I say, "I got this", I really don't..."got this."
 Whether it's grocery bags filled with all of the cans of corn purchased on special (Seriously,10 for $7.99 is not a deal to be passed up) and bagged by the I'm Not Hauling This Anywhere, So Suck It Up...Ma'am, teenager, or something more mentally challenging, like say, Sudoku (numbers never have been, and never will be my friends).
 The older I get, the more I'm realizing that it's okay to say, "I don't got this."
 Wine helps. It makes it easier to say, especially at 11:30 P.M., just after everyone else has gone upstairs to bed, and I'm pleasantly nodding out on the couch while debating heading up myself. I'm just not sure it makes it easier for people near me earlier in the evening to understand, depending on how many glasses (okay, that's not entirely true. You'll see why in a minute) I've had in order to be okay with saying, "I don't got this." Therein lies the conundrum.    
 Sober Kelly + "I got this" = probable mess in some fashion.
 Slightly Inebriated Kelly + "I got this" = certain mess in all fashions.
 I'm also not a big drinker, so a glass and half of whatever box (yes, I am in fact, just that classy) is in the fridge is a major deal.
  Luckily, I have two things going for me. 1. I do not actually like the taste of alcohol. At all. Unless it's chocolate flavored. Or frozen and made with fruit. ...And even more importantly, made by someone else. 2. I'm a lightweight. My friends from my ...ehem...younger days, will remember me as the designated driver in all situations, or the as The Girl Most Likely To Be Nursing The Same Drink All Night At The Party. Bet that'll make my Dad happy to read.
 Had I known of "I got this," as a kid, it would have been so handy. If there is a way to complicate something that should be simple, with nine more unnecessary steps, I would (and will still) find it, or better yet, invent it.
 The question most posed to me by my father: "What the Hell are you doing?" which was immediately followed by, "What the Hell are you talking about?" I'm also pretty sure that it's genetic, because my father's voice comes out of my 5 foot, 2 inch body when posing the same (now legitimate) questions to my kids.
 'No, no...I don't want to be a bother," has also been replaced as Jewish Motherspeak with "I got this," for the younger Jewish Mother set. I like it. I feel cool when I use it in this context. The best part is that the kids still know I'm exercising my Right to Guilt.
  In times of trouble though, "I got this," has served me well. It's not always...okay, rarely... been true, but has certainly summoned the needed jolt of (stupidity) confidence, deep from the depths... and I've only dropped a few cans of corn.
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Kelly Sinon can be seen at a grocery store near you, balancing boxes of wine and several cans of corn, but don't worry....She's got this.

Being The Good One...at Any Age

By Kelly Sinon


There's a phrase in our family that goes back a ways. Back to Brooklyn in the 50's when my Dad and his brother, Richie were growing up.
 From what my sister and I could tell, It all stemmed from one, or maybe even both of their parents declaring one of their sons the winner of The Good One award, for any good deed. It was the 50's. No one was perfect.
  As a kid, I remember my Dad and Uncle Richie Uncle Richie on the phone together (No, that is not a typo. He is fact called Uncle Richie Uncle Richie, now and forever because two little girls would be so excited to see their uncle, that they would jump up and down, and say, "Uncle Richie, Uncle Richie!" It stuck.), laughing and declaring each held the title of The Good One. I wasn't sure either of them really wanted it.
  Fast forward to those two little girls growing up. We had seemingly put our own spin on The Good One, in our own unwritten and unspoken way. When you did something you hoped was great for the folks or something that made them laugh, you were awarded with the knowledge that you were now in fact... The Good One.
  Being The Good One meant that you had certain Good One privileges until your sibling showed you up next week. The privileges were not given by the folks. Heck, they didn't even know that they had only one Good kid.
 The Good One title is bestowed upon oneself, to the dismay of the Less Good One. Being the Good One, meant you had carte blanche with sticking-out-your-tongue and haughty sneer privileges at the Less Good One, in any given situation, when the folks were admonishing The Less Good one for something, thereby cementing your Good One status and your sibling's demoralizing Less Good One fate. It got to be perplexing when you were sure only one parent liked what you did or said. There was no such thing as Half a Good One. It was all or nothing, Both parents had to approve. So you can see how hard it was to become The Good One.
 In our later years, once in a while, in jest ...(or was it?) one of us would out loud, in front of the parents, declare Good One status. Daring, I know. And just for fun...(or is it?) at any given family get-together, there is the inevitable announcement that someone is The Good One.
  Parents never want to say that they might, at any given moment in time, say that they related better to one of their children and the other just confuses them. But kids know. And so The Good One is born.
  In some ways, it was an equalizer, because you never held the position for long. Each of us got our moment in the sun and then later, that shining moment when you could call your sister and share the glory and declare her the winnner, as she does for you.
 So, at 40-something, we've learned that we are both The Good Ones, but I can't promise that I will renounce my sticking-out-my-tongue privileges.



Kelly Sinon can be reached thesinons@yahoo.com...and she has declared her Good One status, until....

Judge Jessee...Inadvertent Drivers Ed Teacher

From a column printed in The Pinnacle newspaper, July 2007. My Hayfork friends reminded me of it...they will, I know, excuse some very slight creative license.
Between Us

By KELLY SINON

Driving behind Judge Jessee was always an exercise in patience and tolerance. Not that there was really any great hurry, or there was anywhere important to go. Highway 3 through Hayfork, California is maybe four miles long. On the upside, there is no stop light. There is only one light in the entire town actually, and that’s right before the one-lane bridge. It was installed in the early ‘80s amid grumbling about “city slickers” and their big city ways.

Judge Jessee was an old, retired judge who drove around in this huge, early-model behemoth of Detroit-made metal. He would be safe in any collision, not that there was any danger of that, since he only drove 11 miles per hour all though town, anyway. He was a “blinders driver”, never seeing anything to the side or the line of cars in the rear. If there was a parade procession of cars on any given day, you could be assured that the Judge was leading the pack at his standard 11 miles per hour.

My mother, the born and raised Brooklynite, would get upset, getting stuck behind poor old Judge Jessee. She was always in a hurry. Even when going down Highway 3 in Hayfork in the pick-up, on the way to Wiley’s Grocery store, which was the only “big” store in town.

Being a kid, whenever I saw Judge Jessee, I was in awe. He was really old. Maybe 105 (In actuality, he was probably 60). He couldn’t see very well, but he still had this presence of being a powerful man, still wearing his gray fedora wherever he went.

Hayfork has always been a safe place. The kind of place you want to raise your kids. Open fields and thick forests, too. Everyone knows each other and watches out for each other’s kids. That could also be bad, if Mrs.Hoglan from down the road bumps into your mom at the bank and tells her about the time you and your friends nearly plowed over her on the sidewalk (well, dirt sidewalk), while running down the street to the community pool. It was almost like Andy Griffith’s “Mayberry” since my sister Suzie and I were known as “The Mulry Girls” around town.

It was a safe place for kids to learn to drive too, since there were so many country roads, you only had to share them with the occasional piece of farm equipment or horseback rider.

I’m not so lucky to get to live in a place like that, anymore. The edge of Silicon Valley is a scary place for some experienced drivers, too. I’d love to be able to teach The Girl to drive in relative safety.

She’s on the Permit Path and eyeing a certain black VW Beetle in a car lot on Monterey Street . She’s done very well in her online courses that she’s supposed to take, before she hits the open road with an accredited, actual driving instructor. Driving Instructor?

Whatever happened to good old days of your best pal turning you lose in their car in the empty High School parking lot? Or your Dad screaming at you to “Look out for the trash cans!” as you back out of the driveway, narrowly missing an oncoming car, while trying not to drop his unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarette.

In a way, it’s a good thing, having an instructor teach her, but I can’t help wondering, by default, how many Hayfork teenagers were taught how to drive at 11 miles per hour.

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Kelly Sinon can be reached at thesinons@yahoo.com.

She lives in Gilroy with her family.