The Bidet! Yes or No?

Cliff and I just returned from a bucket list trip to Italy. More reports (and some great ladies room doors) to come, but today I want to talk about the bidet.

I first saw a bidet when I went to France in high school. My friends and I were intrigued with this apparatus, but I doubt if any of us used it.

Forty some years later, I’m encountering bidets again. Do I use a bidet when I find one? Hmm. That question makes me feel a bit shy…


I can tell you that bidets are great for doing laundry. The stopper in our sink in Cinque Terre didn’t work right. The bidet!

But then I thought, Cliff is going to come in here and see me washing clothes in the bidet and freak. So I washed them fast! Worked like a charm.

I also experimented with using the bidet to shave my legs. Great for the bottom of the leg. Involves a lot of splashing when you get to the top.

I even ran into a bidet in a few restaurant bathrooms, and I found these handheld bidets next to toilets in some other restaurants.

The showers in Italy often include a handheld bidet sprayer. We had one in Rome, but the shower was so complicated, with water jets firing every which way, that I can’t imagine adding this to the mix. I experienced a claustrophobia attack in this shower brought on by its small size and the steam. I had to open the doors mid-shower and stick my head out to get some air.

Cliff announced in Rome, “That bidet looks so clean, I could eat dinner off of it.” So now I don’t mind if he reads this and learns I washed his clothes in one (which was equally shiny).

We’re at the end of the post, and I still haven’t been gutsy enough to tell you if I used the bidets in these photos.

I will tell you that the linen towels, hung over many bidets, while elegant, sure lack absorbency.

And if I were designing a bathroom, I just might put in a bidet.

What about you? Opinions on the bidet? Do be brave and tell!

Here’s a convincing and fun read on why Americans should use bidets.

Here’s a Wiki guide on how to use a bidet.

And here’s a Wikipedia article that includes the history of the bidet and plenty of other tidbits.


Grandma Update: The Cousins Meet

In March, we were all invited to the home of Laura’s in-laws.  At the family gathering, my grandson Mazen would meet my granddaughter Emerson for the first time. Talk about a grandma who was pumped!

“All I want for Mother’s Day,” I told daughter Kath earlier that week, “is for you to take a really good photo of Emmie sitting in Maze’s lap.”

“Okay,” she said.

“And I want a print. Something I can put on the refrigerator.”


Beyond the endearing photo we would capture, I pictured another scene over and over. I would hold Emmie while Mazen made silly faces and rattled colorful toys. Surely Emmie would let out her glorious laugh as she watched the shenanigans of her cousin.

When we got there, Maze took one look at Emmie. A quick look. “Maze,” I said. “Come meet your cousin.”

“She drools,” he announced. “I don’t like drool.”

And he never got close. Not once.

The next day he said to me, “It’s not that I don’t love Emerson, Grammie. I just don’t like drool.”

And there you have it.

From the mouths of babes…comes drool.

From the mouths of four-year-olds, comes some very deep thinking. You can love the person, but you don’t have to love the behavior.

Photo: Daughter Laura holds her baby, Emerson, who looks quite ready to play with her cousin. And yes, that dark pink spot on her shirt is the dreaded drool. Daughter Kath has her arms around her son Mazen.


How Did This Happen: Poems for the Not So Young Anymore: A Giveaway!

Teachers and former People magazine reporters Mary Esselman and Elizabeth Veléz have been best friends since Mary became Elizabeth’s teaching assistant at Georgetown University 30 years ago (wow, 30 years–how did that happen?).

Pop culture junkies and poetry lovers, they’ve relied on both to help them through life’s challenges, from romantic heartbreak to work/life angst to long-term love. Their fourth book of pop-literary therapy, How Did This Happen? Poems for the Not So Young Anymore, helps readers cope with the indignities of growing “older” (let’s say anything over 25) as women, in a culture that worships Instagrammed youth and beauty. Here they discuss why they wrote the book and how women can rise proud and strong against the stigma of “aging while female.”

Elizabeth: So Mary, the book really started when you’d just hit your 40s and felt kind of sideswiped by unexpected physical changes– like feeling really anxious and not sleeping well.

Mary: Right, I was 46, and I’d just gotten married at 39, moved to a small town for my husband’s job, and had a baby (with serious health issues) at 41. So I’d finally adjusted to all of that when I started waking up at night with my heart pounding, feeling hot, then cold, and thinking, what the hell? And my periods started getting weird – one month nothing, then a gusher out of nowhere. Thank god you’re 17 years ahead of me, and I’d been with you when you’d had hot flashes and massive periods

Elizabeth: Oh yeah, thank god I’m so old and was such a hot flashing massive bleeder.

Mary: Ha, well, you know, I was scared. I was like, is this normal or am I dying or what? I remember calling the doctor and having the advice nurse call me back kind of chuckling like, “Oh, honey, that’s just perimenopause, don’t worry about it, this can go on for up to ten years, and you just learn to ride it out.”

Elizabeth:  See, it was different for me. By the time we started working on the book it’d been eight years since menopause. I remember it more as incidental annoyances, less a huge thing in my life. I remember teaching an Introduction to Women’s Studies, a class of 15 boys and 15 girls. I was wearing a skirt and looked down, and there was blood streaming down my legs. For me I was past that “oh dear, I have a spot on the back of my dress, I’m so embarrassed” kind of thing from adolescence into our 20s and 30s. It was very uncomfortable, but at the same time it seemed funny to be in a Women’s Studies class dripping with blood. The women in class noticed immediately, and as soon as class was over, they came up and surrounded me, and I just felt their love and support. So it’s different when you’re not alone.

Mary: Right, and for me just knowing that other women have the same things happening to them, just having their company, funny stories, honest understanding – it helps so much, whether it’s you or Frances McDormand, or a great poem or Amy Schumer’s “Last F*ckable Day” skit.

Elizabeth: Exactly, and our book tries to give women that kind of company – the funny, sad, inspiring and true. The first sections deal with what you first experienced, the physical surprises, but for me the issue has always been about mortality. The older you get – and I’m 71 and a half now – the more you know you have a terminal disease, and it’s called “being old.” So for me part of this book is looking for the solace we find in poetry–the way poetry comforts and teaches us about simply being mortal, being human.

Mary: Right. As we say in the Introduction, we’re tackling both the cosmetic AND the cosmic issues of growing up and older. I was freaked out by my chin hairs and jowls and changing body in my late 40s, so there was that stuff – how do you still feel like “you,” when you don’t look like the old “you”?  If you care too much about that, are you self-absorbed, shallow, as in Amy Poehler’s “Plastic Surgery Haiku”? Or can we acknowledge that women have it tough in our culture –that we actually suffer for aging both professionally and personally?

Elizabeth: Yes, look, aging in this culture is incredibly difficult. We quote Nora Ephron from her classic book on feeling bad about her neck as she grew older. But the fact is, I don’t hate my neck. And I want to figure out as women how NOT to hate these parts of our bodies that are changing. It’s so important to understand that aging, looking different, this transformation does not have to be a negative, terrible experience. I look at pictures of myself in my 20s and 30s, and it sort of breaks my heart. The experience most of us had in our 20s and 30s of hating our hair or hating our bodies, and if you look back, we were beautiful and we never knew it or believed it. I like the way I look now way more than in my 50s, and probably it’s because back then I was really fussing about the signs of aging. Now I think that if you’re good inside, you’ll look good.  Maybe it seems silly and reductive, but I do believe it.

Mary: Hey, it works for me. I’d rather try to do good in the world than worry about the harsh sunlight showing off my beard and moustache.

Elizabeth: You know, Deborah Landau’s Solitaire” perfectly gets at the range of physical and existential issues of growing older as a woman. You go from thinking there’s no “girl” left in you, so you should retinol, exfoliate, whatever, to thinking OMG, menopause, cancer, the ABCs of my fear. You go from this first knowledge of “aging” to what that ultimately means: “O tumble-rush of days we cannot catch.“

Mary: Yes, these poets express things we can’t quite say in our own words, but when we hear them, we just know – YES. That’s IT, that’s how I feel.

Elizabeth: Right, we are saying loudly and clearly with this book that when you wake with your heart pounding, when you know for a fact that your time is short – poetry can help.

Mary: Even Beyoncé, young as she is, used poetry to help her craft Lemonade, which is in many ways about growing older as a woman, coming to terms with who you are in relationships, who you are as a mother, and as your mother’s daughter. And we found inspiration in that same poet, Warsan Shire. That’s what’s so powerful about poetry – we recognize ourselves in it, whether we’re superstars or perimenopausal insomniacs.

Elizabeth: Of course we’ll all experience aging differently, depending on where we are in our lives. We don’t want to make our own experiences universal. Across race and class and circumstance we’ll experience all of these feelings differently.

Mary: Yes, and I know a lot of women who have become their best selves as they’ve aged. Out of bad marriages, into new jobs, new civic advocacy, proudly taking care of themselves and speaking truth to power. Reminds me of that fabulous Lucille Clifton poem in our Defiance section, “there is a girl inside,” and also reminds me of Marge Piercy’s “to be of use.”

Elizabeth: For Clifton, that poem is about resisting the idea that we become “old” when the culture says we are. NO, she says, and it’s important to her – the girl in her is alive and well; she has broken “through gray hairs/ into blossom,” and the world should be “wild/ with the damn wonder of it.” For me the most important stages in the book are Grit and Grace, where we figure out how to live with the knowledge we have, as full grown women.

Mary: Yes, I love those sections because ultimately that’s where we are now, both of us, despite our age difference. We are willing to grit it out, our fears and uncertainties, because we now also recognize and love our strength, our courage, our joy in little daily things. There’s this newish sense of “anything is possible,” despite or maybe because of time. We know things now; we’re experienced, we can shrug off what’s stupid and take on what matters. Cathi Hanauer calls it being “chronologically gifted, which is a funny way of not saying “older and wiser.”

Elizabeth: Exactly, like the Frank O’Hara poem, “Today,” the joy we get just from quotidian daily things.I have to work at that joy sometimes and maybe all of us do. And that’s why we offer some poems that point that out the pleasure we get from waking up to our senses.

Mary: Right, all of those poems about food in Grit! Biscuits and lemon meringue pie and pastries. Kind of funny.

Elizabeth: Yes, and in Grace the poems about warmth and light, wind and water – the grace of being in the world, lucky to be right here right now, as Ada Limón says.

Mary: Absolutely. And Grace Paley actually ends the Grace section, ends the entire book, with the same kind of lovely but strong acceptance, in her poem “Here.” It’s not passive – I see it as activist, revolutionary acceptance of herself as a woman (like Alicia Keys, like Lena Dunham, only ever so slightly “older”) who asks “how did this happen?” and who can answer truthfully, “well that’s exactly who I wanted to be.”

Elizabeth: May we all get there on our good days.

Mary: Amen, sister.

Giveaway: Friend for the Ride is giving away a copy of How Did This Happen? Poems for the Not So Young Anymore to two lucky winners. For chance to win, please enter a comment by June 15. Thanks!

How did this happen

And thank you, Mary and Elizabeth, of your wonderful collection of poems and for your graceful and insightful take on aging!


The Ladies Room Door Art Series: Part Thirty-three


More doors!

From daughter Laura and son-in-law Matt, Amsterdam Falalel in Dallas, Texas.

I snapped this one at the Salt Grass Steakhouse in San Marcos, Texas.


I met these cool cowboys inside the ladies room.




This is the Caso Rio on the San Antonio Riverwalk. Cliff and I spent a few nights there before we met up with the kids in Austin for Christmas.

Bella on the River in San Antonio. Wonderful Italian cuisine. We sat right by the water and waved at the passengers in the tour boats as they floated by.


Doughnuts and chocolate glaze for dessert!


We love the San Antonio Riverwalk. It’s romantic and festive. You can get some good hotel deals on Travelocity.


More drinks by the river.


On to Austin! The Pinthouse. Love those brass letters.


Now we’re in Greenpond, New Jersey. Cliff was there in the fall for his cousin’s anniversary celebration, held in the Green Pond Firehouse. The women’s room door…



And the men’s. Cliff’s cousin Robert is a fireman, and he reports that firehouses often have creative doors, connecting, hmmm…anatomy with firefighting equipment.

Susan sent us The Asian Harbor Restaurant in Durham.



From Candace, Buzz’s Roost in Georgetown, South Carolina.


I took this one at the gas station  in Haw River, North Carolina, where Cliff loves to get coffee when we start our travels West on I-40.


And from Carol, taken at Sidewall Pizza Company in Traveler’s Rest, South Carolina. Carol reports that the bunny is significant because the restaurant is close to the 25 mile +Swamp Rabbit Bike Trail. img_3367

From Lois, the Mellow Mushroom in Burlington, North Carolina. Mellow Mushrooms consistently have creative doors. You guys are mellow and fun!


Kathy sent us this unisex door from the Girl and the Fig in Sonoma, California.


Finally, if you’re in the mood to create your own bathroom art, try toilet paper tubes. Let the work of Fritz Jacquet inspire you! Check our his art here.




Nicknames: Rean-Bean? Chick? What Was Yours?

Did you have a childhood nickname? Mine was Buzz, given to me by my dad. I dropped it in college and am sorry I did. I’m working a bit to recreate it, so this post from writer Doreen Frick hit the spot.

Take it away, Doreen!

I never really liked my nickname, but it never occurred to me to ask Mom to call me something different, something more sophisticated, something grown-up. I paid no mind, chalking it up to being part of a family of seven where nicknames were part of the territory.

My name was Doreen which became Reen-Bean, which was part of the fabric of the household just like the familiar clackety-clack of the typewriters in the den and basement, the do-re-mi- notes faithfully practiced and plunked along with that horrible piano teacher (whom we now know wasn’t so horrible– he was just depressed, and Mom thought letting him teach her kids how to play would cheer him up), the garlic and lamb wafting from the kitchen, and the groans from the sister I shared a room with when I turned on the light and woke Sleeping Beauty. Family life begets familiarity. . . and familiarity breeds nicknames.

Sleeping Beauty, aka Twinkle-toes, aka my sister Diane, never minded her nickname. Diane had movie star sunglasses and struck a killer pose for photographs that stuns me even now. She was destined for the camera.

My brother Duane was called Jack Benny (do any of us even know why?), but he probably didn’t mind, or if he did, had no idea who Jack Benny was. Dead-pan humor wasn’t really Duane’s calling, imitating President Nixon later on in life was.

Dennis, my older (and apparently mischievous brother), was Dennis the Menace (minus the suspenders and cowlick), and my sister Dawn, the youngest (and loudest), was “The Screamer.”

Poor Dawn. I guess she did scream a lot when she was upstairs in her crib, but then maybe she hated being up there all by her lonesome. I understand, but back then I wasn’t sympathetic. We older kids were threatened that if we so much as woke that sleeper from her early bedtime slumber, there would be a spanking. Or worse, we’d have to go up and get her to go back to sleep and goodness knows we wouldn’t want to do that. We’d rather be outside playing with the neighbor kids.

Well Dawn, aka the Screamer, eventually outgrew her screaming and then Mom decided to nickname her “Marilyn,” which isn’t really a nickname, it’s Dawn’s middle name. Dawn, the Screamer, was named after Marilyn Monroe. I’m not sure Dawn realized that, but alas, the reasoning behind the choosing of a middle name is not known except that Marilyn was a superstar and still alive and well when Dawn was born, and Mom gave us all middle names with either an “M” or an “S.” Maybe Mom figured Marilyn was a pretty name for a girl born at the crack of dawn during the era of the beauty of the silver screen. It is a pretty name. I’m still not sure Dawn is crazy about it though.

My husband’s name is Charles Wesley, but his dad always called him “Chick,” which I just hated. It was so, I don’t even know what, it was just so not Wes. When you have such a handsome name why would someone butcher it like that? Wes tries to explain that Chick was a common name on his street. There was a “Chicky” Bell, and a Chick somewhere else down the line. Chick was a common nickname for “Charles,” but for me it denotes a fella with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his shirtsleeve, a pair of loafers and a slicked-back greasy head of black hair and droopy eyelids, leaning against a jalopy, killing time. I could almost draw a “Chick” right here:

Or not.

Mom never gave Wes a nickname. She called him “Charles.” Like in the Little House on the Prairie TV show, when Mrs. Ingalls would look at Michael Landon and say, “Oh Charles,” my mom would tease my husband and say, “Oh Chaaaarles.” And it was super cute. She clearly loved Wes, and he her.

But I remained her Reen-Bean until one day many long years later when I tucked her in for the night. Mom couldn’t quite put her finger on my name. She quietly called out as I left the room, “Good night first-born daughter.” And I tell you right then and there I felt my heart break in two. I wanted to whisper, “Reen-Bean.”

Thanks, Doreen.

Now onto our readers! What was your nickname? Do you miss it? Does anyone still use it?

Photos: Doreen and her two sisters do a lot of reminiscing, and once in a while, call one another by the nicknames their folks used. In the middle photo, Dawn is on the ground looking up. Doreen, with darker hair, is the oldest. Diane is next to Dawn. Their creative mom, Mary Kirban, is dressed for church in the photo at the top.

Here’s Doreen now:

She’s all grown up and lives in Nebraska with her husband. Follow these links to read more of her work:


Insomnia: My Latest Technique


I’ve been a poor sleeper since I turned thirty-five, so insomnia wasn’t a new issue for me when the Change of Life stepped in. But for many, insomnia begins with menopause, adding even more stress to life with wonky hormones. No matter when it starts, insomnia is the pits. Truly. Once awake, your mind can spin and spin and spin, often with worries and concerns that seem to take on gargantuan significance at three AM.

“I feel like I can hear your thoughts bouncing around,” Cliff said to me once.

“If I could just chop off my head,” I answered. “I could go back to sleep!”

(I’m not actually sure that would work, as wouldn’t my head still be awake?)

A month ago, I read yet another article on insomnia. This one describes a breathing pattern to put your back to sleep.

I’ve never been into breathing beyond its usefulness in staying alive. The concept of deep breaths and patterned breaths has always felt like a lot of work. But anything to cure my insomnia. I gave it a whirl.

Here’s what you do:  You breathe in through your nose for four seconds. Hold the breath for seven seconds. Then you release it through your mouth for eight seconds. Read about it here. (Sorry about the annoying ads, but it’s a good article.) And here.

For the first week, the breathing technique worked like a miracle. After that week, it didn’t work every night. But even two months later, I do believe it’s helping me go back to sleep at least fifty percent of the time. I don’t always do the seven seconds of outward breath through my mouth. I don’t want Cliff to think he’s sleeping in a wind tunnel. But another article I found suggests it’s the inward breath through the nose that’s most important.

Dr. Weil, a huge advocate of holistic breathing, says this about the technique: “Breathing strongly influences physiology and thought processes, including moods. By simply focusing your attention on your breathing and without doing anything to change it, you can move in the direction of relaxation.”

So fellow insomniacs, give it a try! Let us know if it helps. It sure seems easier than chopping off your own head.

The statue above is St. Denys, ca. 1490, probably from Northwest France. The statue now totes his head in the Bode Musem in Berlin.

He’s one of the Cephalophoric saints, which means a saint carrying his or her own head. My scholar friend Ken Ostrand writes, “Apparently one issue is: Where to put the saintly halo?  On the head the saint is holding or above his neck?”

Maybe the artists pondered that problem in the middle of the night! That’s when my problems seem to rear their heads the highest. Read more about cephalophoric saints in this article. They are usually figures of saints who were beheaded.