Georgetown Times

This past week marked a real milestone in my career, when I spoke at the four-day event, Southern Women’s Show in Charlotte (400 vendors, 28,000 attendees.) At the top of the list was meeting Jenna Bush Hager, getting her autograph and posing with her for photos. Jenna was the keynote speaker and shared her worldwide travel experiences where she helped the underprivileged, how she came to write the book, “Ana’s Story: A Journey of Hope,” and her work as a correspondent with the NBC Today Show.

That day was perfect (I spoke at 11 and Jenna spoke at 1,) though the day after was tough: getting up at 6 a.m. for my 7:30 a.m. breakfast talk. Ack! Whatever could go wrong did go wrong: mumbling and slobbering, I hung up on my wake-up call operator. Sorry! A cold front moved in, dropping temps from a scorching 94 the week before to a nippy 61. I knew I’d freeze in my sleeveless dress and open-toed heels. Russell begged to wear his bedroom slippers (“but Ann, they’re so warm!”) from the Crowne Plaza to the Park Expo Center. So although we shivered and stammered while our teeth chattered, we sold books and we met new friends!

In fact, my newest BFF and fellow humorist is none other than Tracy Curtis, a humor columnist for the “Charlotte Observer.” Y’all, she is the REAL DEAL, but I’m not jealous of her one bit! Not her youthful age (fifteen years younger than me, but who’s counting?) Not her brush with fame (a former California producer who’s interviewed Rosie O’Donnell and other celebrities.) Not her petite yet curvy figure. Not her spot-on comedic timing or her hilarious columns or her expensive, tailored clothing. Not jealous! Oh, did I mention her over-the-top diamond ring she just bought herself? I am not jealous of her fans either — the uber cool Charlotte-ettes who follow her around like lost kittens and purr over her — who are famous bloggers themselves. Bess and Caroline, you KNOW who you are! I am not jealous of Tracy, I promise. (Is this starting to sound like a Dr. Seuss book?) I am not jealous of the fact that hub-Russ thought she was a show stopping brunette bombshell and even said — Hey! Wait a minute! Was it just a coincidence that he saved his brand new slacks and his favorite purple shirt (that I PAID to have dry-cleaned) to wear the day Tracy gave her talk?

But seriously, as what often happens with girl power, we shared, we bonded, we clicked, we clacked! And now, I, Ann Morris Ipock (my legal name, but who cares?) is ready for a new me! I am so inspired by Tracy (but not jealous)! Therefore, let it be known to all readers, writers and arithmetickers that I am going for a new look. From here on out, I am naming my column “Ipock-a-Lips.” Why? Because I paid my photographer, acting coach and dear friend, Sunnie Pennington, good money to come up with that slogan. And because Tracy, oh, sweet, precious Tracy, (that I am not jealous of) LOVED IT!!! And since Tracy loved it, Russell loved it, and since Russell loved it, well, you get the picture. He is my business manager, after all (at least I let him think that). To recap:

New name: Ipock-a-Lips.

Expect this: column length to be shorter.

Already done: new photo on “Georgetown Times” website.

Thank you, Tracy. You are just fah-bu-lous, but I’m not jealous. And since you heard my talk, you can vouch for the fact that I bragged about writing for S.C.’s oldest newspaper, “Georgetown Times,” and have now begun my fourteenth year!

And, thank you, Jenna! From you I learned grace, style and the art of giving. Oh! And I hope to share even more Ipock-a-Lips stories (in addition to the “Life is Short” trilogy I gave you) if you just call me up to be a guest on the “Today Show.”

This past week marked a real milestone in my career, when I spoke at the four-day event, Southern Women’s Show in Charlotte (400 vendors, 28,000 attendees.) At the top of the list was meeting Jenna Bush Hager, getting her autograph and posing with her for photos. Jenna was the keynote speaker and shared her worldwide travel experiences where she helped the underprivileged, how she came to write the book, “Ana’s Story: A Journey of Hope,” and her work as a correspondent with the NBC Today Show.

That day was perfect (I spoke at 11 and Jenna spoke at 1,) though the day after was tough: getting up at 6 a.m. for my 7:30 a.m. breakfast talk. Ack! Whatever could go wrong did go wrong: mumbling and slobbering, I hung up on my wake-up call operator. Sorry! A cold front moved in, dropping temps from a scorching 94 the week before to a nippy 61. I knew I’d freeze in my sleeveless dress and open-toed heels. Russell begged to wear his bedroom slippers (“but Ann, they’re so warm!”) from the Crowne Plaza to the Park Expo Center. So although we shivered and stammered while our teeth chattered, we sold books and we met new friends!

In fact, my newest BFF and fellow humorist is none other than Tracy Curtis, a humor columnist for the “Charlotte Observer.” Y’all, she is the REAL DEAL, but I’m not jealous of her one bit! Not her youthful age (fifteen years younger than me, but who’s counting?) Not her brush with fame (a former California producer who’s interviewed Rosie O’Donnell and other celebrities.) Not her petite yet curvy figure. Not her spot-on comedic timing or her hilarious columns or her expensive, tailored clothing. Not jealous! Oh, did I mention her over-the-top diamond ring she just bought herself? I am not jealous of her fans either — the uber cool Charlotte-ettes who follow her around like lost kittens and purr over her — who are famous bloggers themselves. Bess and Caroline, you KNOW who you are! I am not jealous of Tracy, I promise. (Is this starting to sound like a Dr. Seuss book?) I am not jealous of the fact that hub-Russ thought she was a show stopping brunette bombshell and even said — Hey! Wait a minute! Was it just a coincidence that he saved his brand new slacks and his favorite purple shirt (that I PAID to have dry-cleaned) to wear the day Tracy gave her talk?

But seriously, as what often happens with girl power, we shared, we bonded, we clicked, we clacked! And now, I, Ann Morris Ipock (my legal name, but who cares?) is ready for a new me! I am so inspired by Tracy (but not jealous)! Therefore, let it be known to all readers, writers and arithmetickers that I am going for a new look. From here on out, I am naming my column “Ipock-a-Lips.” Why? Because I paid my photographer, acting coach and dear friend, Sunnie Pennington, good money to come up with that slogan. And because Tracy, oh, sweet, precious Tracy, (that I am not jealous of) LOVED IT!!! And since Tracy loved it, Russell loved it, and since Russell loved it, well, you get the picture. He is my business manager, after all (at least I let him think that). To recap:

New name: Ipock-a-Lips.

Expect this: column length to be shorter.

Already done: new photo on “Georgetown Times” website.

Thank you, Tracy. You are just fah-bu-lous, but I’m not jealous. And since you heard my talk, you can vouch for the fact that I bragged about writing for S.C.’s oldest newspaper, “Georgetown Times,” and have now begun my fourteenth year!

And, thank you, Jenna! From you I learned grace, style and the art of giving. Oh! And I hope to share even more Ipock-a-Lips stories (in addition to the “Life is Short” trilogy I gave you) if you just call me up to be a guest on the “Today Show.”

Well, peeps, it’s that time of year again—back to school! Depending on the situation, it might mean cars packed to the roof, dorm room move-ins, assembling pre-fab furniture (which is ALWAYS missing parts) and buying linens, towels and bed-in-a-bag. Also, there’s marathon shopping for school supplies, in addition to new shoes, backpacks and lunch boxes, new text books and new teachers. I never sharpen a #2 Ticonderoga pencil—ahhhh—the distinct smell of graphite!—that I don’t think about my own back-to-school adventures. It was always bittersweet. I couldn’t wait to see my friends that I’d missed all summer but I hated giving up beach trips, summer night softball games and pool time. In that vein, things haven’t really changed all that much.

With Facebook, though, I’m reading post after post of, “My baby done left me” and we’re not talking about boyfriends, either. One mother just posted the word, “Sad,” but I knew what she meant. Some parents have a full-out pity party, ranting and raving about their baby growing up. Come to find out, the child is entering kindergarten. But, hey! I KNOW about kindergarten, especially since our daughter, Kelly, teaches kindergarten in Raleigh. Plus, Carly, our granddaughter, started kindergarten this year. She got on the phone last week, so proud of herself, and told me every child’s name in her classroom. And since she has my extroverted personality — bless her heart, the poor thing — I’m sure they all know her name by now, too.

With all of that said, my good friend, Anna, told me the best back-to-school story in the grocery store today. Anna’s a spunky, sassy, Southern lady and someone I met at a book signing last spring. Her son just left for his first year of college, (but she still has a younger son at home.) I was ready to let her sob on my shoulder, when she told me some alarming news. He’s attending UNC-W, not five miles from their home, living in a dorm.

The remarkable thing is she told me this has been harder on her husband than her. For real? She moved me to tears when she added he was her BEST FRIEND, too, (not her husband, her son. )

She proceeded to tell me how Matthew had requested all of the family — which numbered thirteen — come to their home for a going away dinner, his “last supper” as he put it.

So, Anna made plans for a delicious meal, complete with London broil, rice and butter beans — she wanted it to be super special. But hey, she’s no fool and I don’t blame her: she decided to serve the meal on Chinet paper plates for easy clean-up.

This, however, did NOT sit well with her mother (hereafter referred to as Mama.) She was just plain incensed. She tried and tried to get out the good porcelain, but Anna wouldn’t have any part of it. Mama gave in, but not before she said, “Well, I swanny! At least let us use silverware!” Anna said, “Fine!” and handed her a box of plastic forks, spoons and knives that are indeed, silver.

Next, her mother-in-law (affectionately known as Grandma) fussed for not being able to help cook while Mama continued to fuss for not being allowed to use the REAL dishes. People! Please! Paying them no mind, poor Anna reminded everyone that the dining room table was FULL of Matt’s stuff packed for the dorm, so they’d just casually sit around in the den with their plates propped on their laps. Hey—sounds good to me.

After the meal, Mama tried to WASH the silver-plastic ware, but Anna stopped her. Geez! These Southern mamas are determined. Five minutes later, Grandma DID wash some of the silver-plastic ware. The night wore on and it was evident the grandparents didn’t want to leave Matt. However, he was moving to his dorm early the next morning and there was still packing to do. Finally, about 10:30 (hours after the meal ended) everyone left. Not five minutes passed when Grandpa called to say Grandma left her cellphone and she’d be right over to get it. Oh no! Instead, Anna’s hubby ran it over to their house.

Not giving up, Grandma has now offered to do Matt’s laundry, like, forever, I’m thinking. But Anna reminded her that he’d been doing his own laundry for three years. (I told Anna to please give her MY number!) So then she said she’d collect quarters to give him.

No need: Anna said he bought a package deal on campus where he swipes the same card for entry into his room, meals, laundry, etc. Not only that, he gets a text telling him the washer has cut off and to come put his stuff in the dryer. Whoa!

So, for all of you Mamas and Grandmas out there who are missing your younguns that are back in school and you’re needing something to do, I’ve got a long list right here at my house. “Will work for food” sounds about right, but I’m warning you: I’m also a fan of Chinet!

With all the plucking, shaping and waxing I’ve done to my eyebrows over the years, there’s not much left of them. I used to wish they’d quit growing, but now I wish they’d grow back. Like many Baby Boomers, we got carried away with those evil, pain-inducing tweezers (what were we thinking?) and we lost our way—not to mention our arch: In other words, we ended up with thick short stubs that dip down into a super-short tail end. In addition, rarely do both brows match. Not pretty. Many of us have ended up with two harsh upside-down V’s, short dashes or lazy half-moons. I stare at the Generation X girls and long for their brows—structure, form and beauty, (which pretty much sums up everything about them).

And yet, I have a hairstylist that just LOVES to wax my brows. I always have her wax my upper lip and yes, I hate it. The whole process is annoying, demeaning and painful. How in the world some women have sensitive areas waxed—ouch! I simply cannot imagine, nor do I want to. But while Susan is waxing my lip, as I’m draped over the sink, helpless and hapless, with my shampooed hair wrapped tight in a towel, I wince twice: Once when she rips off the stray hairs of my upper lip with that dastardly tape and once when she says (always), “Eyebrows?”

It’s kind of like giving birth and before you’re cleaned up, Hubby says, “Wow! This was fun! Let’s have another one!” You want to shake a knot on him, or at least scream directly into his ear, “What? Are you crazy?” That’s what I’m talking about. I’ve said no to Susan the last two highlighting trips, (but yes to the twenty or so other times). Now I’m getting weak and I need a reference to back up my eyebrow-growing-out plan. I didn’t feel like I had the ammunition to PROVE I was right until now.

But all that recently changed: Thanks to the suggestion of Sunnie Pennington—the photographer who did my photo shoot—I had a glam/make-up session earlier that day with the beloved Rudolph. Let me tell you about Rudolph: He is simply a must-have, to-die-for, every woman should have this opportunity, make-up artist and angel. I sat in the white leather salon chair and was pampered for over two hours as he painstakingly patted, brushed, sponged, wiped, feathered-out and drew on my face. In between, he’d step back and say, “Oh, my!” and I knew this was good.

Then he’d turn back to his palette and say, “Um-hmmm!” and I knew this was good, too. He also said I was a Judi Dench look-alike, but I didn’t know if this was good since she’s almost twenty years my senior, (though she is quite an accomplished actress AND has nice eyebrows). Interestingly, he saved THE BROWS for last. When I told him my eyebrow story and asked, “Should they grow or should they go?” He put his hand on my shoulder, leaned forward and said emphatically, “Let them grow, honey!” So now, I have it on good authority.

I was so pleased with his results that I came home and stared at my face for what seemed like hours, trying to memorize his masterpiece. It’s taken me weeks to duplicate these brows, but I’m nearly there. And this is what I’ve found out: Everyone loves good brows!

It’s funny but I often hear the comment, “There’s something different about you,” followed by questions like, “Did you get your hair cut?” and, “Have you lost weight?” along with, “Did you change your hair color?” Until now it’s been a mystery, but I’m telling you straight-up: Here’s the big secret—brows that are growing out and carefully-pencilled-in. They give you power! Seriously. Power, dignity and respect. Who would’ve thought that the little red Maybelline pencil (under $3—a cheap beauty trick, indeed) could make me feel so good about myself? Why, it’s a morale booster! And it’s a permanent and welcome good-bye to waxing.

The next time Susan says, “Eyebrows?” I’m going to say, “Rudolph and Dame Judi say ‘no, not ever again’ and I concur,” (with a wink below my perfect brow.) That should keep her quiet (and confused) a loooooooong time.

Hey! If it was good enough for Marilyn Monroe, it ought to be good enough for me: lifting weights. I had no idea this iconic movie star was into lifting weights until I saw a photo of her posted at my local gym. Taped to the mirror in the women’s locker room was a poster of the blonde bombshell lying on a bench and pumping iron, possibly doing a chest press or a PEC fly. I’m really not sure from this angle. The athletic clothes she’s wearing are a far cry from what we wear today. For instance, I wear Danskin shorts and a razorback top to Gold’s Gym. Indeed, she’s rather casual (compared to the other styles we’ve all seen her wear): a bikini-like top and blue jeans, or actually, dungarees, rolled up at the bottom. And guess what else: She is barefooted. I have no idea why I mention this except that I’ve never seen anyone lift weights barefooted—it’s just not done, for heaven’s sake!

Her hair and make-up are of course, impeccable. That thick, gorgeous, wavy blonde style that is her trademark (not to mention her buxom bust line) looks the same as always. I’m wondering if she’s seriously lifting weights. For one thing, I can assure you she looks nothing like today’s models in “Muscle & Fitness Magazine,” which might be a good thing. In fact, it seems this photo, taken by Phillipe Halsman, is just mind-blowing. It’s hard to wrap my mind around it: sexy Marilyn Monroe, normally seen in plunging necklines and stiletto heels, doing any kind of exercising, much less weight-lifting.

And yet, it has changed my entire opinion of Marilyn Monroe, the legend. She was often portrayed as a sex kitten, arm candy to powerful, rich men, and not the brightest crayon in the box. So I am actually a little impressed — dare I say quite in awe — by this new image. Imagine: Marilyn Monroe taking care of herself without anyone else having their greasy paws on her. I’d love to know what is wandering through her mind, or her biceps, for that matter. I know what ran through my mind and biceps when I recently graduated myself from 5 to 8 lbs.: pain!    

But back to Marilyn — Ahm, excuse me, Ms. Monroe — have a little respect! How ironic that the year of this photo, 1952, is also the year I was born. And since my birthday is coming up, maybe I’ll request that very poster as a gift to put in my office on my ‘Wall of Women’ along with other collages, watercolors, photos, testaments and empowering “You go, girl!” stuff.

It’s also a little coincidental to have discovered this photo because my sister, Cathy, and I were just kidding around a few days ago and she called me a “wimp weight” — not light weight or heavy weight, but simply, a wimp weight. We were at the grocery store and she pointed to a 24-pack of water to buy. “Don’t lift that!” I said. She couldn’t imagine why and looked at me as if I was crazy. Was there a spider crawling on top? Was a bottle leaking? Was there dirt on the packaging? Nope! I simply told her it was too heavy to lift, but she — who does not lift weights, and even had recent knee surgery — huffed and puffed and did not blow, but instead, threw that big, bad boy right into our buggy.

Here’s the thing: I COULD  lift heavy water, but I don’t WANT to lift heavy water, bags of groceries,  suitcases, etc., because I’m afraid I’ll throw my back out. If I throw my back out, I can’t lift weights anymore. In other words, I’m NOT lifting one thing so that I CAN lift another. Get it? Hub-Russ says I’m just plain prissy — am not! Other people tell me to quit worrying about my shellacked nails — it’s true I also don’t want to break them. And still yet, some sarcastic, snarky people have hinted that I’m lazy. Huh? Well, maybe there is a little truth in all of the above.

I’ll bet Marilyn Monroe never had to lift heavy water bottles, sacks of groceries or suitcases, but if she did, her biceps were ready.