Doggy Bag
That instrument of scientific, well-documented information dissemination – the internet – tells me that Grapefruit is making a comeback.
I’m so glad. I like grapefruit, but I certainly wouldn’t eat grapefruit if it was out of fashion. It’s a good thing I didn’t know was out of fashion.
So I have been spared.
But you know what I wish would also make a comeback?
Fanny Packs.
Oh yes. I admit they are ugly and unflattering. And no one is more against ugly and unflattering than yours truly. Why, if I could run for Secretary For The Outlawing Of Unflattering — well, I definitely would.
However.
Do you know how much shit I have to carry with me when I take my dog Theo for a walk?
Our walks are usually about 1.5 miles. I live on a private road, so about half of the 1.5 miles is on our own property. But that leaves .75 miles in public. Sure, it may be on a road that never sees a car… but it could. A car could go by someday. And I’d be a lady with a fanny pack. I want to be a lady with a really cute dog. But the fanny pack would win out. That’s how I would be remembered.
Yesterday, this is what I had in my pockets on our walk:
Kleenex – 3 tissues. It’s very cold right now in Connecticut. My nose runs. I do not understand how you don’t see a lot more runny noses in wintertime movies. Did Julie Christie’s nose drip in Dr. Zhivago? Did Andie MacDowell wipe off liquid snot in Groundhog Day? No siree. They looked sexy and gorgeous out in the zero weather. My nose runs like the kitchen faucet in my first apartment.
Julie Christie in Dr.Zhivago. Why is her nose not dripping?
Pepper spray. As I said, I live on a private road. In the woods. There are bears. We had bears in our backyard just this Spring. We had a baby bear come up on our patio and press his little nose up against our patio door. Animal Control shot a bear in our brush pile two months ago. I need pepper spray for protection against the bears. Did I mention that there are bears?
Breath spray. My little doggy does not always behave. But I can’t exactly calm him down with pepper spray. That would be a tad harsh. However, when he is really out of control, a shot of breath spray in the air gets his attention just enough to stop him from chasing the squirrels – and dragging me along with him through dense shrubbery and low hanging branches. One of those squirrels could be a bear.
Treats. Because Theo is not always horrible on the leash. Only most of the time. So when he happens to be good, I like to reward him right away. Someday he may make the connection.
Clicker. I have a clicker thingy that the puppy kindergarten teacher recommended. I am supposed to use it when Theo is good. My second-grade nun had a clicker. She used it mostly when we were bad. I can’t figure out the use of it, but I carry it anyway. Theo ignores it, but who knows? Someday he may act like a little angel because he wants to hear the clicker.
Garage Door Opener. I have to be able to get back in. Quickly. Bears.
Chapstick. As wet as my nose is, the same can’t be said for my lips. And even though I apply it right before I leave the house, I might need some more. And it’s small. It doesn’t take much room in my pocket. And I like one with a blush of color. I have to match my rosy red cheeks. And rosy red nose.
Gloves. Not only because it is friggin’ freezing, which it is. But also so I can take yucky shit out of Theo’s mouth. He likes to pick up stuff from the side of the road. Old Dunkin Donut cups are especially desirable if you are a 7-month old puppy. But also cigarette butts and deer poop. Once even a dead mouse.
By the way, if you use a clicker when you are wearing gloves, it doesn’t make much of a sound. I am hoping maybe it makes a sound that only dogs can hear. But I keep taking my gloves on and off to use the clicker – and to wipe my nose – and the gloves going in and out of my pocket are way too much temptation for a doggy to bear. (Not bear in the scary animal sense, this time.) So I need to keep taking them out of the puppy’s mouth too.
Poop bag. Theo is a home pooper. By that, I mean he likes to poop within 8 feet of our door. Which makes for an easy clean-up. It would be an even easier clean-up if he liked to poop in the woods… but… bears shit in the woods. So, let’s keep it near the house, okay? I keep the pooper-scooper at the ready. But what if? What if we get to the public part of the walk and he decides to go again? What if he craps on someone’s lawn? Well, right now it would be crapping on someone’s snow – but that would be even MORE visible. They could be looking out the window, and see this runny-nosed, chapped-lipped lady with bulging pockets and her dog shitting on their pristine snow. So I bring a poop bag. I bring two. You never know.
Phone. Because I could break my leg when Theo is dragging me into the bushes to chase a squirrel. And because I need the pedometer app to know when we have gone .75 miles so I can turn around. And because you never can tell when he is going to be just so dog-gone cute.
Toys. Because Theo likes to pick up random stuff on our walks, I like to be able to substitute a toy for a dead mouse. He is partial to The Cat In The Hat, which now has only one arm. But Theo is quite accepting of Cat In The Hat’s disability.
I am glad that Theo likes his handicapped toy. Because it reminds me of one of my all-time favorite dogs.
I was in college. I always liked a window seat in class. It made for better day-dreaming in Elements of English Phonetics. (Yeah, I took that. A snooze-fest.) So a window seat was required.
So one glorious afternoon, I’m gazing out the window. I’m watching a dog chase the falling autumn leaves. He’s happy. Running in circles and barking at leaves seems to be a very nice dog occupation. Along comes a guy on crutches, leg in a big white cast. The dog runs up, tail wagging, and grabs the end of one crutch. It seems another favorite past-time for this doggy is tug-of-war. He’s pulling and jumping, and the poor dude is trying to balance on one leg, and desperately trying to get the dog to let go of the crutch. It is great fun – for the dog. I thought I might have to run from the classroom (I wish) and rescue the guy. But finally another student comes along and pulls the dog away and holds him while the crutches guy makes a getaway. I’m smiling.
Four minutes later. Along comes a blind girl with a cane. I’m not kidding. And I’m thinking, Oh NO! And sure enough, here comes Doggy, tail a-wagging. He grabs the cane and pulls and tugs, and the poor blind girl is wrestling and appears to be hollering for help. And eventually a couple of kids run over and save her. Doggy finally – and happily – goes trotting off.
I’m laughing now, as I was laughing then. That dog just wanted to play, and he was one lucky dog. He found TWO people in a row with STICKS!
Theo with his beloved Cat In The Hat
Be Prepared
You know how your mother always told you to wear clean underwear – because you could be hit by a bus?
As I am now face-to-face with old age (and thank you everyone for the amazing response to my last post!), I can certainly see the wisdom behind good underwear.
There are, of course, different stages of good underwear. In elementary school, I could get hit by a bus. In high school, there were all those staircases and very short skirts. In college there was the remote but intriguing possibility that I could find myself with the opportunity to shed my clothes for a roll in the Indian-batik bedspread. For a long time as a financial executive, good underwear meant my business suit fit better, and the knowledge that I had French lace under said suit gave me secret confidence. And now that I am old – well…I could get hit by a bus.
(By the way, Facebook: Yes, you know I am 65. I do not need a daily ad for pee-proof panties.)
Besides clean underwear, I have identified a few things I should have handy for my old age.
1. A well-stocked medicine cabinet. It’s already a pain in the ass to discover I am out of cough syrup when I have a cold. It will only get worse. I don’t need a trip to the pharmacy for aspirin when I already have a headache. Or sneeze my way to the pharmacy because I forgot to get my allergy spray. And I especially don’t want a terrifying trip to the pharmacy for Kaopectate.
2. In a similar vein, I should make sure my car is in good repair, and never too low on gas. As I age, I am finding that I don’t like gassing up when the weather sucks. And my standard of weather-suckiness is getting pickier and pickier. Like rain. Like cold. Like wind. Like nighttime.
3. A good pet-sitter. Now that I will soon be retired, I’ll have more free time. And I may have opportunities to travel a bit. An overnight to Newport. A trip to the City (that’s what us snooty folks in Connecticut call New York) for a play or museum exhibit. A writing seminar to someplace with a better climate than here. But we have a dog now, as well as the two cats. I need to have someone lined up to take care of my pets on short notice. Someone who will keep my fur children happy and my husband un-freaked out.
4. A company-ready house. I’m a pretty solitary person. And solitude is a wonderful thing after a day at the office. But soon there will be no office. I will be needing some socialization. I’ll have to invite people over a bit more often. So I need a reasonably clean house, a drawer with some toys for kids, and a coffee cake. I think that would do it.
5. A Roomba. In order to have my house reasonably clean for company, I would like an appliance that will clean the house by itself. If I can find a cordless hairdryer, I can probably dust pretty easily too. The Roomba can double as entertainment, if I can teach one of the cats to ride around on it. I’m not sure I can get Stewart into a full costume though. Maybe a sombrero.
6. Two nice outfits. I’ve always loved to shop. But I have found as I age that I enjoy it less and less. I don’t want to scramble for an outfit for a special event. And I don’t want to grab just anything and say ‘good enough.’ I want to have clothing that I love waiting patiently in my closet for the appropriate event. I live mostly in jeans. I figure I need two dressy outfits. One happy and pretty – for weddings. Weddings where I will now be the sweet old great auntie. One of my own old great-aunties once wore a feather boa to a wedding. Although part of me would love be THAT kind of auntie, I think something a bit classier would go over better. My other outfit should be somber and dignified – for funerals. As time goes by, I will be wearing that ensemble a lot. Hopefully as a visitor, not as the honoree.
7. A good swimsuit. Not only will I continue to wear a bathing suit, I want it at the ready. Last year I had two opportunities to go swimming, and no swimsuit. That will not happen again. I plan to keep a little bag in the trunk of my car with a bathing suit and towel. I don’t care if I am ninety. I don’t care if I have varicose veins that look like pythons. I don’t care if my tummy is bigger than my breasts or my ass is down around my thighs. I am going to jump in the water every single chance I get.
8. A lightweight lawn chair. I love to sit outside in good weather. My lounge chairs weigh a ton. I need a light one so I can follow the sun as it moves through the yard. I am particular about sun angles. I have been known to move my chaise every ten minutes.
9. Comfortable pretty shoes. I have pretty shoes. Comfortable is a different story. My toes and bunions will no longer stand for any suffering. But I am determined to find comfortable shoes that are also beautiful – even if I have to have them specially made for me. I want them comfortable enough to dance in. I want to dance a lot in my old age. When I was young, there was a definite distinction between young people’s music and old people’s. At weddings, the Rock ‘n Roll would kick in after the old people left. But I belong to the first generation of old people who GREW UP on Rock ‘n Roll. Start the music early, kids. Your old auntie wants to DANCE!
Facebook ad I’ve seen every day for months. That’s an awfully big smile for a girl who pees her pants.
The Old Woman I Will Be
Another birthday.
A big one. 65.
Over the last few weeks, I have been preoccupied with the significance of 65.
Two thirds of my life is behind me. Maybe more. Do I have 30 years left? What if it is only 10?
I’ve wasted a lot of time in 65 years. John Lennon said, “Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.” But have I enjoyed it? It’s gone now… all those hours waiting for boys to call or vegging in front of TV or playing online games or shopping for shit that I hardly ever wear. I can’t get those hours back.
But I want to make the most of whatever time I have left – and to enjoy that time. Maybe that still means television and shopping. But maybe not.
I will soon (not quite yet) be an old woman.
I’ve been asking myself:
What kind of old woman do I want to be?
I’ve haven’t decided, but I know a few things.
For one thing, I always thought it would be a relief to be old, and no longer concerned about my appearance. Not true. I care. I want to always care. How I look on the outside impacts how I feel about myself. This has always been true, and in the past, it was often in a negative way. I never even felt pretty until I turned sixty. But surprisingly I found I liked my sixty-year-old looks. And at 65, I feel quite beautiful. That’s such a lovely feeling. I’m keeping it. I don’t want to look like an old woman trying desperately to be young. But I will be a beautiful old woman, with good hair and makeup and carefully chosen clothes.
I want to be a smart old woman. I’ll stay interested in politics and the environment and literature and the arts. My father suffered from mild dementia late in life, and I recognize that could happen to me too. If it does, I hope people will be as kind to me as they were to my dad. Maybe I will at least be lucky enough to stay smart in something. My father could still follow the football game. If I can still read a book, I will be happy enough.
Some people tell me they look forward to the freedom to be outspoken. But I come from a long line of non-boat rockers. (Or is it boat non-rockers?) Either way, I’m not sure I would be happy as a crotchety old lady. I like being a nice person. I don’t even have a resting bitch-face.
But I do think I will let go of caring so much what other people think of me. I have long been distressed when I find someone doesn’t like me. Even to be disagreed with is tragic to me. But I am well on my way to getting past it. Right now I am working with someone who very obviously dislikes me. And you know what? It doesn’t matter that much. I don’t have to win her over.
I do want, however, to ask for what I want. As a boat non-rocker, I have always had a difficult time expressing my desires. I always do what everyone else wants to do. I’ve acquiesced so long it’s hard to even know what I want. I remember back in 1976 – forty years ago. I was 25 and Dorothy Hamill had charmed the country at the Winter Olympics. I very badly coveted her hairdo. I went to the salon, and the hairdresser said, “How about if I give you a Dorothy Hamill haircut?” And I said, “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d look good in that style,” and he cut my hair differently. Differently and Badly. What the hell was wrong with me? This guy was offering me exactly what I wanted, and I turned it down? That stupid little incident haunts me. And I have not changed much. I can’t tell my friends what restaurant I want to go to. I can’t tell my boss that I deserve a raise. I can’t tell my husband what I want for my birthday.
I want to hug and kiss everyone more. I’m a very restrained person. I love my family and friends, but it is difficult for me to be openly demonstrative. But these last few months I’ve changed my mind. It’s my puppy. I love to hug him. He loves me to hug him. Shit, if a dog feels that way, imagine human beings. We all need affection. I’m giving it. I was at a family party this weekend, and I went around the house and hugged and kissed everyone there. I kissed my sisters. Do you know how long it has been since I kissed my sisters? I am going to kiss them all the time.
I’ve been writing this blog for 4 1/2 years. If it’s a waste of time, it’s the best waste of time ever. Does it take me away from working more on my second novel? Yes. Writing a novel is so solitary. And I am a solitary person by nature. So I love that. But my blog is social. I write and people respond. It’s like getting hugs back. I need that too.
And about my blog: every year on my birthday, I post a new photo. Unretouched. (Although I’m tempted.) But I want to show people – especially younger people – that being old is not so bad.
In fact it’s pretty good.
Me – 65 Today!
P.S. Hubby, I want a new iPhone for my birthday.
The First Time – Lipstick, That Is
With another birthday fast approaching, I thought I’d share this old post written way back in 2011.
***
THE HISTORY OF LIPSTICK – CHAPTER ONE
I wore lipstick on Easter Sunday, 1963. I was twelve.
In 1963, twelve was young for lipstick. None of my classmates were allowed. Only the grown-up girls. The eighth graders.
But that was the point. I had older sisters. I needed to be a teenager long before I was one.
My lipstick was pink. “Pink Cameo”, I think, from Cutex.
This was Jackie Kennedy’s shade, or so I had read.
I bought it at McClelland’s Five and Ten for 39 cents. My first makeup purchase.
The makeup aisle at McClelland’s did not have all the makeup hanging from hooks, like stores today. Instead were long tables, with cubes holding the different products and brands: Maybelline, Cutex, Helen Rubenstein.
From the time I was nine, I had visited that table weekly, transfixed. How I coveted all those little tubes and compacts. I waited for the day when I could spend my allowance here, rather than at the candy counter.
I didn’t buy Pink Cameo on the sly. I had my mother’s permission. My mother was, and still is, wise. She knew I was heartbroken that my sisters were teenagers. And lipstick was a small consolation.
My mother didn’t worry. I looked like this:
Sort of a vacuous Anne Frank, with stupider hair. Pink Cameo wouldn’t make the older boys start hanging around my front yard.
And so I wore lipstick on Easter Sunday, 1963. I sang in the church choir. “Alleluia” – a skinny flat-chested daydreamer with bright pink lips.
Ten months later I turned into a teenager. The Beatles sang on the Ed Sullivan Show on February 9, 1964 – my thirteenth birthday.
I still love The Beatles. I still love lipstick.
Decisions, Decisions
Years ago, I became friends with a co-worker whose life was very unlike my Ozzie and Harriet existence.
Especially in the boyfriend arena. I had no boyfriend of record. Karen had a boyfriend with a record.
And I don’t mean he was churning out hits like Ozzie’s son Ricky.
No. He was an ex-con.
Jeff had been in and out of prison a couple of times. Mostly drug charges and larceny. Can I say that this criminal was at heart a gentle soul? He seemed so to me.
Karen and I worked in a small office, upstairs from a liquor store (which was very convenient for everyone). Given that we were a small nonprofit agency, there wasn’t a lot of money for things like cleaning services, so Karen boosted her income by cleaning the office twice a week.
But most of the time, it wasn’t Karen who was doing the cleaning. She sent her boyfriend, Jeff, who almost always owed her money, and so he would do her maintenance job to pay her off.
I was an up-and-coming young executive, by which I mean I was a kid who was working my ass off hoping someone would notice and pay me more than minimum wage. So I often worked evenings.
Mostly I was alone in the evening. And although there was a lot of traffic going in and out of the liquor store, few people knew there was even an office up there, so it seemed safe to me, working in the quiet solitude.
On Tuesday and Thursday nights, Jeff would show up. He’d clean the restrooms and take out the trash and vacuum. We’d chat while he went about his chores. Mostly about music. I think at one time he was a decent musician.
Once when Jeff was finishing up for the night, and I was still balancing reports, he said that I shouldn’t be working there all alone. It was dangerous, he said.
How Strange, I thought. Most people would think it more dangerous to be there with him.
Jeff talked a little bit about his troubles with the law.
“Sometimes when I think about stealing something,” he said, “I think about the chances I could get caught. Whether it would be worth taking the risk that I could go back to jail. And you know… sometimes it is.”
I was astounded, but tried not to show it. I’m sure I looked like a kitten being confronted by a python.
“No shit,” Jeff said. “Prison isn’t that bad. I’m not so good at doing the right thing -getting up and going to work, or eating right, or cleaning up after myself. In prison, you don’t have to even think about anything. You do what they tell you and you work and eat and sleep and it’s okay.”
There’s a lot of truth there.
When I think about my childhood, it’s one of the things I miss most: NOT making decisions.
Life was so much easier when I didn’t have to choose. I just did what Mom and Dad said, and there was a meal on the table and clothes in the closet and gas in the car and heat and electricity and sometimes even a vacation.
Now I am faced with so many decisions, and I don’t find it agreeable at all.
Little ones, like today, when I had to decide whether to stay home sick or go to work sick. Infect everyone? Or look like a shirker?
And our old reliable SUV needs a major, expensive repair. Do we pay the exorbitant sum to fix it and hope it stays reliable? Or do we trade it in, and add another car payment to our monthly expenses? And if we do trade it in, what do we buy? New? Used? Do we lease?
On top of that, my retirement is now fast-approaching. My soon-to-be-diminished income isn’t helped by either a big car repair or a big car payment. And even more critical, where do we even want to live? Do we head south, where costs are lower and the weather suits our temperament, or do we stay north,where our friends and family provide the warmth?
I just can’t decide.
I want someone to decide for me.
I need someone to decide for me.
Except my husband, of course.
I resent that.
Yes, I CAN Judge Your Children
I have no kids.
Looking back on it, I see that my childlessness resulted from a combination of circumstances and nature – but also some unfortunate decisions on my part. Or rather, the lack of decision. Sometime inaction turns into a decision in itself.
Last year I published an essay that I had written fourteen years earlier, “Not Having Children.” It resonated with many women, and I was lucky enough to have The Huffington Post translate it into French and Spanish, and so I was able to share my experience with more women than I had ever imagined.
I have a happy life, though, and – except for that very big one – few regrets.
So this may be a rather serious post, but it is not a sad one.
It is irritating – and unfair – that because of my childlessness, I am also considered excluded from commenting on child-rearing. “Oh, you just don’t KNOW,” say Mothers everywhere when I venture an opinion on kids’ behavior.
But I DO know. Who better to see the good and not-so-good in children than someone who has had nothing but objective observation for decades? I have no vested interest. I am not comparing your little monsters to my little monsters. I am not sizing up your parenting skills against mine. I am not going to start a sentence with, “Back when I was raising my Joey….”
I see. I really see.
I see that a kid of four should no longer hit.
I see that a kid of five should be able to eat without extraordinary mess. There should be little food on floor or table. It can, however, still be on his plate, as I recognize all the fussy stages that kids go through.
By six, she should be able to wait maybe two minutes for anything, including you, before pulling out the cranky tears. If you run into me in the supermarket and want to chat, I know that your kid wants to get the show on the road. But two minutes of patience is not a bad thing to learn. And I am also aware that if we go over two minutes, all bets are off. This is a kid, not a saint.
Also by six, a kid should be able to lose a game once in a while. It is always fun to win, but to lose with good humor is a skill that will last her a lifetime.
A seven-year-old should know how to behave in public. I remember working in a kitchen shop years ago, and a tiny boy of maybe five came in with his mother. He walked over to me, past all the breakable dishes and glassware and announced: “I’m not touching anything. And I’m using my inside voice.” If a 5-year-old understands the rules, so should your 7-year-old.
And you should be able to take an eight-year-old to a restaurant. A kid-friendly restaurant is probably a wise choice, but once in a while, your kids should go someplace nice, and act nice. They should have some appropriate manners and conversation. This will help enormously in the future. Especially when you visit me. I like talking to and listening to your kids. I do not like yelling at them to stop jumping on the furniture or banging the piano. I’d rather discuss History and Kung Fu Panda – and so would they.
And while we are on the subject of food (and it seems that LOTS of kids’ behaviors revolve around food), I expect a nine-year-old to be polite about what he likes or doesn’t. Recently at a family gathering, a kid much older than nine called a certain dish, “disgusting.” I really don’t care whether it is my kid or not – or whether I am short of the correct parenting qualifications. I told that kid – pleasantly enough – that someone at that very table took the time and trouble to make that food as a gift for us. That he could eat it or not eat it. But that he was not allowed to call it disgusting.
My expectations are realistic. I know the difference between overtired and bratty. I have a tremendous amount of patience (and sympathy for you, by the way) for the kid who is having a meltdown because it’s already seven-thirty and you’re still running errands, and he hasn’t had dinner yet.
And I know that good behavior is far more plentiful than bad behavior – we just notice the bad stuff more.
One more comment: With regards to “overtired” – it seems there is a huge increase in kids who are over-extended and under-rested. So please, for the sake of their well-being and your sanity (and mine), give the kids a decent bedtime.
And give them a hug and kiss for me when you put them to bed.
Because down deep, I wish they were mine.
The Beauty Parlor
Ten weeks ago, my husband took my puppy for his first haircut.
I had to work. But I should have known better. I should have taken the day off. Dads cannot communicate what Moms want for their kids’ hairdos.
Theo is a Lagotto Romagnolo, an ancient Italian breed that is the ancestor to the Standard Poodle, the Portuguese and Spanish Water Dogs, and just about every water dog and retriever since the Middle Ages.
In fact, here’s a painting called “The Meeting” by Andrea Mantegna from 1474.
See the dog at the lower left?
He’s a Lagotto Romagnolo. From more than 500 years ago.
And check this guy out. It’s a painting from the 1600s by Il Guercino, which translates to “The Blinker,” so I am thinking that it is a self-portrait of the weird-eyed human on the right.
Compare the doggie above with my Theo’s mama, who has the un-mama name of Dada:
The breed hasn’t changed much in the last 400 years.
Lagottos (or Lagotti, not sure which is correct) are very popular in Italy and some other parts of Europe, because they are terrific truffle hunters.
In the U.S., they are still fairly rare – about 500 right now I think. And they were just recognized by the AKC, and so now compete in the big dog shows. Westminster, here we come.
Theo’s mom and dad are both Italian. Dada the Mama came to the U.S. already pregnant. So Theo is an anchor baby of the canine variety.
I am still waiting for him to find a truffle in our yard, so we can be rich.
But back to the haircut.
I was not pleased with Theo’s first haircut. Too short and with kind of a poodley pompadour at the top. And because he was shorn very close around his eyes (which of course he needs in order to see), the pompadour gave him a distinctly cro-magnon look. On top of that, I thought his ears were cut too short and too straight across. The total effect was kind of a cro-magnon-y Moe Fine.
So needless to say (which is an expression I should NEVER use, because if it was needless to say, I wouldn’t say it, but probably 87% of everything I say and write is needless, but my goal is to get down to 84% by the end of the year) – I accompanied Theo and my hubby on this week’s visit to the groomer.
I have a very hard time telling my own hairdresser exactly what I want. This is partially because I think she may actually know best what looks good on me, and partially because I’m never quite sure anyway of what I really want, and partially because I don’t want to upset her when she has scissors.
But I had no trouble telling the nice groomer what I wanted for my doggie’s hairdo.
The groomer spent two hours on Theo. I can have color, highlights, a trim, and a blow-dry in under two hours, but then again, my hairdresser only has to work with the top of my head, and not my feet and belly and private parts.
And of course, my hairdresser doesn’t deal with too much squirminess – in fact, she practically has to wake me up after her magic fingers shampoo technique.
Here’s Theo’s “before” shot:
Adorable, but lacking a certain quality – usually called “vision.”
Lisa the Groomer first combed out all his knots, of which he had quite a few, because we are not good parents.
Then it was time for the shampoo. Although this is my favorite part of my own trips to the hairdresser, it was not Theo’s favorite.
Then came the blow-dry. Theo was not overly fond of the noise, but he managed to keep it together, though his anxiety is evident.
Lisa gave him the full works on the blow-out – making him as fluffy as possible before the cut:
Time for the actual cut. I admit to getting a bit misty-eyed as the clippers mowed though all Theo’s beautiful fuzz. My husband and I had a bit of a disagreement on ear length, as my husband felt that my instructions left Theo’s ears too “girly” – whatever that means. So Lisa adjusted Theo’s ears to a more masculine ear – also whatever that means.
The result:
Gorgeous!
Complaint Department
I borrowed my mother’s car this week, so my husband could work on our SUV. I’ve been driving the little convertible, but it’s winter, and Hubby doesn’t want to risk the convertible. It’s OK to risk my mother’s car.
She’s 92. She doesn’t drive much. She had my sister drive her to the DMV to renew her license. But she likes having that car in the driveway. She likes being an independent woman. She could drive if she WANTED to. That’s important – even when your hairdresser stops by and picks you up for your appointment. (I love my mother’s hairdresser.)
I don’t like to deny Mom that autonomy. Besides, it is embarrassing to have to borrow a car from your 92-year-old mother.
It’s also a little mortifying (can you be just a little mortified, or is it all or nothing?) to LIKE her car. I mentioned to a friend that I was a bit embarrassed, and she said, “Oh, your mom is in her nineties? Is it a Buick?”
And holy shit! It is!!!!
And I like it. A very smooth ride and steers with your pinkie finger.
But there are no seat-heaters.
I hate that.
I complained.
Well, not to Mom, but on Facebook.
Facebook = The Complaint Department of the First World.
And a friend immediately wrote that she too had her parents’ car – they were in Florida for the winter and their car is better in the snow than hers. But with their car, she has to turn the headlights on and off. HERSELF.
I mean, really.
Does Life have be so hard?
I’m having a rotten week.
Why just the other day, I went to take the twelve thousandth photo of my dog, and I got video instead.
And this was right after my TV remote wouldn’t work, and I had to change the batteries. And I had to FIND the batteries.
And I tore a contact lens while putting it in – which I NEVER do – and I now I have 77 days of lenses for my left eye and 76 days for my right eye.
And I went to the coffee bar and they gave me my Cappuccino in a paper cup, when I clearly wanted to drink it there.
And there was a sale on bananas, so my husband bought 3 bunches, and now they are getting black and I don’t feel like making bread.
And I paid $3.95 for a movie on Pay-Per-View, and the dog had to go peepee right in the middle, and I missed 7 minutes while he dicked around trying to find just the right spot.
And I wanted to wear my lavender penny loafers on Wednesday, but it was raining and they’re suede.
AND someone stood in MY spot at Zumba.
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Holy Cards
All my life, cards have been important to me.
My mother understood the value of playing cards (“Best Little Things”) – a cheap way to keep a passel of kids quiet. We learned Fish and War, Rummy, SetBack, Crazy Eights, Old Maid, and a jillion kinds of Solitaire. Then later it was Canasta, Cribbage, Hearts. I never did learn Bridge, although I have recently rediscovered Gin (online), and now am so addicted my puppy has been barking at me all evening.
There was also my most precious childhood possession – my library card. There was never a better invention that the public library. Why, you can borrow any book you want – FOR FREE – and read it and then go get another one. My library let me take SIX at a time!
In school, though, it was Holy Cards. I collected Holy Cards like they were tickets to Heaven – which may have been what the nuns told me – and they wouldn’t lie- they were NUNS. Married to Jesus, for God’s sake. [literally, for God’s sake.)
The nuns gave us Holy Cards for special occasions or as a reward for extraordinary achievement. And how I loved being recognized for any achievement, never mind extraordinary.
And although it has been more than fifty years since I was in elementary school, I still have a few of the holy cards I was awarded. Because they were still tucked inside my missal, which I have kept for 56 years.
Here are some of the Holy Cards I found. If you did not go to parochial school, you may recognize them as the cards that are often given as a remembrance at funerals.
The one of the upper left is in French – I went to a French parochial school in Connecticut. When I use Google Translate, it comes back with “Brace, Obey and Give Service Happily.” The “Brace’ part confuses me, but the first translation Google gave me was, “Spider, Obey and Give Service Happily” so perhaps this card was intended for Spiderman, and not little Nancy Dube.
The next Holy Card is Pope Paul VI, from 1963. I don’t know why I kept this card – I never liked Paul VI, because he never smiled. I liked his predecessor, Pope John XXIII – who was a chubby guy who smiled all the time.
At the upper right is a card in Latin and English – “Prince of Peace.” On the back of this card, in beautiful cursive is written,
Dear Nancy,
May happiness be at your door
Throughout the year of ’64.
Sr. Maria
Sister Maria was a very nice nun. I remember she once told me that her “real” name was Beverly. I thought at the time that she must have been very relieved to become Maria.
On to the bottom left -“Our Lady of the Council.” I had no idea there was a lady of the council, and googling was no help. But I do remember a big deal was made by the nuns about the Second Vatican Council, which modernized the Church. I guess we prayed to this version of Mary so we could stop praying in Latin.
Lastly, “Inviolata integra et casta es Maria” – Inviolate and chaste is Mary. I’m sure I had no idea what that meant in 1962, since I still don’t.
I received dozens of Holy Cards back in the late 50s and early 60s. These five remain. They meant a lot to me back then, so I will put them back in my 56-year-old missal (for which I begged my mother for months, and at $4.50 it was enormously expensive, but my mother got her money’s worth, I think, since I still have it, and so it works out to be only $0.08 a year).
Any why am I thinking about playing cards and library cards and Holy cards this week?
Because I just received my latest precious Holy Card:
Like a Holy Card in my prayer book, I now have a Medicare card in my wallet.
Holy Card. Holy Crap. How the hell did that happen?
I don’t remember getting old enough for Medicare.
Theo and me on Christmas Eve. My husband bought me a sweater to match my dog. This young girl cannot possibly have a Medicare card in her purse.
notquiteold 
Being Read
Nancy ♦ January 31, 2016 ♦ 62 Comments
Last week I learned that there is a very fine line between resonating with folks and touching a nerve.
My essay about judging your kids caused quite an uproar.
Interesting to me was the difference in reaction depending on the source of the reader.
The people who read my blog on The Huffington Post were overwhelmingly negative. It seems that The HuffPost reader is a tad sensitive on whether I have the right to judge their kids (and their parenting) – without children of my own. Which actually was the whole point. I don’t think it’s fair to exclude me from commenting on how your children behave – when they are behaving in my presence. Or to say that I know nothing about parenting since I do not have children of my own.
No, I don’t have children. I am sorry that I don’t. I wish I did. You don’t always get everything you want in life. So I have to make do with enjoying and loving your children.
And I do.
But I also think that many kids could benefit from a more strenuous instruction in and enforcement of good manners.
But that doesn’t mean I hate kids. Or expect them to be perfect. For the last 40 years, I’ve had nieces and nephews and grandnieces and grandnephews, and I’ve seen my friends’ children grow up and have children of their own.
I know that all kids can be both little angels and little demons – often within the same minute. I also know that it’s difficult to be a good parent, and most folks are just doing the best they can. My sister-in-law commented that during the kindergarten years she wasn’t too concerned about whether her kids were hitting their classmates – she was just happy they weren’t biting their classmates.
I didn’t think I was nasty in my essay. I thought I was rather understanding. But hundreds of folks over at the Huffington Post thought I was an evil, rotten monster-bitch to even suggest that, overall, kids should behave. One even found my Facebook Author Page and called me some vile names. Now HuffPost is an open forum, and people can say whatever they wish. But my Facebook page is MY page. I require civility.
On the upside, the response may have been overwhelmingly negative, but then again, it was also just plain overwhelming. People read what I wrote. I’m a writer. I got read. Doesn’t get much better than that.
But actually, it does.
Because you amazing people who read my blog were overwhelmingly positive.
I believe the difference between your reaction and the Huffington reaction is that you KNOW me. You’ve read a few of my essays; you see that I am not a mean person. I’m a kind person. I look for the best in human beings. And I find it. Always.
Some people (including the special one I live with) tell me that I am naive. That I can be oblivious to the awful people and the horrible dangers that constantly surround me.
But I’m not naive. I understand that not everyone is benevolent.
But most people are.
Good people are everywhere. And if I concentrate on good people, it helps me be a good person too.
I believe I am a happier person than those who look for the worst in humanity. And why wouldn’t I want to be happy?
Thank you, good friends, for understanding me.