The Cure
I wrote recently that I suffered from what I call Autoagnosia. I can’t tell one car from another.
This drives my husband crazy, as he feels that cars are the ultimate gift from heaven. And I am just completely ungrateful – an insult really to the auto gods.
So I’ve been trying really hard to recognize all the different makes and models.
You know how they tell you to use fun associations to help you remember names? Yeah? Well, that doesn’t work. I never remember anyone’s name.
But I do recognize faces. (I can’t always attach a name, but at least I know that I know them. “Hi!” I say. How ARE you?” And I hope they don’t realize that I will never be able to tell my husband who I ran into.)
But- undaunted – I started looking at car faces, in the hopes that I can tell my husband who I ran into. But not literally, of course.
And it works. Cars have faces that I am starting to recognize.
Like:
Happy-Go-Lucky Car
Mean Old Man Car
Embarrassed Car
Clown Face Car
Yodeling Car
Fish Lips Car
Trash-Talking Car
Angry Bird Car
Big Nostrils Car
Shit-Eating Grin Car
See how many cars I can name now! No more Autoagnosia.
And when my husband asks me what kind of car a friend drives, I can say.
“Oh, He drives the Slightly Stressed-Out.”
Except of course at night –
When I can say,
“Exactly like ours!”
That Explains A Lot
Everyone has those moments – when you hear or see something – that suddenly gives you insight into your own nature.
I’ve heard it called an “aha moment” – and that expression really fits. “Aha! That’s why I’m me.”
For instance, when I was a kid, I went through a short phase where I had horrible nightmares. No one knew why. I was so terrified by these recurring nightmares (which I don’t even remember now) that I refused to go to bed. I had to be sedated every night for weeks. Years later, talking to my sisters one day about movies, I said that I didn’t like scary movies, especially about the supernatural. “Yeah,” they said, “we used to love to tell you ghost stories because you were so easy to scare.” Aha.
Sometimes, though, the Aha is a nice one.
This is my dad walking me down the aisle on my wedding day.
I may have been a 40-year-old bride, but I was a first-time bride, and I was determined to wear a traditional wedding gown and veil. I was extremely excited to get to be a bride after all those years. But I didn’t shop much for a gown. I saw this gown (a discontinued sample, by the way, at a great price) – and I had to have it. All those years waiting to be a bride and I only tried on two gowns. If you’ve ever watched “Say Yes To The Dress” – you probably know that trying on about 85 gowns is not unusual. But I wanted this gown immediately. It took about ten minutes to buy this dress. I spend more time now picking nail polish.
I didn’t know what appealed to me so much about this particular dress. It wouldn’t be what I would choose today. I’d definitely go for something more sophisticated.
And just this week, looking through old family photos, I came upon a picture of my Uncle George’s wedding. I was about seven when Uncle George married Aunt Pat. It is the first wedding that I remember attending. I thought it was the best event ever. Aunt Pat was the first bride I ever saw. She was so beautiful.
Here’s the photo I found:
Recognize the dress? Aha.
And I had another Aha moment this week too. One that explains a whole lot about my own personality. Why I am who I am.
I had my weekly dinner with my mother. And over our McDoubles, (she’s a cheap date), I was showing her the latest pictures posted on Facebook. She loves to check out Facebook on my iPhone. And there’s a Facebook page for people from my hometown – where they all reminisce about the good old days. And someone put up this picture:
And oh, I remembered it right away. It was the largest factory in Bristol Connecticut – New Departure. (I love that name, by the way – what a great name for a company.) And I knew this view without even having to think about it – I lived across the street.
And my mother smiled as soon as she saw it too.
And she said:
“When we moved there, I was about twenty-eight years old. With three little babies – you were a newborn when we moved in. I was trying really hard to be a good mother. And every time I stepped out the door, all the guys from the factory would hang out the window. And they would hoot and holler and whistle. I know that today that’s considered really awful …. harassment even … but you know…secretly…I loved it.”
Aha.
Mom. My vanity is hereditary. Totally not my fault.
I WORRY
Once in a while, I have a weird and sometimes unwelcome compulsion to write poetry instead of silly stuff. So I recently added another blog, With Resistance, so I have someplace to throw those babies. Since this poem has a silly side too, I thought I would share it here as well.
I have a pain. It is a fist clenching.
Only it is not a fist. It is my chest clenching.
Many parts of me reside in my chest.
Located right here, for instance, is my heart.
I’m not panicking which could be worse
But I’m not denying the fist in my chest.
I’ve had tests. Doctors have measured me
Walking and running and watching electrical lines
Like lie detectors. And pictures of echoes. All normal.
Rest Assured. So I rest. There it is again. Clenching.
I wonder how many dead people heard
Don’t Worry
Just before they stopped worrying
For good.
The Idea Of It
Several years ago – about 52, to be honest – I was helping myself to some pasta at a family dinner.
I have to digress a bit here. It wasn’t pasta. I never heard the word ‘pasta’ until decades later. We did not eat pasta in the 50s and 60s. We had Spaghetti or Macaroni. Period. I am not quite sure when Spaghetti became Pasta.
Okay, back to the story. I was grabbing a bowl of spaghetti. I carefully measured a half-teaspoon of grated cheese, as one of my aunts watched.
“I can see that you like the IDEA of cheese more than the cheese itself,” she remarked.
You may wonder how I can remember so clearly such a minor comment made over 50 years ago. Because I hated when grown-ups made fun of me, that’s why.
But now that I’m so much more…mature… and can take criticism so much more…maturely…
I can actually see the truth of that small observation.
There are quite a few things that I like the IDEA of a lot more than the thing itself.
For instance:
BOATS.
Before I met my husband, I had a boyfriend with a boat. It was extremely appealing (one of the only appealing things about him, as a matter of fact). Until I spent some time on his boat. He spent most weekends in the marina, working obsessively on the boat, while I tried to prepare dinner in Munchkinland kitchen with two lukewarm burners and a dirty microwave, pretending to ignore the bilgey marina smell. Once in a very great while, we managed to actually take the boat out of the marina, and we went for a ride. Which made me slightly nauseated for the rest of the day. And the day after.
(and by the way, I briefly – very briefly – dated a guy with a plane. Huge bragging rights. Lots of throwing up.)
JUMPSUITS.
How cute are one-piece outfits? Unless of course you have to sit down. Then there doesn’t seem to be quite enough material in between your shoulders and your crotch. Ouchey. And you should never try to go to the bathroom in one of those, as you have to peel off the top half, but it’s connected so it just dangles there – with the sleeves drawn by some scientific magnetism to the toilet bowl.
DONUTS.
Aroma: Wonderful. The baseball in your belly that lasts for hours: Not so much.
I will make an exception here for my Aunt Evelyn’s donuts. They were amazing. But that was more than 50 years ago, too. Dunkin Donuts does NOT have her recipe.
(And how come, by the way, microwave popcorn smells so good and tastes so ordinary?)
JAZZ.
Jazz is the intellectual snob of music. It’s for the thoughtful, educated, sophisticated. And since I am all those things, I’ve really tried to like it. But it makes my teeth hurt. And I challenge you to find a Jazz song that doesn’t sound exactly like the one I just tried to listen to.
And speaking of music, at the risk of Rock ‘N Roll blasphemy, I don’t like Buddy Holly. Too chirpy. (Oh, what a relief to finally say that…)
And also in the Music category:
CONCERTS.
It’s so exciting to buy tickets to see your favorite artist. Sharing his music with you, live and personal. Except that you are in the third balcony and you end up watching him on a big screen, otherwise he’s just a blurry little dot getting blotted out by the cell phone of the dude in front of you. And then you have to miss 35 minutes of the little dot waiting in line for the bathroom.
RUSSIAN LITERATURE.
I was a Lit major in college. I love books. But come on, 1,440 pages of heavy tragedy? Too heavy for me. I just can’t carry that around. Or even hold it for very long. And yes, I could read “War and Peace” on a Kindle. But then who would know I am reading a huge complex book? Kind of diminishes the only thing I like about Russian novels.
PARTIES.
Let me circle back to my original experience with the IDEA over the REALITY. Because I was at a party then, and I know now that Parties are the epitome of things that are better as ideas. I love anticipating a great party, planning an outfit, preparing witty quips, putting on a second layer of makeup and fancy jewelry. And then I get there, and realize that I am overdressed. And too shy to talk to anyone. And wonder how soon I can go home and watch TV.
And PICNICS are worse! Whoever thought it would be fun to make eleven trips carrying all the food outside so you can swat flies while you eat it balanced on your lap on plates that slowly become part of the food they are holding? Who thought that was a great idea?
Typical
I just came across this photo that my cousin Susan (the little one in the front – and I won’t divulge how old she is now) posted last year on Facebook.
When Sue posted this picture, I showed my husband.
“Look how cute!” I said to Hubby. “This was taken on the day I made my First Communion.”
“Which one are you?” he asked.
Orphan Envy
Here’s a post from my earliest blogging days – (with a new drawing added, now that I know how to do that).
ORPHAN ENVY
When I was eight, I was in a play.
The local Girl’s Club (like the “Y” without the yucky boys) offered afterschool classes, and I signed up for Drama. Good thing they didn’t call it Acting. I suck at Acting but Drama is my life.
The drama class put on a play (I think the same one every year) about orphans and dolls. I think it was called “Orphans and Dolls”. A beautiful rich girl has outgrown all her lovely dolls and they are very lonely in her attic. The dolls somehow (I’m sure it was very realistic) convince the girl to give her dolls to an orphanage. The poor orphans get dolls, the dolls get attention, and the girl is happy for having been so generous. It’s a good play for an all-girls organization. There isn’t a single boy in it.
How I wanted to be a Doll. Orphans were okay, especially like in a Shirley Temple movie when she cried and suffered and still had fabulous curls. But the Dolls got to wear makeup and frilly dresses. Makeup was already my main ambition in life.
My problem was that I didn’t look like a Doll. I looked like an Orphan. I was the city’s skinniest eight-year-old. The thickest part of me was my knees. I had thin, straight hair cut off above the ears – at the barbershop (no hairdresser for me, since I had hardly any hair to dress.) I had pale skin and thick eyebrows, and was too tall for my age. When I see photos of the immigrants on Ellis Island, all the children look like me.
Ellis Island. Courtesy: Wikipedia
But I wanted to be a Doll.
On audition day, the whole class got up on the little stage in the Drama room. We sang two songs, “Oh You Beautiful Doll”, the Dolls’ number, and “Side By Side”, the Orphan song. Then the teacher, Mrs. Barbara, divided us into two groups. One by one, I watched her direct all the tiny, rosy-cheeked, curly-haired little girls to the front of the stage. The Dolls. Everybody left was an Orphan.
Well, if I had to be an Orphan, I was determined to be the ultimate Orphan. I had a great source for orphan clothes, as I wore hand-me-downs not only from my sisters, but from the neighbors – and many of them came down to me in such sorry shape that even my frugal mother wouldn’t let me wear them. I would add some patches (or more patches) to one of the worst rejects, and I would certainly look more hopeless than all the other Orphans.
Only my mother wouldn’t let me. Apparently she had too much pride to let me look that bad, even in a play. I wonder now what she was thinking. Could she have been some precursor of political correctness, where she didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings who might truly be an orphan? Was she afraid that I already looked too pathetic in my natural state?
My mother was insistent. Orphans didn’t wear rags. They usually wore some type of uniform. But I already wore a uniform to school every day – a navy blue jumper with a white blouse. It wasn’t acting if I couldn’t wear a costume.
So my mother made some creative changes. She had me put the jumper on first, and over it, my sister’s blouse with the sailor collar. Too big for me, the blouse hung long over my jumper. That’s a middy blouse, my mother explained. Then she gave me black tights (my sister’s – I wasn’t allowed to wear black) and my Sunday shoes. Now you look like a proper Orphan, said my mother.
I’d rather have worn the rags, but I did kind of like the long blouse. To this day, I find myself attracted to long, loose tops over dark skirts and black stockings.
The night of the play, the dressing room (well, hallway) was filled with rouged and lipsticked Dolls. Some of them even had mascara and eyeshadow. The lead role, the girl who owned the dolls, was – by some weird coincidence – the teacher’s daughter. She had a dance solo. Mrs. Barbara Junior had full makeup and shiny hairspray—and tap shoes. They were patent leather with big bows. They were very clicky. They were magnificent shoes.
I found the rest of the orphans in the back of the hallway. Every one of them wore rags – with patches and tears. Two of them were barefoot. One girl – what a stroke of genius – had her arm in a sling! And there I was, the Coco Chanel of the Orphan world.
I went on stage, mortified that my costume was all wrong. But I played my part as dramatically as I could, which meant nodding my head emphatically, since I didn’t have any lines.
After the play, I sought out my mother in the folding-chaired audience. She was chatting with a woman whose daughter was the tiniest and cutest of the Dolls. My mother waved me over, but the little girl wore so many crinolines, I had to stand back about three feet. The woman leaned past the ruffles as best she could, and said loudly that I had the most authentic costume of all the girls. “Absolutely authentic,” she said.
I’m sure my mother put her up to it.
Jealousy
I’m jealous of my husband.
Not jealous OVER my husband. Although I guess I would if he had a girlfriend. I guess. Maybe I would. I definitely would. Eventually.
And I’m not jealous because he’s a MAN. No, I never wanted to be a man. As Elaine Benes said, “I don’t know how you guys walk around with those things.”
And I never felt held back because I was a woman. I worked for 15 years at ESPN – that bastion of testosterone. And I held my own with the guys and got promoted and even joined the football pool. And I played in the ESPN Golf Tournament with all the jocks. I came in last, but that just goes to show you what a good sport I am.
I actually sometimes feel sorry for men. How sad it must be not to cover a pimple with a little makeup, or neaten up your eyebrows, or control your tummy with some Spanx, or accentuate your sexy parts with a little padding. (Well, okay, I think some guys do that.)
No, there’s just a couple of little things that lately have me jealous of my husband.
1.
The cats prefer my husband to me. We have four cats. Every time we’ve adopted a cat, I figure this one will be MY cat. But no, they all like him better. Sure, he’s home more, but you’d think that would make my presence all the more precious. But no. I’m just a can opener.
My husband also doesn’t understand discipline. And the kitties love that about him. When we took in homeless Stewart, my husband hated him and told me to find someone to take him off our hands. That was eleven years ago. Now they sleep curled up together. Stewart considers me a third wheel.
2
He’s retired. We’ve been married for almost 22 years. For all those years, it has been a great comfort to me that I am younger than him. But now he’s retired, and I’m getting up and going to work every day. It’s so unfair. He reminds me that I am still way behind; he was working like a maniac when I was still in high school. But that is completely beside the point. The fact is that he shouldn’t be able to enjoy himself if I can’t.
I make him get out of bed and have breakfast with me at dawn. No sleeping late. That’s the least he can do.
3.
Christmas shopping. I buy presents for my mother, my sisters, my sisters’ husbands, my brother, my brother’s wife, my nieces and nephews and their spouses and children, his brother and his brother’s family. his cousin and her husband. And a few friends. My husband buys presents for me. And complains about it. And I am easy to buy for. I like: clothes, jewelry, perfume, makeup, books, candy, flowers, music, china, art materials, and wind-up toys. And if you are still stuck, you could always buy TWO pieces of jewelry. Not only does he have a much easier job – he has the best job in the world.
I know personally that nothing is more fun than buying something for me!
I’ve Sent In My Entry Fee
All this week, NPR ran a series about privacy in the digital age.
Everyone knows everything about me.
And most of this is voluntary. I post my birthday on Facebook, my favorite movies on Rotten Tomatoes, my shoe size on Zappo’s. Amazon not only knows what I like to read, it tracks what toys I buy for my nephews and nieces and where they live. It is public knowledge which politicians I have given money to, and how paltry my donations have been. I’ve asked WebMD about the weird little pain behind my left ear. My GPS knows I got lost five miles from home.
Thank God I don’t wear a Fitbit, or everyone would know my blood pressure and sleep rhythms.
And of course, there’s my blog. Over the last two years I have shared my trivial childhood traumas, my bad boyfriends, makeup purchases, new hairdos, senile cat behaviors, vacation packing, wifely complaints — well, simply every inane thought that has ever popped into my head.
What saves me is the hundreds of millions of other folks who post every inane thought that has ever popped into their heads.
I figure there is so much inane data out there, the NSA is probably not that interested in me.
Unless of course they are looking for a really good mascara.
And I have proof that there is too much information out there to possibly sift through it all.
Because Living Social offered me a deal:
Fugitive Mud Run!
Yes Siree…. Living Social thought I would like to play prison escapee.
For the low cost of $80 per entrant.
You start with your hands tied. You free yourself and then run three miles through a mud and obstacle-filled course. And the “prison guards” chase you. The obstacles include swimming moats and carrying tires (I guess you need tires for the getaway vehicle.) And be prepared to jump over fire, which greatly adds to the fun. Prison costumes are encouraged, although it is okay for female fugitives to wear bikinis. It is recommended, however, that you wear clothes and shoes that you wouldn’t mind if you have to throw them away after.
Yeah, that sounds like me.
I love mud.
Bye-Bye
I’ve said before that I can’t park.
Parallel is ridiculous. Good thing I didn’t have to demonstrate to get my license.
But the only place where I must parallel park is my Yoga class. But I’ve worked it out. I wait by the fire hydrant for the previous class to get out. I wait for at least three people to leave. Then I can drive up and pull in.
Once, I got to the street just a bit too late. The previous class was gone, but everyone from my own class had beat me to the spots. There was one spot left. I had to park between two other cars. Actual parallel parking! And I did it! I felt a higher sense of accomplishment from parking than from the Yoga. But I never intend to do it again.
In regular, that is, sane, parking lots, I can pull into a spot – as long as it’s not too small. I find I can pull in better turning left into a spot than right, so I often drive around a right-turn spot so I can approach it from the other side. I have to back out in the same direction from which I approached. The tires seem to have a turn memory that works better.
I don’t usually have a problem backing-out, so I am mystified by this recurring nightmare I have. I dream I am backing out and I can’t stop. I back out right into the car in the row behind me. And I keep going. Hitting everything backwards. If you are a dream-interpreter, please explain.
Last year I took my mother to the doctor, and when we left, the cars on either side of me had parked so close I could not turn. Which wouldn’t have been too terrible a problem, except that I couldn’t back straight out, because an asshole had parked parallel against the building, not leaving me enough room to get fully out without turning. Which I couldn’t do because of the other assholes who believe that as long as the mirrors aren’t kissing, they’ve given you sufficient space. My mother had to stand and guide me back and forth and back and forth and back and forth… about sixty zillion times. That is embarrassing when your mother is approaching her ninetieth birthday. I told her: “Don’t ever drive here yourself!” Not so much because she could never manage to park, but because I was afraid she could, and I would be further humiliated.
But despite these admissions of my parking shortcomings, there is one place where I excel.
My garage.
I never had a garage before we moved into this house nine years ago. And although I was at first intimidated by pulling in and out without hitting the actual garage, I have now had years and years of practice. In and out I glide every day. Sometimes several times a day.
My husband likes to wave Bye-Bye as I leave.
But he has this really funny wave.
He holds his hands up in a parallel position.
And they seem to become slightly directional as I back out.
Bye-Bye to you too, Honey!
Feed A Cold
So I lasted three days before I jumped off the bandwagon of my own advice.
Number One on my Advice List (Know-It-All) from just a few days ago was to ALWAYS say you feel pretty good when someone asks you how you are. No casual acquaintance really wants details on your phlegm.
Right after I wrote that, my husband came down with a really bad cold. Two days later I came down with a mild cold. I think mine is mild and his is horrible because of the amount of complaining that has accompanied our illnesses.
But to be fair, I really do think he was a lot sicker than I was. He looked and sounded terrible. I didn’t look my best on Saturday, but then I pulled myself together and put some makeup on.
We had planned to go apple-picking on Sunday at the gorgeous orchard we visit every year, and it was a warm beautiful day. So we took our medicine and went on with our plans.
At first we felt a little chilled, but as we walked (and walked – it’s a big orchard), we began to feel better. Of course the apples we like were acres away from the pears we also wanted. So it wasn’t long before our bags felt too heavy, our noses too runny, and our foreheads hot and sweaty. We admitted to each other that just perhaps we weren’t quite up to it. It is nice to make allowances for your obvious physical shortcomings.
And I ran into some old friends – fellow writers who helped me on the first draft of my still-in-process novel. i will use as an excuse that I was a bit light-headed from the meds.
Because I greeted them warmly, and kissed and hugged them both.
Then of course they asked how I am, and I said, “Oh, I have a terrible cold!”
I said this after I kissed them!
I wanted to smack myself right on my sweaty forehead.
I felt so bad I went to a restaurant and had a big cheeseburger and french fries. And ate every bite.
So there went Advice #8.
And I went home and didn’t vacuum. (# 9)
notquiteold 