I’m A Fast Learner
I hate the expression, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
Learning has nothing to do with age. Why just this year, I have figured out how to write and manage a blog, how to install and use a scanner, how to work my new iPhone – I’ve even downloaded two (count ’em: 2!) apps.
I drove my husband’s truck with the plow attached. (I am not claiming to have parked it.)
And I learned how to make pretzels.
(I may need a bit more practice on the shape.)
But even though I believe you can learn anything at any age, I will admit that there are some things that are better learned when you’re young.
Like skiing.
I learned to cross-country ski at age 32, and I did pretty well. Of course, cross-country skiing is sort of like how you skated across the kitchen floor in your stocking feet when you were eight. And there’s nothing to be afraid of. If I come across a steep descent, I just snap my boots out of my skis and walk around it.
But at age 37, I met a man who ‘ski’ skied. Like downhill. Downhill skiing isn’t really downhill, it’s downmountain.
But I was game. (Actually I was in love, and therefore insane.)
So I went to a medium-sized local mountain with this man and his son. I persuaded Boyfriend not to watch me, and so he happily went to the black diamond hill with his eleven-year-old. I rented boots, skis, and poles, and inched my way to the instruction slope.
‘Slope’ was an exaggeration. The grade was about the same as the floor of my shower, so that the water runs into the drain. But I was cool gliding down the gentle path with the rest of my class. The rest of my class were toddlers.
“Don’t feel bad,” said the teacher. “Toddlers have a very low center of gravity. You are much more tippy, so it’s harder for you.”
I was pleased by this, since I thought by ‘tippy’, he might mean ‘stacked’, and that made me like my new ski jacket quite a bit.
After about half of hour of easy practice, I graduated. I went to the bunny hill. I had to get on the little ski-lift and take a short ride. Getting off was very brave. and then I made slow, wide (almost horizontal) zig-zags down the hill.
My boyfriend showed up and I did it again with him. I was very pleased with myself. And I had that little tag on my jacket that told the world I was a skier. It was exhilarating.
We broke up the next week.
The following year I met the man who became my husband.
And unbelievably, he was another skier! But okay, I could tell him that I skied ‘a little’.
More unbelievably, he seemed to be in love with me. He planned a ski vacation, and when I told him I would rent equipment, his smitten little self took me to the local ski shop and bought me skis, boots, poles, goggles, and an even cuter ski jacket with matching pants, mittens and headband. I was a doll.
So we go to a REAL mountain in Vermont. I donned my new ensemble and we headed for a very big ski lift and a very tall mountain. Only it was called The Bunny Hill. “This can’t be the bunny hill,” I told my sweetheart.
And I got to the top and fell off the ski lift. “I’m okay,” I said cheerfully.
And we started down. DOWN.
My boots hurt, I couldn’t control my direction, and I was unable to make those big sideways swaths I had learned the previous year. I went straight downhill like a racer, only with my poles flailing like cockeyed windmills.
For about thirty feet. I managed to stop by using my face as a brake.
After I got my head out of the snow, I sat down and cried a little bit. My sweetie tried to coax me back on my feet, and I cried harder.
“Can’t I take my skis off and walk down?” I asked.
Eventually we took it little by little, and he guided me slowly down the mountain. I skied all the way down in snowplow position. Which is exhausting.
And I didn’t ski again. And he married me anyway.
But I learned to ski as an adult. So don’t be telling me you can’t teach an old dog new tricks!
P.S. – I’m no coward. Why just this morning I brushed my teeth with that lethal weapon called the Spinbrush.
A Tasteless, Yet Gratifying, Tale
Somewhere around my fifth year of college, I rediscovered my shyness.
Inexplicably, I felt thirteen again. Awkward, unattractive, tongue-tied. I stopped dating. I forgot how to flirt.
It was a phase. It lasted ten years.
When I hit thirty, I figured it was time to do more than work and go to school. So I started going out again. One of my coworkers was a very ‘popular’ young woman. She was beautiful–blonde hair, luscious lips, amazing breasts, long legs. We got along pretty well at work, so when she asked me if I wanted to tag along to the bar one evening, I went.
I hated it, but I kept going, and little by little, I hated it less and less. My friend – let’s call her Marilyn – was a great teacher. She told me that once she sprouted stupendous knockers, boys started coming around, and she never looked back. Now my knockers are completely unstupendous, but I have a nice personality.
We started to go out twice a week. Somewhere around Year Two, Marilyn got married, but that didn’t slow her down. She lived to flirt.
Watching her, I saw that although sex appeal had a lot to do with a beautiful face and body, confidence and friendliness also played a part. I can be friendly. And while not exactly confident, I relaxed a bit, and a few men responded.
And a funny thing happened. Marilyn got competitive. She could make men pant (okay…so I found out later that’s no so hard), and she began to thrust those big boobies between me and any man who showed interest.
I figured she was going through her own phase.
But sometimes it wasn’t much fun. She started pointing out my shortcomings to men, and I had quite a few, so she had lots of material. She just couldn’t share even a fraction of the attention she was so used to.
To be honest, I continued to stay friends with Marilyn out of guilt. Because early on, I had been happy to hang around with her and benefit from the crowd of men she drew. But surely, she could have given me just one of the little fishies she threw back.
And one day we went to the beach.
Marilyn was in her glory. Red bikini, golden hair and golden tan, she basked in more than the sun.
And I sat on my blanket– plain, white-skinned, flat-chested, and I watched her strut. I watched the familiar reaction. For hours.
It’s okay, I told myself, I’ve got a nice novel and it’s a gorgeous day. But I felt pretty bad.
Towards the end of the afternoon, Marilyn took yet another stroll, to the joy of all the surrounding men.
And on her way back, with her head high and her arms swinging, I saw it.
The telltale little string hanging down from her bikini bottom for all the oglers to ogle.
The Great Equalizer.
I felt much better.
Zumba Babe
So we’re watching TV a few nights ago, and a commercial comes on for Zumba DVDs.
There’s a really hot babe – she’s sweating like someone poured a Flashdance bucket on her. She’s what they used to call ‘scantily clad’. And she’s thrusting her lady parts like her joints are lubricated with… um… lubricant.
By this time of the evening, my husband is usually sacked out and snoring on the sofa. But he’s curiously awake.
He laughs.
“Look at that,’ he says. “They use sex to sell everything. Look what they’re saying Zumba is like.”
“Well, it sort of is like that,” I answer.
“But you take Zumba,” he says, confused.
“Yup,” I say.
He considers the idea.
“That’s why your hips are sore?” he asks.
“Uh-huh.”
The commercial is over and the cooking competition comes back on.
After a while, my husband says, “It’s supposed to be icy on Saturday. Maybe I should take you in the truck to your Zumba class.”
“A ride would be nice. You could go out for coffee or something.”
He’s quiet.
I explain, “We don’t have an audience in Zumba.”
In a novel, the author would describe his look as ‘crestfallen’ – and his crest did noticeably fall.
My husband’s brain can totally disregard reality.
I love that about him.
Me - in my husband's mind.
Me.
Drive-In
You know what I miss?
I miss the Drive-In.
drive-in. (Photo credit: eaortmann)
Drive-Ins were such a weird invention. Some nut-case (actually his name was Hollingshead) way back in the twenties decided that it would be a great idea to sit in your car and watch a movie.
It took about twenty years to perfect the screen and the sound… and boy, was it far from perfected. But I loved it.
When I was a little kid, we used to go to the Plainville Drive-In. We’d get there early, because we wanted a good parking space, and because they had a great playground. The playground had trampolines. Oh my God, that was the coolest thing.
My little brother could not figure out the trampoline. He was barely more than a toddler, and he couldn’t jump with both feet at the same time. It was hysterical–for me anyway. He was the baby boy after three girls in a row (me being number three), and everyone adored him. So naturally I was delighted by his stupidity.
I loved the movies but sometimes it was a toss-up whether I would watch the movie or jump on the trampoline all night. (My mother solved that dilemma for me.)
Most kids wore their pajamas to the Drive-In, which I thought was especially festive. Like Christmas Eve in the middle of summer. But my mother didn’t like us to go out in pajamas. Sometimes I could sweet-talk her into letting me change into pajamas once the movie started. Then I’d pretend I had to use the restroom, so I could walk around outside in my PJs.
We’d watch the movie – usually a double feature with a long intermission (filled with dancing popcorn and hot dogs and cups of coca-cola to promote the overpriced concession stand) through our scrubbed, but still blurry, windshield. Sometimes we watched through raindrops. There was a post with a speaker that Dad precariously attached to the windshield. The tinny sound was awful and fantastic at the same time. And there was always someone who would drive off with the speaker still attached, and they’d rip it right off the pole. I loved that part.
If you opened the windows you were invaded by mosquitoes. If you didn’t, the windshield would steam up. My sisters and I would play tic-tac-toe on the side windows. Of course, there were some cars that were extra steamy.
We saw some wonderful movies at the Drive-In. I think so anyway. I can only recall one. We went to see “Hatari” with John Wayne. My Daddy loved The Duke.
It wasn’t playing at my beloved Plainville Drive-In. We went to the Watertown Drive-In, which we had never been to before. My father couldn’t find the place and we drove around for a long time, so naturally my father had to stop the car twice so I could throw up. We got to the movies late, and my mother let me watch standing outside the car in the cool air. I could hear the sound from the big speakers blaring from the concession stand. Baby elephants followed around a very pretty actress.
When I was sixteen, the Drive-In changed. And changed me.
I went to see “Two For The Road” with Audrey Hepburn – and with Kenny. My mother reluctantly gave me permission. Kenny’s mother did not, but he was embarrassed to tell me, and so he snuck out of the house. We double-dated with kids I don’t remember at all. I do remember the movie. It was exceptional, and it’s still one of my all-time favorite movies.
And then the second feature came on. I don’t remember it any more than I remember the other kids in the car.
The windshield steamed.
Bye Bye, Trampoline.
Hello, Tramp.
Let Me Hint Louder
Because I didn’t marry until I was forty, I missed an important little fact about men.
(Of course it is possible that missing this lesson was one reason why I didn’t marry until forty.)
It’s intuition. Men have none. They have no sense of ‘sense’.
When I was a little girl, communication with my mother and my two sisters was almost telepathic. We always knew how each one of us felt. Every nuance was so easily interpreted. A wave of the hand explained a bad day at school. Sitting down to homework right after school signified a fight with a friend. Sharing a candy bar – obvious guilt.
As I got older, I found most women could accurately read all little gestures and subtexts.
Marian would say “I love this song.”
And Patty would say “When did you and Kevin break up?”
I’d say to a Barbe, “I think Jane Fonda should get an Oscar for ‘Klute’.”
And she’d say, “Yeah, your hair would look cute like that.”
I didn’t realize that men had no such ability. I figured my father was just being deliberately obtuse.
I had a little brother. But having a little brother is sort of like having a pet. You have to take care of him once in a while, and sometimes you play with him. But mostly he’s just there.
I went through high school and college wondering why boys just didn’t understand.
It took me several years of marriage to finally realize: Men really DON’T understand. They don’t get ‘subtle’. They don’t get ‘hint’.
You have to tell men stuff as CLEARLY as possible.
You don’t say, “Gee, the trash can is getting full.”
You say, “Stop what you’re doing right now please and come and take out the trash right now please.”
You don’t say, “Michelle’s earrings were pretty.”
You say, “I want pearl earrings for Christmas. I want 3.5mm studs with white gold posts, not yellow gold. They have some at Becker’s, and I’ve written down the sku number for you here, with directions to the store.”
And sometimes, even when you are being pretty clear, they think you are too subtle.
Friday, we were going out and my husband asked me if he needed a coat.
I said, “It’s in the high thirties.”
He said, “But do I need a coat?”
It seems that after twenty years of marriage I would have learned.
NEVER hint.
But I guess I just can’t give up.
This weekend, halfway through the vacuuming, I sat down to take a break.
“I’m so bored with housework,” I said to my husband. “I just don’t want to do it anymore.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You can always finish it up tomorrow.”
Getting ready to drop a little hint.
Vacation Plans
This week,Coming East wrote about her “Anti-Bucket List” – about all the things she would never want to do.
The first thing that popped into my head was that I didn’t want to eat any bugs.
Because I don’t care to ingest insects, I guess I would not be a very good candidate for “Survivor”.
I guess if I were starving I would eat a bug. But why would I ever want to be starving? For a TV show?
Nope.
No “Survivor” for me.
I don’t care to eat bugs. Nor do I care to have them eat me. Have you seen the bug bites on Survivor contestants?
And I wouldn’t want to play tackle football in the mud. Or stand on a ladder-thingee until my feet cramp up.
Most of all, I won’t give up my contact lenses, my hair dye, my blow dryer, my mousse, my concealer and mascara, my iron, clean panties, high heels, and cable TV. And my tweezers. And I need a hot shower every day with moisturizing soap, and bristle-free armpits, and perfume. I don’t like my own body odor much, and I detest anyone else’s. I want to brush and floss and I want everyone else to brush and floss. I want air conditioning if it’s hot and a nice fireplace if it’s cold. And I am extremely picky about my coffee.
I’m very good at puzzles like the ones they’re always doing in “Survivor”, but it also appears that you have to wear a bikini during puzzle-making. My bikini days ended in 1984.
However…
They usually shoot those shows someplace very sultry – the better for bikini-wearing, I guess. Blue water and white sand. Palm trees. And I am so ready for a tropical island. I need a vacation.
And I can do it.
Here’s how:
I get on the show with a fantastic video audition. I will inspire them with my triumph over my mysterious illness (I’ll come up with a good one), and then show them a few of my Zumba moves.
Once I get there, I pull the old switcheroo. I act so obnoxious my tribemates will be screaming to get rid of me.
But can a woman as sweet as me be obnoxious enough? Oh yeah. Just ask my older sisters.
I’ll do my nails while the other guys are building our shelter. I’ll use the drinking water to clean my hairbrush. I’ll request a gluten-free diet. I’ll flash the youngest guy on the tribe. I’ll let it slip that I have a bad heart. I’ll ask everyone to please not pee in the ocean. All in the first day.
I’ll cry. (That strategy worked with my sisters.)
And my tribe will throw the first challenge just to get rid of me.
And I’ll spend the next 38 days back at the hotel. I’ll bask in the sun and drink margaritas and wait for the starving bug-bitten dirty smelly winners to finish up.
How I Almost Went To Hell
Back in the 80s, I spent about a year as the general manager of a Cable TV system. It was a small system in a little Connecticut town, but it was owned by one of the big giant cable operators. I’m sure you know the one, because they are The One.
I had been a regional business manager for Cable TV before Giant Cable bought my company. I did budgets and accounting. A lot of thinking and planning. I’m a good thinker and a good planner. I’m not such a good carry-outer.
Humungous Cable did all the budgeting at their humungous corporate headquarters. So they didn’t want me to do that. They actually expected me to manage the operations. They may have been confused.
It wasn’t all bad. It turns out that my predecessor had won Ginormous Cable’s company-wide competition for the biggest quarterly subscriber gain. He gained a ton of subscribers the old-fashioned way –he didn’t disconnect anybody. (It was a wonderful time to not pay your bill). Only he quit before the prize was given. So after I had been the manager for one month, I went on an all-expense paid vacation to Bermuda.
When I got back though, Gihugic Cable expected me to manage. I had an office full of dirty ancient soda bottles, and employees who came to work in sweats. I fired a woman for stealing and she sweetly promised to send her boyfriend to meet me in the parking lot.
And those were the high points.
Honkin Cable bought a honkin shopping network. At my little system, we already carried a little shopping network. This was long before the era of 600 channels. The most we could squeeze out was 35. I had no room for another. But it was a no-brainer for the corporate honkers. Take off Itsy-Bitsy Shopping and put on Mondo Shopping.
No big deal. Except that Itsy-Bitsy Shopping Nework offered one program that didn’t involve crappy jewelry. Every morning at 9:00 they broadcast a Catholic Mass. It was a live broadcast, and people could call in the evening before with their prayers, and they would get mentioned during the service.
Did I mention that this little town was full of old Italian ladies?
The letter-writing campaign was surprisingly well-organized.
Then I started to get visits. From Nursing Home Administrators. And Nuns. And Priests. Then some guy who said he was the Bishop, but I can’t be sure. I didn’t ask for his ID.
I waited for the Pope.
One of my sweatpant-clad employees came in one Monday to tell me that I was the subject of Sunday’s sermon at her church. They not only told people my name, but they knew somehow that I used to be a good Catholic girl.
I was famous.
But going to Hell.
(Now you may be thinking…‘But you went to work for Cable Television – certainly you already knew you’d be going to Hell’….but I really thought I could run a customer-friendly cable operation. I was young.)
I managed to escape though. I called Itsy-Bitsy Shopping and begged them to let me cherry-pick their Mass, and play it on our own local access channel.
And Itsy-Bitsy Manager must have also been afraid of going to Hell, because she let me.
I was saved.
And I quit shortly after.
I went back to Budgets. I like Accounting. For the most part, my office isn’t filled with unhappy priests.
Career Choice
My husband retired last year.
He doesn’t particularly like it. (I think I might particularly like it, but that’s another story.) He sold advertising, but in this economy, sales were down for the company he worked for, and they couldn’t afford him anymore. He was already 65, so he retired. And now he’s 66, so he’s got Social Security as well as Medicare.
As another aside, it is weird to be married to someone on Medicare, when I am myself so very young. My mother says ‘You think that’s weird – try having a child on Medicare.’
But back to Husband’s dilemma: He’s 66, the economy is lousy, and he wants to work.
So he’s always trying to come up with ideas for a second career.
We both think he would be great at house-flipping. He can fix anything. But the real estate market is still awful. Especially where we live.
If he can’t sell houses, though, he could still fix them. In some ways, he’d be a great landlord. We could buy a couple of multi-family homes, or a small apartment building. But on the other hand, he has no tolerance for people who won’t take care of their shit. So he’d probably kill his renters. And he could do it. He has a gun.
Perhaps he could sell guns. But he never sells anything. He only buys. Selling advertising was the exception, because he didn’t have to buy any inventory. Once he owns something, he falls in love. He wants it forever. (Oh wait, I guess that’s a ‘no’ then on house-flipping.) He can’t part with anything. He even keeps old phone books. Expect a story on this eventually.
Computers are out. He’s great with technology – he used to work in the computer industry when storage systems took up whole buildings. But his skills are outdated and he hates school. He won’t even read instructions (but I think perhaps everyone’s husband is like that.)
He makes cool stuff. He made a potting bench for me out of old pallets.
But he’s careful. That is a very nice way to say that he works S-L-O-W-L-Y. He could never churn stuff out fast enough to make a profit.
He has a really nice speaking voice. He could be a DeeJay. But he’d only want to play Gene Autry records. And The Beach Boys. The Surfin’ Spurs Station. Although that would be an interesting format, it would be a very small niche.
He would like to invent something. He comes up with products quite often. His best idea is paint-ball guns you could mount to the front of your car. You would use them on stupid drivers. Left turn from the right hand lane – splat.
But last week he had an epiphany.
We’re driving along, and he said, “I think I have an idea of what I’d like to do.”
“That’s terrific,” I said enthusiastically. I am a wonderful wife, as I’ve said as many times as I can fit it in.
“I want to start a horseradish farm.”
Scarfing Through The Years
Yeah, there’s another definition of scarfing, and I’ve certainly done my share of that through the years too.
But this is about literal scarfing.
My First Scarf: Back when I was dancing to Annette Funicello records, I had a little Annette scarf tied around my neck. I felt awkward with this scarf. It didn’t serve any purpose (although I’ve learned since that fashion does not have to be functional). Was I supposed to look like a cowgirl? And I had heard this scary story about a girl whose scarf disguised the fact that her head had been severed.
There was a long scarf famine after that. In high school, this may have had something to do with the movie “Isadora” — in which lovely Isadora Duncan died a very tragic death as her long scarf became entangled in the spokes of her lover’s car, throwing her from the car like a spitball from a slingshot.
In college, my scarflessness was simpler. Love Beads.
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When I got my first job however, scarves were back. Women were becoming executives for the first time, and even us non-executive types wore the uniform. A suit with a white blouse and a floppy bow. They were basically all the same, so I really only needed one, but I had several. I had a brown suit with a paisley bow, a navy blue suit with a red bow, and my favorite – a gray suit with a turquoise bow. Sometimes I mixed and matched. It still looked like the same suit. I looked like a flight attendant every day.
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In the 80s, business attire loosened up. I thank Miami Vice for that. It suddenly became okay to wear something other than gray. Brights and pastels were in. And scarves got untied. A white silk scarf was cool. Clothes may have been lighter, but makeup was certainly heavier. But this get-up was perfect for going out for drinks and dancing after work. Which I did a lot. I could nurse one wine-spritzer for three hours, while seriously flirting.
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About 1989, I found my way into my own style. But not exactly. I actually found my way into Diane Keaton’s style. I traded in my scarf for a necktie. Sure, “Play It Again, Sam” came out in 1972, but it took me seventeen years to be comfortable enough to put on a tie. (and figure out how to tie it). I loved this style. I met my husband in my Diane Keaton phase. He loved me but he thought I dressed a little nutty. (The perm wasn’t Diane Keaton; it was my own style and I had those curls on my wedding day.)
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I’ve taken a long break from neckwear. I like beaded necklaces and long pearls.
Until this year. Scarves are back this winter. Everyone has them. Long rectangles wrapped and wrapped against cozy necks. Lightweight sweaters and heavy scarves. I love this look.
I bought one. (naturally).
But here’s the thing: Every time I put on my new scarf, I hesitate.
I’m vaguely reminded of something. But I just haven’t been able to put my finger about it. What is it? Why do I always end up taking off the scarf and substituting a necklace?
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Then today I saw it.
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It’s My Party……………………… And I’ll Photoshop If I Want To
Today’s my birthday.
The day I have to change my “About” page. Since I started my blog in July, it has read “I’m sixty” – but today it says “I’m sixty-one.”
I guess I need to change my blog photo too.
I’ve been proud of that photo. I took it exactly one year ago. I thought I looked pretty good for sixty. And I bragged that it wasn’t Photoshopped. Although I did admit to taking quite a few shots to get one I liked (less than two hundred, though).
So it’s only right that I change to a picture of me at sixty-one.
Again, I did not take more than two hundred shots to get a nice picture. As an math-minded accountant, that means I take one nice picture one-half-of-one-percent of the time. At 61, I think that’s acceptable. Photogenic, even.
You may discern that this photo is a little less focused than the earlier pic. And to that I say,
“YES IT IS!”
And what’s more, my photos will become increasingly unfocused with each passing year, until I am a vague blur of what might be a very attractive woman.
I swear though, it isn’t Photoshopped. No siree. No Photoshop for me. I used Picnik.com.
And all I did was very very slightly lighten the shadows under my eyes. Hardly at all. I can show you the original photo to prove how minutely I changed it.
But I won’t. It’s my birthday and it is impolite of you to even ask.
It’s still me. It looks just like me. Just softer.
I couldn’t help wondering, though, whether just a little Photoshop is acceptable at sixty-one. Just a little. I deserve it.
It’s my birthday.
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notquiteold 