Walking To School With Abraham Lincoln
Way back in the day, I trudged through eight-foot snowdrifts in my nine-mile commute to school.
Okay, that was Abraham Lincoln.
But I feel almost as old while I wait in the line of traffic following the school bus.
It’s a cold day and there was a dusting of snow last night. But that doesn’t explain what I am watching.
The bus stops at every house. EVERY house. The children wait INSIDE until the bus pulls up and stops. Then mom walks the kid to the bus (SLOWLY, because it might be icy), and gives him a kiss. Mom adjusts his hat. He climbs onto the bus. Then the bus WAITS until the kid sits down and CAREFULLY pulls away. The bus driver rolls to the next house. REPEAT.
Perhaps the liberal use of CAPS reveals my mild annoyance.
I’m in no hurry to get to work. I’m rarely in a hurry for anything. What is exasperating me is that the kids walk only from their door to the bus.
This particular street has sidewalks and traffic lights. They could walk to the corner to get the bus. Or better still, they could walk ALL THE WAY to school, which is about four blocks away.
And these kids are all fat. Gee, I wonder why.
I don’t have kids. I never really noticed when things changed.
So back to me and Honest Abe.
The elementary school I went to was only three blocks away. So I walked. Like I think kids should do today. I was a bit of a dreamer and meanderer (but you read my blog, so you know I haven’t changed) and it took me fifteen minutes to walk what was probably a five-minute walk. But still fifteen minutes. That’s hardly arduous.
And that’s not all.
I went to a Catholic grammar school that did not have a kindergarten. So when I was five years old, before I had a three-block walk to school, I went to kindergarten at the public school that was half a mile away. And I WALKED!
My mother didn’t walk with me. I walked with my cousin Arthur. He was also FIVE.
Can you picture us? Two five-year-olds, walking every day.
My walk to school in 1956-57.
You may notice on this map that most of the walk was along Route 69. While not exactly the highway, we weren’t walking along country roads either. These were city streets. With traffic.
Arthur had an older brother at that school. He was already at school when we went to our half-day afternoon kindergarten. But he walked home with us. It’s nice to have someone older to be responsible. Johnny was in first grade. He was SIX.
One day in early January, Arthur and Johnny arrived home without me. When our mothers asked where I was, they weren’t quite sure. They’d lost track of me. Mom was panic-stricken. She ran up those streets looking for me, without success. An hour later I showed up. For a change of pace, I had taken Race Street and Valley Street home, and lots of people had discarded their Christmas trees by the side of the road. They all had wonderful tinsel, and I couldn’t resist stopping at every tree to collect the shiny strands.
My mother was terrified that day. But only for one day, because the next day I walked to school again. The only thing that changed were the strict instructions to stay with my cousins and come straight home.
As natural as it seemed back then, I have to admit that I cannot picture it today. My little niece Naomi is five years old. She’s also in kindergarten. I would NEVER let her walk a half mile to school. She’s just a baby for God’s sake.
Starting Off On The Right Foot
I am happy to report significant progress in my third Zumba class.
For those who (perhaps wisely) pay no attention to pop culture, Zumba is the latest fitness craze. It is like the aerobics classes that were hot in the eighties, except with more hip action and much cooler music.
My first class didn’t really remind me of my old 1985 aerobics class though. For one thing, there were no leg-warmers. Yeah, back then I wore a black leotard with white tights and pink leg-warmers. (My mother wouldn’t pay for ballet lessons when I was ten. It obviously affected me.)
It reminded me more of the tennis lessons I took in 1989. Because I did a lot of standing there watching the action pass me by.
But I was a little improved in my second Zumba class. It helped that I took an easier class. Instead of 37 different step combinations in a single dance, we had four. That worked for me. I actually got to dance.
Class Number Two also brought back exercise memories. Distant memories. Back in the sixties, high school phys ed included Square Dancing. I didn’t grow up in Texas. I grew up in Connecticut. My life revolved around war protests and the Beatles. Square Dancing was square.
But secretly, it was really fun.
I liked memorizing the steps until they felt natural. Until I could do them without counting. That’s when it stopped being Phys Ed and started being Dancing. Even if I couldn’t really see the difference between Allemande Left and Allemande Right.
And just like Square Dancing, my second Zumba class presented me with the same little challenge.
I went right when everyone went left. And left when everyone went right.
But a little directional deficiency is no deterrent for me.
I showed up at Zumba Number Three with a salsa attitude and frisky feet.
Determined to dance and not count, I loosened my shoulders and my hips and gave it my all. I merengued and cumbia’d, and, although I’m not quite sure, I did something that was an awful lot like the Locomotion. I was the best sixty-year-old Zumbist in the room. I was the only sixty-year-old Zumbist in the room.
I’m still working on that directional thing.
Not Quite Paris
I may live in – as my husband so delicately puts it – East Bumf**k, but I am one of the most sophisticated BumF**kers in town.
I say this despite the fact that I missed the trend change from bootcut to skinny jeans. I was only a little late getting hip with the latest style. (Probably ‘hip’ is the wrong word here.)
But anyhow, I’m now back on track as the sixtyish style maven.
And my sophistication extends far beyond fashion.
My house is awesome. I give my husband credit as the builder, but the decor is all mine. And I possess shitloads of taste.
Some of my class comes from France. I am half-French (Canadian, but it still counts). I have also traveled to Paris on business. Three times. For a grand total of seven days. But Paris gets into your pores immediately. One week is plenty to make you snooty. I ooze snoot.
France is the birthplace of the bidet. (I’m not exactly positive about this, but bidet is certainly a French word.) So bidets are very classy.
Although I am ultra-sophisticated, I am not above shopping at Costco.
And I have recently discovered that Costco has bridged the gap between Paris and East Bumf**k.
Their new offering:
Yes, indeed, it is an electronic toilet seat. To convert your classless ho-hum toilet into a cultured combination toilet/bidet.
The incredible Intelliseat features include:
* Heated Seat
* Heated water jets with three options:
– His Backside
– Her Backside
– Her Frontside
* Adjustable water pressure, including pulsating
* Jet-Dry
*Energy Saving Night Light
*Safety On/Off Sensor
* Wireless Remote Control (not necessarily from another room, I don’t think.)
I checked the reviews on Amazon.com and the Intelliseat scored RAVES.
Of course, there are a few minor drawbacks. You need a grounded outlet to plug it in, and the power cord is very short. Many people have to use one of those heavy duty orange extension cords. And the stream of warm water is a bit intense (resulting in the occasional accidental enema). And you may need to bring a book while waiting for the gentle warm breeze to blow-dry your now soaking butt.
But hey, this is nothing compared to the Great Big Advantage.
You’ll never need toilet paper again.
As one reviewer summed it up: “A Great Bidet Experience”
My sophisticated house (and heinie) is sorely missing this experience. I’m getting one.
Rank And File
I have stunning powers of concentration. When I am engrossed in a book (or in my work, even though I much prefer a book), the entire world vanishes. You can walk into my office and when you start to speak, you have to scrape me off the ceiling.
I once had a ecology-minded job where all the lights were motion-sensitive. I sat so still the light kept going off while I worked. Maintenance had to cripple the switch in my office.
However…
There is one place where my mind wanders. (Well, let’s make that two – I have a bit of trouble staying in the moment in my Yoga class.)
Meetings.
It’s not that I’m not paying attention. It’s that so many other things are interesting too.
I like re-seat the attendees in my mind. I think of it as creating order out of chaos.
First of all, there’s COLOR. I will group those people wearing black, then brown, then blue, green…well, you get the idea. Sometimes I wish I could make everyone get up and sit in the more visually appealing scheme I have designed.
Then there’s HAIR. I like to rearrange from short hair to long. I am always in the middle.
There’s WEIGHT of course, and again, I’m in the middle. This gives me comfort.
For ladies only, there’s MAKEUP. Au naturel: to the left, please. And as I work in a very ‘earthy’ industry, I need a lot of room to my left. I envy those women with perfect complexions, and lashes that don’t need mascara. I am not one of those women.
Also for girls only, there’s JEWELRY. I’m at the top in the ‘dripping in jewels’ category. I place a little lower in MANICURE. And at the bottom in BOSOM.
Lastly there’s AGE.
Years ago (because I’ve been doing this as long as I’ve been attending meetings) I was the smart-alecky kid. Then I became the fresh-faced young manager. Then, the successful executive. And not long ago, the wise veteran.
Yesterday, when I looked around the room, putting everyone in order, there I was: The Old Lady.
Not Quite Right, Dr. Freud
I was reminded the other day of Freud’s theory that by age six or so, a young girl is devastated by the realization that she doesn’t have a penis. She experiences this as a great loss that affects her for the rest of her life.
I think I read about Freud’s claims when I was about fifteen. I laughed my ass off.
ALL the girls I grew up with thought boys were stupid, and penises were especially stupid. As far as envy goes, I didn’t even think peeing in the snow was worthwhile.
If anything, I felt a little sorry for boys. I figured they must be very jealous of our nice hair and pretty clothes. And what boring toys. Lincoln Logs? Really? When you could have a gorgeous Revlon doll with curly hair and real eyelashes?
As a kid, my favorite past-time was acting out scenes from movies and TV. My friend Doris and I would recreate movies in her backyard. Our biggest problem was that most stories were about boys. Yuck.
We’d stage Shirley Temple movies–Big Three Theatre (Hartford’s Channel 3 at 4:30) had a Shirley Temple movie at least once a week – “Heidi”, “The Little Princess”, “Captain January”. And of course we played Annette and Darlene from the Mickey Mouse Club. Then around 1959, there was “Tammy and the Bachelor” and “Gidget”. I’d sit through two showings at the Cameo Theater, and I was good to go, with near-perfect recall for all the best scenes and lines. Doris never dared to challenge my recollection.
When I was nine we hit the drama jackpot: “Pollyanna.”
For me, “Pollyanna” was the perfect movie. Hayley Mills was so adorable. She had a great accent, and clothes that were supposed to be ugly but were really fabulous. She had long blond hair. She lived in a big gorgeous house but she was an orphan too. And best of all – she had TRAGEDY.
We used Doris’ swing set as the tree that Pollyanna fell out of. We learned to jump off the crossbar of the swing and land in the most delicately terrible (but harmless) way. I must have jumped off that bar two hundred times that summer.
The tricky part about “Pollyanna” was sharing the role with Doris. Pollyanna was really the only girl in the movie. Pollyanna’s sidekick was a BOY. Jimmy Bean was played by Kevin Corcoran, and he was a cute little kid, but I never ever wanted to be the boy. So we took turns. Grudgingly.
But I had a secret. When it was my turn to be Jimmy, I changed it around in my head. I was actually Jenny, who was just pretending to be a boy because the evil orphanage police were looking for me. I was a runaway. I had cut off my hair as part of my disguise. This explained quite well the fact that in actuality I had hardly any hair. This little subplot became for me just as sweet as playing Pollyanna. I think it was the beginning of my fiction career.
I never shared my private storyline with Doris. When I was Pollyanna, she was Jimmy. Period.
Me, as Pollyanna. I tied a yellow sweater around my head to simulate long blond hair. My arms and legs were really that skinny.
Dancing In The Dark
I am thrilled to report significant progress on my 2012 goals.
I am ever so much closer to being a contestant on “Dancing With The Stars!”
That’s right. My quest for the Mirror-Ball Trophy has taken a dramatic leap forward.
I often need to get up during the night. Usually because of the needs of my very old cat, but also because of the needs of my notquiteold bladder.
We live out in the country and our nights are very dark. So we have several night-lights scattered around the house.
Last week my husband got a great deal on a package of new night-lights.
They are a little modern for my taste, but they’re light-sensitive and so they illuminate automatically in the dark.
So Hubby put two in our long upstairs hallway and one in the master bath. And no more stubbed toes or bumped noses.
And the added bonus: I get to rehearse for “Dancing with the Stars.”
Because when all the lights go out, and the night-lights come on – Voila!
It’s SHOWTIME!
But My Ankles Look Slim.
Last month when I spent the day in New York City, I found that my beloved boot-cut jeans were out of fashion, and everyone was wearing skinny jeans tucked into boots (“Country Mouse“).
How I figured I'd look in the new jean/boot combination, except skinnier and younger, since I drew it myself.
I always buy Christmas presents for myself. And guess what? I always seem to pick out just the perfect gift for me. It’s uncanny.
So I bought some slim jeans at the after-Christmas sale. (And not only does giftee-me love the presents I buy me; I’m also very understanding if giver-me is a little late. What a perfect relationship.) I opted for the slim-cut rather than the all-out skinny, since it seems that skin-tight denim on sixty-year-old thighs doesn’t necessary play as well as in the drawing above.
On to the boots. It appears that after Christmas is not a good time to get boots on sale. There wasn’t much to choose from. Nothing that looked like my fantasy boot. Well, actually there were some, but not in my size. Well, actually there were some in my size, but my size had somehow changed.
I couldn’t get these boots on. My mother always complains that she can’t get boots wide enough for her calves. And in these, my mature years, I can’t either. None of the tall boots would zip up. I needed another inch of width.
Then I found a pair. They weren’t exactly what I was looking for – they were a little dark and a little biker – but amazingly they fit.
Not bad.
They were European boots, therefore inscrutable in size. They were size 42. What the heck does that mean? It can’t be centimeters because it would translate to more than 16 inches. I’m not a tiny lady, but I’m not Shaquille O’Neal either.
But they fit. They were amazingly comfortable. I bought them.
And here’s me in my new outfit.
Me in skinny jeans and boots. That is not my mess in the back of the closet. And yes, I have a big closet.
Not exactly like my fantasy image, but I can live with it. And of course I would look a lot taller and slimmer if I could have held the camera phone at knee level and shot upwards. But my arms aren’t long enough.
I did, however, get curious about size 42. So I looked it up. It’s a size 10 – 10 1/2. I wear an EIGHT.
No wonder they zip up and fit so comfortably. No wonder I have so much toe room. They are two sizes too big.
I’m looking at the bright side though. I have a lot of stability with so much surface contact with the pavement. I can’t be toppled easily.
And my ankles look so slim.
And Of Course Mom Was Right!
In my essay about my Mom’s advice (“Beyond Clean Underwear”), I quoted my Mother’s career advice:
“Be as creative as you want, but also develop a skill to fall back on. I’ve never seen a want-ad for a poet.”
She said this to me in my junior year of college. I had just received a third place award in the Wallace Stevens poetry contest at the University of Connecticut.
It was a crazy irony that she should say that. Wallace Stevens, the deservedly celebrated poet, never gave up his day job. He was a Hartford insurance executive.
I knew I was a writer. But Mom (and Wally) were no dummies. So after I finished my English degree – which I stretched for almost six years, being in no hurry to enter the real world – I got a bookkeeping job and eventually an M.B.A.
And Accounting (to quote SNL’s Chico Escuela) has been berry berry good to me.
But now I’m just a few years from retirement. And I plan to do a lot of writing. (And fishing.)
If I want to actually make money with my writing, or even have a prayer to get published, I’ll have to reconsider poetry, though.
Because I just spent a few hours at Barnes and Noble.
Oh, the books!
Row after row of Biography, Mysteries, Romance, Cookbooks, Children’s Picture Books, Sports, Religion.
Take your choice. Whatever you want.
Most especially if what you want are teenage vampires.
And I went through all these aisles looking for what certainly would be the equally enormous and extraordinary collection of Poetry.
And twelve minutes into my search I found it:
I’m Goin’ Big
Every year for the last umpteen years, I make New Year’s Resolutions.
I keep them modest, so that they are achievable. Pick up my shoes. Walk on my treadmill twice a week. Save a few dollars.
But even with very small goals, I don’t have much success.
So this year – as long as I haven’t got a prayer of keeping my New Year’s Resolutions anyway – I’m going big!
1. I’m going to run in the Boston Marathon. Why not? I’ll train by doing my 2.5 miles on the treadmill one click faster – 3.3 miles per hour instead of 3.2. If I maintain that pace, I will finish in 7.93939 hours. I figure I can slow down on the hills though. No need to go crazy. I’ll plan on 11.93939 hours. I just hope I can find a place to park the car in Boston. And that someone will give me a lift back after I finish.
2. I’m going blond. I’ve been blond before. But upkeep can be a problem with dark roots. Not any more. My roots are white anyway, so maintenance should be a breeze. So I’m going platinum. And long.
3. I’m going to wear sexy underwear. Sure, I like my big-girl cotton panties. And they’re so very comfortable. But it’s time to go to the lingerie department instead of hanes.com, and buy lacy skimpy underthings. I read that once you are over fifty, you should only wear thongs on your feet. But what the hell. I’m going to buy bright purple and wear them under my white jeans. So that you’ll know.
4. I’m going to be star. I can be a pop star with a hit record. Katy Perry did it, and she can’t sing. Or I can be a Hollywood star, with leading roles in lots of movies. Adam Sandler did it – and he can’t act. Or I can go on “Dancing With the Stars”. I’m every bit as much of a not-a-star as all the other not-a-stars who’ve been contestants thus far. And with my long platinum hair and my purple thong underwear, I’m a shoe-in for the mirrored ball trophy.
5. I’m going to wear a lot more makeup. I’ve always loved makeup, and worn quite a bit. But all my products result in a very subtle effect. Pinkish blush, nude lipstick, a touch of mascara. For 2012 – I’m heading in the Tammy Faye direction. I’m going to wear false eyelashes. With sparkles. And I’ll have the full lips I’ve always wanted, because I’ll just draw a big mouth outside the lines of my real one. Time for some drama. I’ve already started. I bought black eyeliner instead of my usual brown. Okay, I bought it by mistake, but the best changes are often accidents.
6. I’m going to be best friends with James Taylor. I’m halfway there already, because I love him very much. I just have to introduce myself and he’ll love me back. I have a very nice husband and JT has a very nice wife, so we’ll just be platonic friends. The four of us can go on vacation together. I never go on vacation, but this year we’ll all go to Tahiti. On a sailboat. James will pay.
7. I’m going to pick up my shoes.
Me 2012: Running the Boston Marathon, with blond hair, false eyelashes, lots of blush, and my purple panties peeking through. I can hardly wait.
Let’s Play Dress-Up
Two weeks ago, we had health insurance enrollment day at work.
Our insurance broker came in to explain the unexplainable.
But what was inexplicable to me was the agent’s outfit. We were all flabbergasted.
She wore a dress!
Word spread quickly. “Come to the insurance meeting. This lady is wearing a DRESS!”
None of us could remember the last time we saw a dress at the office.
But over the past few weeks, I’ve thought about that dress. It was really awfully nice.
Although I have a closet the size of Rhode Island completely filled with jeans and tees and cords and sweaters, I only have two dresses. My fancy dress for reunions/weddings/New Year’s Eve. And a little cotton sundress for hundred-degree weather. Both black.
So I thought it would be nice to get a pretty dress that could nestle right in between being dressed to the nines and being dressed to the one-hundreds.
I found one on the internet from one of my favorite shops.
Cool dress on skinny girl.
Looks pretty good on a regular three-meal-a-day beautiful woman. And it’s on sale!
So I ordered it. Now, it’s a lovely soft color, but I played it safe. I ordered it in…wait for it…
Black!
Huh?
I assure you, I am smaller than the plus-sized model. So why didn’t she look seven months pregnant?
WHAT THE HECK KIND OF SHAPEWEAR IS SHE WEARING??????
I wore corduroys to my Christmas Party.
In Black.
notquiteold 