Second Hand Rose
This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my sisters.
That’s me in the middle on the first day of school. I was six, I think. That would make Christine (on the left) ten, and Claudia (on the right) just shy of nine.
I loved my sisters. Although my mother will tell you that we bickered constantly. And my mother is telling the truth.
Car rides were our particular battleground. My sisters each got a window in the back seat, with my baby brother between them. He played the role of ‘Fence’. I sat in the front between my father and mother. Because no one would sit next to me. Chris still says she won’t sit next to me in the car. She says it just wouldn’t be right.
I look at Christine smiling benevolently at me in this photo. Gee, I never remember her doing that. Her most common look was disgust. She was very grown up and I imitated (and annoyed) her constantly. I read her library books. I played her records (She had a 45 record carrier with Dick Clark’s picture on the front. And Paul Anka records inside.) I drove her crazy. She was the smartest person I knew. Probably still is. And she smiles at me now like that.
Back when this picture was taken, Claudia’s whole mission in life was to make me laugh. Especially in photographs. How she could make me laugh! She was hysterical. At least I thought so at six. I was in constant peril of wetting my pants every time a camera came out. She was the funniest person I knew. Probably still is. She was born the day after Thanksgiving, and we always celebrated her birthday on Thanksgiving Day. For years she thought that we were giving thanks for the joy of her birth. I think we were.
We weren’t rich. But we didn’t feel poor either. We were just like everyone else in the neighborhood. Lots of two-family houses, lots of kids, lots of grandparents – many of whom didn’t speak much English.
With two older sisters, my wardrobe was predetermined. I wore mostly hand-me-downs.
I know many women who say they resented having to wear their sisters’ old clothes. I can understand why – but it’s funny – I never felt that way.
My sisters were my role models. I wanted desperately to be just like them. And I got to be like them a little bit when I put on their hand-me-downs. And it instilled in me the opposite of jealousy.
Oh, I was plenty jealous of my sisters. I wanted those thick curly pony tails. I wanted a later bedtime. But I didn’t have to want their clothes. I got them. And I wasn’t jealous when they got something new. I wanted nothing more than for them to have the prettiest clothes in the world. I was thrilled with every beautiful new dress they got. It was only a matter of time before it was mine.
And this was not only when I was a dumb little kid. I wore Christine’s bridesmaid’s gown to my Junior Prom. And I was delighted to wear that gorgeous dress.
Now that we are older, people constantly remark on how much we look alike. We laughed about it again yesterday at the Thanksgiving table.
I wanted to be just like them when I was small. And now I am. Can’t do much better than that.
It’s Dicey
My husband keeps me guessing. Just when I think I have him figured out…
I like to cook but I hate cutting stuff up. Even salad is too much of a chore. Years ago, I got in the habit of just buying the stuff my sister-in-law calls “Yuppie Chow” – salad in a bag.
Then I met my husband. He loves cutting stuff. Chopping, slicing, dicing. We’ve had some terrific salads. But he has a tendency to make stuff a little bit bigger than bite-size. We’ll get some giant cucumbers out of the garden,and he’ll just slice them up like green hockey pucks. Huge tomato wedges too. Delicious; but literally: A Big Salad.
Then there’s meat. My husband is a great carver. With Thanksgiving coming up, I know I’ve got the best all-time turkey carver in the land.
But on the other hand, he’s a dicing perfectionist. If I ask him to dice some ham for an omelette, I usually make sure I have a magazine to read while I wait. Because every cube has to be precise. It’s like cooking with a hundred pink dice. We have some highly symmetrical breakfasts.
So yesterday I asked my husband to pick up some onions and peppers for a nice sausage-and-pepper supper. He’s a terrific vegetable shopper, and in his retirement, he has learned which markets have the freshest produce.
He bought enough for a banquet.
And when I got home, he had already started cutting the onions. REALLY cutting.
For a guy who cuts salad pieces a tad on the enormous side, he must have been working on the onions since early afternoon. He had a mountain of diced onions. And they were tiny. Diced the size of grains of rice.
The pile was rather pretty, like a pyramid of translucent sequins.
I took over before we had pepper microdots too.
The sausage and pepper dish was delicious. The onions added a delicate flavor, with the miniature granules dissolving instantly in the saute pan.
Tickets are Nonrefundable
Checking my mail on Yahoo the other day, an ad in the sidebar caught my eye.
I can’t even remember the product – but the catchphrase was memorable: “Your Menopause Journey.”
Yup, I’ve been on that journey. And it’s a very slow ride. I don’t even know exactly where I’m headed. But I think there are lots of stops along the way. And I can examine the clues, like the Dora The (Elderly) Explorer.
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First of all, I’m obviously headed to a place where there are no children. So my initial guess was Club Med. But then I remembered a vacation from thirty years ago, and there’s lots of sex at Club Med. So probably not. So my next choice: Palm Beach.
Image via Wikipedia
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And I’m certainly going to someplace with a crazy climate. A little googling brought me to 11/11/11 – but not the November 11th that just passed. This would be Nov 11, 1911 and the Great Blue Norther, where the temperature in Oklahoma City was a record 83 degrees at midday, and dropped to another record of 17 degrees by midnight.
Image via Wikipedia
That sounds like the weather I’ve experienced on my Menopause Journey. Only, I’m not talking about a 66 degree change from noon to midnight; more like between 1:00 and 1:03.
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The next leg of this trip includes a long layover at a place where you cry a lot. I saw a lot of Fellini movies back in college, so I’m guessing Italy.
- Image via Wikipedia
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There’s no doubt that I am headed towards a very chubby territory. Most likely: Mississippi, which has held the title of Most Obese State in the country for six years in a row.
Image via Wikipedia
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Then there’s multiple quick stops with memory lapses. It seems that I keep returning to this blank place – like an amnesia merry-go-round. But then again, it’s not just one place – it moves around. I think I might be at the Republican Debates.
Image by DonkeyHotey via Flickr
******
My last clue on my Menopause Journey: this is a destination that makes you very cranky. And there’s only one place that best fits that description.
I must be going to the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Image via Wikipedia
Country Mouse
When I went on my big shopping excursion last week (which I have decided to call The Week of the Purple Cords), I was surprised that my favorite store didn’t have what I was looking for.
I will call this store Merlins, because I am not a paid endorser. (Although I could be… So if you own the store where I spend 93% of my discretionary income, please give me a call.) The other 7% is spent on chocolate.
I went into Merlins looking for corduroy jeans. I like boot-cut jeans. I think they balance my hips nicely and make my legs look long. And I like them a little long, so I can wear a high-heeled boot, and make my legs a couple of inches longer still.
But Merlins had only slim leg jeans. No boot-cut. I was very surprised.
I am overly proud of my fashion sense. I am rather obnoxious in the way I think I have better taste than anyone.
And my devotion to Merlins is part of my vanity. This store had undergone an image change over the past several years, and had moved (in my perfect opinion) from dowdy to stylish. And about six months ago I found myself eavesdropping on a conversation between two men with controlling interests in the retail business. They were discussing the possible sale of Merlins. “You can buy it now for a bargain,” said one wheeler-dealer. “They’ve tried to update their image, but their customers are old ladies, and so they have alienated their base.” I laughed to myself, because I am one old lady who loves Merlins now that they have stylish clothes.
So no boot-cut? I was disappointed, and I went to my second favorite store, Caspers (…and, yes, your name could be here for a few bucks…) and bought my three new pairs of boot-cut cords. Including purple.
This is me in my purple cords:
Okay, not really me. But a nice way to illustrate with a thinner younger me.
Just a stylin’ genius.
But:
I went to New York City this week. I used to go into the city all the time, but now I’m lucky if I get there once a year. The best part of New York is fashion watching. I love to see what everyone is wearing.
And I was shocked.
No one was wearing boot-cut cords except me. (Brown ones, not purple..I’m not nuts enough to wear purple pants to the style capital of the hemisphere.)
Everyone was wearing straight leg jeans tucked into boots! And flat boots too, when I had just bought high-heeled boots! Uncomfortable high-heeled boots.
What I could look like, if I lived in New York. And if I were thinner and younger.
Really cute!
My husband always says that we live in East Bumf**k. I thought I was fashionista. But I’m a bumpkin from Bumf**k.
Now I know why Merlins only had straight leg cords. Because they are in style!
Now I have to go shopping again.
Bummer.
A Streetcar Named Ernie
I always thought I would marry an artsy kind of guy.
But every time I dated a man who knew about the ballet, or literature, or film – nothing ever sparked.
Then I met a man who knew NOTHING about culture. Really Nothing. And I was delighted with him. He knew cars and tools and construction. He knew computer systems. He knew real estate. In short, he knew the stuff that I know nothing about, but stuff that is important to know.
And I married him. He built our fabulous home and he fixes our cars. He plows our road. And he negotiates with absolutely everyone for absolutely the best deal.
I get to be the artsy one. Which is the role I love. And I love that I have no competition. My taste rules!
He’s a manly man and I’m a girly girl. A perfect match.
I actually love that “culture” is a mystery to him. Pop culture is a bigger mystery. And it endears him to me that he doesn’t care.
The other day we were watching TV and someone was singing “I Could Have Danced All Night.”
“I always liked that song,” he said. ” Who sang that? Ethel Merman?”
And who could not be charmed by his magnificent ignorance of those horrible Olsen Twins? They were mentioned on the news recently, and he asked, “Aren’t those the girls from Bristol who competed in synchronized swimming?”
But my favorite case of mistaken identity came several years ago.
We were watching a program about the growing acceptance of homosexuality. There was an overview of the contribution that gay artists had made to our culture. Among those discussed was Tennessee Williams.
My husband was disconcerted. “Tennessee Williams was gay? I never would have guessed. Wow. I just can’t believe it. Wow.”
The program continued, but I was distracted. I wondered why this particular playwright’s sexuality would affect my husband so much.
A good ten minutes later, I said: “Sixteen Tons.”
“Yeah!” he said. “He was great! And he had such a deep voice. Just goes to show you never can tell.”
That’s when I had one more reason why I love him.
Image via Wikipedia
Vanishing Waist-land
Last weekend, for the first time in five months, I treated myself to an all-day shopping excursion.
I bought shoes and makeup and jewelry, so I was a happy girl. But I was also on a mission for some practical stuff.
I have at least thirty sweaters and a dozen white camisoles, (“I’m Sticking With It“) so I’m all set for tops (for a month, anyway).
But I needed pants. I have my whisker jeans, of course (“Gullible’s Travails“). And one gorgeous pair of dark green velour jeans. Luckily, (mysteriously really) all my old pants are too big.
It’s cold where I work. And I just can’t work cold. So I’ve played the only sympathy card I have – old age – which shows you just how desperate I am – and got myself a space heater.
And now my office gets up to about 78 degrees by the end of the day. But I’m still cold in the morning, and very cold if I have to go visit anyone else in the company. Actually, that last bit is pretty rare; everyone wants to visit ME during the winter months.
Anyhow, even with the space heater, I like to dress WARM when it’s cold.
So I went out looking especially for corduroy jeans.
I love cords. They are soft and warm, and that make that sweet little whistle to accompany your walk.
I found nice cords. Three pair in fact. I bought the requisite black and brown. And purple. (Don’t ask; I’m already sorry.)
But here’s the thing:
As I was putting them away, I noticed something very odd.
Here’s a new pair of jeans:
Here’s my old go-to jeans from four years ago:
What has happened to the zipper?
It seems that my old jeans had about ten inches of zipper. My new ones have about four inches.
I’ve lost about six inches in four years.
I consider myself amazingly stylish. I don’t think I had the Old-Man-In-Miami look four years ago. My pants certainly didn’t feel like they were introducing themselves to my rib-cage.
But then again, I don’t feel like Shakira now. I’m no Dancing-With-The-Stars-Bikini-Waxing low rider.
And I don’t think I have Plumber’s Crack when I sit down (although I am reaching behind me right now to make sure – because I know my husband would be gleeful and silent if I’m ass-revealing). But no; I’m okay.
So what is it? How can I have lost six inches of material between my crotch and my waist and not feel any different? Am I losing my middle? Is it another side-effect of the passage of time?
I decided I needed to conduct some scientific research. So I went to the Center For Old Lady Observation: Wal-Mart.
I strolled around watching all the little white-haired pastel-clad five-footers.
And, YES. They HAVE lost their waists. Their boobs and their hips are about two inches apart.
No wonder the old gals wear elastic waist pants.
But I hope in ten years when I’m pushing the Wal-Mart cart, the fashion industry will have invented the two inch zipper.
Don’t make me wear elastic waist pants!
A Little Lesson in Humility
As I moved up the ladder at my big corporate job…
…oh, that reminds me of an old admonition:
“As you climb the ladder of success
Don’t let the boys look up your dress.”
Let me start again:
As I moved up the ladder at my big corporate job, I got to partake in some of the perks. Perk partaking is practically perfect.
I got stock options, gym memberships, first class travel. (By the way, first class travel is SUCH a waste of money – and SO sweet.)
And a reserved parking space. Or rather, I was supposed to get one.
It all started when two guys from Accounting got their executive parking spaces when they made Director. I had been promoted to Director in Finance several months earlier.
My boss – the most loyal person in the world – called me in.
“Cliff and Norm got their parking spaces!” he shouted in outrage.
“Huh? I said.
“If those bozos can have a parking space, you should have a parking space,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I’m as big a bozo as them.”
“Bigger,” he said.
And so my boss went to the perk department and raised a fuss until I got my parking space. It was actually a rather poorly positioned space, and I had to turn the wheel hard to get into that corner, but it was MINE. It had my name on it. (Well, not really; the spaces were numbered –but that was MY number.)
For about two months.
Construction began on a big new addition, and Facilities Planning needed my space.
For the Dumpster.
My mother thought this turn of events was hilarious.
“God has a way of making sure you don’t get too conceited,” she said.
For Christmas that year, she gave me this sign:
I no longer have the job, the perks, or the parking space. But I’ve kept the sign.
When I look at it, I can still hear my mother laughing.
And I remind my ego that I’m not necessarily more important than the dumpster.
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Bonus Moral: A long walk to your destination can be good for your heart (and your soul).
Mentionables
I figure I can squeeze one more post out of my nephew’s wedding. And “squeeze” is definitely the right word – my subject is Shapewear.
Shapewear used to be called girdles. I am old enough to remember girdles. When I was fourteen, they were the only way to keep my stockings up. They didn’t have pantyhose back then. They had nylon stockings which you fastened to snaps in a girdle or garter belt.
Skinny little girls like me didn’t need a girdle to hold their tummies in. But I didn’t have any hips either, so I couldn’t wear a garter belt for fear of having it end up around my ankles.
oops
So I wore a girdle.
But now it’s called Shapewear. I guess that’s a more appealing name, and although there have been some technological advances, it’s still basically the same thing.
For my nephew’s wedding, I wore a tight little black dress that I bought two years ago for my high school reunion. I’ve gained weight since my skinny high school days, but at the time of the reunion I had lost a few pounds (there’s nothing like the fear of old classmates) and I was hoping for the wow factor. Wow is relative. This was my fortieth high school reunion. I fit into a tight black dress and I didn’t need a walker. So: Wow.
But I’ve regained just a pound or two, and even my original pounds seem to be having their own reunion around my belly, so I needed a bit of help. To give me a nice smooth line, I told myself.
Hence, Shapewear.
A couple of companies make these things: Spanx, Flexees. I think you need an “X” in the name to denote the hourglass figure you are hoping to regain.
Trying on Shapewear is an effort in itself. They are tight even when they fit So if by accident you try on one that’s too small – well, good luck getting it off.
I chose a one-piece. If you are as old as I am, it might remind you of Rudi Gernreich’s 1964 monokini. It was scandalous at the time, and it still is. But it works quite nicely as an undergarment.
my Flexee
This garment is firm, so I got my nice smooth line for my tight dress. And I bought it one size too big, so it didn’t dig into my crotch or my shoulders. I learned this lesson with one-piece bathing suits.
It has hooks (like bra hooks) in the crotch. Years ago, I had a body stocking with snaps. When you put a little unusual stress on those snaps (‘unusual’ meaning sitting down), they had a tendency to pop. Then what? Well, good thing my jeans went over the bodystocking, or it would have made an interesting slingshot. So hooks are an improvement.
You wear you own bra with this particular Shapewear get-up; I suppose so they don’t need to produce a hundred sizes. And with the firm spandex holding in the rest of you, you get a bonus side-effect.Your breasts are the only loose parts – so they jiggle.
I am...ummm...under-endowed, so I don’t normally jiggle. It was a new experience for me. I loved it. In fact, I am tempted to wear my Shapewear every day, and bounce my little boobies off. Except for one thing.
The bathroom.
We women have experience in fastening and unfastening hooks and eyes without seeing them because of our bras. (Men only know how to unfasten.) But grabbing the front and back ends beneath your crotch and refastening three sets of hooks is tricky. And when you’re in a narrow space (like the restroom stall), your movements can be even more hampered.
So if you happen to wear Shapewear to an event – like your nephew’s wedding, for example – and get up to go to the ladies’ room, remember to tell your spouse that you’ll be back in half an hour.
Thank God for Yoga.
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Illustrations by yours truly
Not Quite Patient
Patience is a wonderful thing. So is impatience.
I am willing to wait a long time for what I really want.
I didn’t marry until I was forty. And as I approach my twentieth anniversary, I know it was definitely worth the wait.
So why do I endorse impatience too?
Because when you impatiently fill your waiting time with other stuff, that other stuff can be amazing.
I’m too impatient to JUST WAIT. I waited for the right guy, but in the meantime I didn’t sit around. I got a really good education, an established career, and a decent nest egg.
I have a manuscript patiently waiting for the right agent or publisher to recognize its worth. But impatiently, I have filled my time writing little blogposts that have unexpectedly provided me with more joy (and new friends) than I could have ever imagined.
I believe in buying fabulous clothes for my current body while still trying to lose more weight. I believe in emphasizing my eye makeup while waiting for a bad haircut to grow out. And most of all, I believe in rocking with my girlfriends while patiently waiting for the slow number that may coax my husband out onto the dance floor.
This Spring I planted a little stick of an apple tree. I will have to wait for years to see my tree give me baskets of delectable fruit. I’m patient. I went to my favorite orchard this fall and picked a bushel of fine luscious apples.
But my little tree was impatient. It produced one fine luscious apple.
Way to go, tree!
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Note: This piece was created for the website Vision and Verb (http://www.visionandverb.com), a network of women from around the world who contribute their images and ideas.
How To Embarrass A Teenager
I don’t have kids of my own, and perhaps it takes a hell of a lot more these days to make a kid blush, but here’s the most cringe-worthy event of my teenage life (apologies to my sweet – and very manly – little brother):
I must have been about sixteen. I was on my way downtown for a little shopping. Yes, we had a downtown. No malls yet. And it was certainly a “little” shopping because I never had much more than two dollars in my pocket at any time during those years.
My little brother was about to start Little League.
My mother, always a lady, asked me to do her a big favor.
“Your brother needs something in order to play baseball. Stop in at the men’s store and buy …” she lowered her voice to a whisper, although we were alone in the kitchen…”an athletic supporter.”
I begged her not to make me do it, even a good size bribe didn’t make me feel any better, but my brother needed it for the next day, and I couldn’t make her change her mind.
So I reluctantly dragged myself to the unfamiliar store. Since they didn’t sell girly things, music, or snacks, I had rarely entered that dreary place.
I looked around. I didn’t see anything that looked like what my mother had described. I figured it came in a little box, like a Playtex bra, and I thought maybe even Playtex would be a good name for a jockstrap. But they weren’t anywhere.
I had to ask the salesman. I put on my nonchalant face.
“Excuse me,” I said to the tall gray-haired man in the ugly sportscoat. “My brother needs…” and I dropped my voice discreetly like my mother had done,… an athletic supporter.”
“Sure,” he said, and he went to a stack of drawers behind the counter. “What size?”
And I said: “I don’t know. He’s only ten. How big could he be?”
And just to make sure my humiliation was complete, I even demonstrated with a lovely little gesture!
And the tears began to flow. HIS, not mine. The old guy was crying and choking and quivering pretty much from head to toe…
As he was falling to the floor, he explained: “WAIST SIZE!”
Thanks, Mom.
notquiteold 