Dream Job
I’m proud to be First Generation. The first generation to grow up with TV.
My parents got their first television in 1951, the year I was born. They had the first TV in the family; the first TV in the neighborhood. They told me stories about everyone coming over on Friday night to watch Boxing. (What the heck was that about?)
We had an old Sylvania TV. I loved the stylized letters of ‘Sylvania’ – wide ‘S’, short tail on the ‘y’, the letters all connected in a strange sort of cursive. I loved the rabbit ears (aluminum-foiled, naturally). I loved the dusty hot smell if you squeezed your face around the back. And that was really a squeeze since the TV didn’t move. It weighed about 700 lbs.
Reception was a snowy day all year round. Sometimes my sisters and I just watched shadows. And the picture rolled incessantly. Inexplicably, we sometimes could stop the rolling by standing in a certain spot in the living room. We took turns standing in that spot.
We watched everything: 77 Sunset Strip, Sky King, Mickey Mouse Club, December Bride, Have Gun Will Travel, The Real McCoys. And Dick Clark and Ed Sullivan.
I didn’t love all of it though. I hated cartoons. I hated Ozzie and Harriet. I hated that all the good shows about kids – Circus Boy, Fury, Rin Tin Tin – were about boys. Where were the shows about girls?
I was determined I would be the first girl to have an adventure show. I would have a horse AND a dog. And beautiful clothes and long hair. I would almost die in every episode, but I’d triumphantly survive. And maybe I’d sing a song.
I continued this fantasy all through grammar school and even secretly in high school. I went from Bonanza to Dr. Kildare to I Spy – just waiting for the day I’d have my own show.
Then I had a revelation. It took a very long time. It was 1974, and I was twenty-three. I was watching my favorite show, M*A*S*H, and I saw it – the perfect TV role. Nurse Kellye.
Nurse Kellye was in almost every episode. But that actress (also named Kellye – how convenient was that?) never had much to do. She hung out with the stars but she didn’t have to work hard. She had to learn maybe one line a week. I’ll bet she made pretty good money too. For ten years.
That’s better than being a star. You get to partake in the glamour with NONE OF THE WORK. I’m so there.
And today, there’s even better. It’s Medical Examiner Elizabeth Rodgers of Law & Order. You know, she’s the humorless autopsy doc (“It was a 44 slug to the armpit”). Over the years, she’s had a zillion hairdos (I can identify), long, short, medium, usually red. No kid, but “not quite old” – so naturally I love her already. She looks really smart, but usually exhausted. But she’s not – exhausted, I mean. She works about two minutes an episode. Two minutes a week for eighteen years. So yeah, she’s smart.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a heroine who had to overcome hardships. But now I’m a grownup – I want fun, money, and the easiest job in the world.
I.D.K.W.T.M.
I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS
When I was seventeen, my sister’s boyfriend came home from his first semester at a New York acting school.
He had a new word. “Heavy”. Like in, “Those jeans are so heavy.”
I was a lifetime proponent of “Cool”. But oh, “Heavy” was so cool.
So I went back to high school, dropping “heavies” all over the hallways. I was very heavy (except that I was 96 lbs, and I feel I need to include that fact, since I adore saying it.)
Then about six months later, on “The Mod Squad”, Linc uttered this emotional phrase: “Heavy, man.”
And I knew it was all over. Back in those days, the term “jumping the shark” hadn’t yet been coined. But the concept was there. If it was already on TV, it was already passe.
And that was the last time I was ahead of the curve on colloquial language.
If I said “cool”, the cool kids said “hot”. Then the hot kids said “fine”, and the fine kids said “smokin'” — and the smokin kids said “sick”.
And I gave up.
I can pretty much guarantee that if I even hear an expression, it’s outdated. If it finds its way out of my mouth, it’s ridiculously old.
For example, my little factoid about being 96 lbs is called a humblebrag. But I am sure it only used to be called a humblebrag. Since I know that word, it’s OUT.
A few weeks ago, a nice blogger suggested very politely that I use PFA instead of the words I did use, “pulled right out of my ass.”
But acronyms are even worse for me that outdated words. Mostly I don’t know what they mean, but if I do know, they are either incredibly dated or make me look like I’m trying to be sixteen. I won’t even use OMG, because I will immediately become (in my mind, and probably in the reader’s mind) a teenybopper airhead. (but I better not say “teenybopper”.) (or “airhead”.)
I know ROTFLMAO. But I can’t say that every time. Sometimes I am not ROTFLMAO. Sometimes I may just be chuckling a bit under my breath. (CABUMB?)
I read the stuff my cool (hot, smokin–I don’t know anymore) niece posts on Facebook, and it’s full of ” *** ” and “wifeys” and “Bwahahas”, and I guess I can figure it out, but sometimes I’m not sure whether it’s a fabulous (blazin, sick) new expression or a typo.
I’m old. I’m sticking with “Cool”. And I will suppress the urge to respond to TRDMC with LSMFT. (For those notquiteold, that’s “Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco”. ( See–We had acronyms back in the olden days.)
Don’t Laugh. (Or Blink.)
I am on a quest.
Well, several, really. I am a seeker of knowledge,of love, of joy.
And, of beauty.
My heart warms at a sunset, a lovely photograph, or a baby’s smile. Flowers lift my spirit. A cello can make me cry.
And since I was a little girl, I have sought personal beauty too. I’m not a natural beauty. My face is as round as Charlie Brown’s. And I have fine hair, close-set eyes and thin lips. But I can look pretty with some work. And there is no limit to the amount of work I am willing to do to look as pretty as I can.
I thought as I got older I would be able to relax a little about my looks. And to some extent I have. Because I have become more accepting of my flaws, and willing to believe (a little) that I am beautiful in my own way.
But I find that I am more determined than ever to look my best at all times. And as I get older, everything takes longer. I spend more time on my hair. More time on my makeup. I spend more time on beauty maintenance than on meal preparation. I am worried that soon I will need to spend more time on my beauty routine than on my beauty sleep.
Years ago, when I used to go to France on business once a year, I learned from French women that it pays better beauty dividends to spend more (effort and money) on your skin than on your makeup. I didn’t worry about that so much fifteen years ago. But now I see the truth of it. Sixty year old skin needs great pampering.
So I am on a quest for great skin. At sixty, that means wrinkle reduction.
I have the normal amount of wrinkles and age spots for sixty. In the right light (dim) even less than normal. I am determined to keep it that way.
The wrinkle-reducing, youth-endowing creams are plentiful.
Here are some ads from recent magazines:
This is obnoxious. I don’t think these ads are promoting skin cream. They are promoting airbrushing. I guess I don’t need moisturizer. I need photo-shopping.
These girls have never used any of their facial muscles. They have never smiled, never spoken, never blinked. And they’re models, so of course they never eat either.
And the two of them added together are still younger than me. If you’re selling anti-aging lotion, why is the model nineteen?
So I looked for an ad with an “older” woman. One who can show me what my skin may actually look like.
I found this one:
A nice picture of the bottle. A hazy photo of a lady in a 1949 hairdo and bathing suit. Yup, that’s what I look like. Only I CAN”T SEE HER SKIN!
Here’s an older woman. Julia Roberts.
Okay, she’s not sixty, but she’s forty-three, so that is much closer than the teenagers above. She could have the beginning of wrinkles. She smiles a lot. With a really big mouth too. That should make for laugh lines. But she doesn’t have any. Not because of the “miracle” makeup. British regulators won’t even let this ad run. It was decided that this ad misrepresented what the product could do, because the photo-shopping was too blatant.
Ah, but L’Oreal has hired Diane Keaton as their new “face.” And she’s sixty-five. Perfect! I want to look like her anyway. She is so cute! (for sixty-five.) And here’s the ad from this month’s More magazine:
She has some lines around her eyes. Around her mouth. Her hand looks like my hand. This is something I can aspire to. She’s lovely. Now that’s a realistic product.
Only, this is the real Diane:
Wow! That new moisturizer is fabulous! Hundreds of wrinkles have just disappeared! I am going to order it by the case!
The Smartest Person
Dad, in France, 1945
My father died this past Christmas. Yesterday was his birthday. He would have been 89.
My Dad was a man of great intelligence and corny jokes. As an engineer of precision gauges, he had a PhD mind and a high school diploma.
He sang dumb words to old songs. “It had to be stew. Meat and beans wouldnt’ do.”
He was a true war hero; he fought in the Battle of The Bulge during World War II. And although he was proud of his service and loved the army, he hardly ever mentioned the two purple hearts that were stored in the attic.
He was good-looking, and I think in his younger days, he was well aware of it. (I look just like him. But that’s not bragging; handsomeness in a man doesn’t necessarily translate to female beauty.) He was perpetually cheerful. He woke up happy. I never heard him swear, and what is more amazing still–I never in my whole life heard him speak an unkind word about anyone.
On Father’s Day a few years ago, after two martinis, he said that having children was the best thing he ever did.
My mother was the advice-giver in the family. I wrote about her wonderful wisdom in “Beyond Clean Underwear-Advice From Mom.”
But my father gave me a few words of advice too. Very practical advice.
– “When you drive at night, keep your eyes on the shoulder of the road. You’ll stay in your lane, and you won’t be blinded by the oncoming cars.” Thirty-eight years later, I still drive this way. It works.
– “If you need a really big favor, go right to the top. People with only a little bit of power are often stingy with it. People with lots of power don’t have anything to prove. They can afford to be generous.” Just try this next time you need a week off to help a family member, or an after-hours delivery. It’s amazing.
Although I have a million memories, I have only one story about my father to share. I only need one, because it tells you everything you need to know about him, about my mother, about the home I was raised in, and the marriage I was privileged to have as an example.
About thirty years ago, I lived in an apartment with terrible and expensive laundry facilities. So even though I was no kid, I still drove to my parents’ house every other Sunday with a basket full of laundry.
My mother was a nurse, and she often worked on weekends. So that Sunday, I put my clothes in the washer, and sat down with my father to watch the game. (I am quite knowledgable about sports, because even as a little kid, I watched games with my Dad. I didn’t love sports; I loved sitting with him.)
Earlier that week, it had been my parents’ wedding anniversary. It may have been their thirty-fifth.
My Dad told me that they had gone out to dinner to celebrate. Still single at thirty, I had yet to find a man I could stand for very long, never mind marry, and thirty-five years seemed like forever.
“Dad,” I asked, “After all these years, do you still find things to talk about?”
He smiled, and his whole face lit up with pleasure.
“Oh yes,” he said enthusiastically. “There’s no one I would rather talk to than your mother. She’s the smartest person I know.”
–
Happy Birthday, Dad.
It’s Raining Men. No. It’s Men Raining.
(My last post for heternormative week. I’m sure you are relieved.)
I don’t understand men.
Growing up, my mother and my sisters were easy. They were exactly like me. They looked like me; they dressed like me; they thought like me.
My father and my brother were smart and loving and funny, and I enjoyed having them around. But in my blissful immature girly egocentricity, I kind of thought that they were just like us females too. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.
I didn’t marry until I was forty. Before that I did a lot of superficial dating. I never got to really know a man until I met my husband. And now I have found that men are just as much a mystery as when they actually were a mystery. After twenty years of marriage, I can predict what he’s going to do or say with amazing accuracy. I just still don’t know WHY.
I love my husband with my whole heart. But I just don’t get my whole mind too involved, because I am afraid it will explode.
But even though I try not to, there are some mysteries about men that I can’t help but wonder about.
Like This:
SPITTING
Why do men spit so much?
Does testosterone stimulate overproduction of saliva? I don’t think so. I don’t see men drooling like overheated dogs (and I won’t press that analogy).
I also know (through some good kissing) that man spit tastes pretty much like my own lady spit, so it’s not that men are constantly spitting because their saliva tastes so bad.
Is it something about male throatal anatomy? Does a big adam’s apple prevent stuff from going down?
I think I have narrowed it down to something outdoors. After all, when men leave the house, it seems the first thing that happens is a big phlegmball.
At first I thought that just looking at the outdoors provokes spit, based on watching guys roll down the car window to hock one out. But I had to discard that theory. They can sit opposite the dining room window on Thanksgiving and refrain from spitting out of it.
So what is it?
And why so proud?
If a women needs to clear her throat, she’ll cough ever so discreetly (and silently) into a tissue. But just let a camera pan over to a baseball player and he’ll shoot out a big one for eight million fans. (And don’t tell me that it’s the chewing tobacco. Men don’t spit because of chewing tobacco. They chew tobacco so they can spit.)
And excuse me, James Cameron, but it’s obvious that you didn’t get a woman’s opinion when you wrote “Titanic”. No matter how badly Rose wanted to bust out of her corset and have a fling, I can guarantee that her idea of a fling didn’t include flinging a loogie over the side of a boat.
So man spit…what is it?
Is it anatomy, fresh air, inordinate pride in one’s bodily fluids?
What is it?
Whatever it is . . . CUT IT OUT!
We Can Walk To The Curb From Here.
Image via Wikipedia
(I promised I would write at least one essay on something that men do better than women. Here it is.)
In “Annie Hall”, when Alvy Singer first meets Annie, she gives him a ride home. It’s a harrowing ride, and when she finally stops in front of his place, he opens the car door and says, “Don’t worry. We can walk to the curb from here.”
While Annie is a terrible driver as well as a terrible parker, I think only one of those stereotypes is true.
Women are pretty good drivers. Men seem to like to drive on the center line. Women stay in their own lane and stop when the light is yellow. They don’t tailgate and they don’t lean on the horn. They get where they need to go, and they don’t try a new ridiculous shortcut every other day.
But we are lousy parkers.
My parallel parking is worse than Annie Hall’s. You can’t walk to the curb from there. You can hardly even see the curb from there. I don’t even try it anymore. I just drive a little extra (I try to keep it under a quarter of a mile) and walk back.
My parking-lot parking is adequate. Barely adequate. I find I can park much better turning left into the space than turning right. So I sometimes will drive around so I can approach from the left. And I can’t back into a spot (like, ever).
Yes, this is just my own experience. But I know it’s most of us women. I just know. (So admit it, already.)
But men – who can’t stay in their own lane on the highway – can pull into the tiniest parking space. And parallel park in two graceful gliding arcs.
My friend’s teenager who just got his license can park. My father, when he was in his eighties and driving extremely erratically, could still park. My husband can park his F350 in a space the size of a bath towel. In the dark. With a beer.
Several years ago, I went to Paris on business. My French associate took me out to lunch one day. (Lunch in Paris is extraordinary, and I mean with wine. But that’s for another post.) There were no parking spaces on the street, so he drove into a parking garage. The spaces as marked were incredibly small, even for the little shitboxes they drive over there. Mon ami found one tiny, pathetically narrow spot, available because no one had attempted such a feat. He had me get out of the car. Then he folded in the rear-view mirrors, (which is a clever attribute of those shitboxes). And he drove the sb into the space, with maybe an eighth of an inch on either side. Then he crawled over the seat and came out the hatchback. He smoothed his tie and we went to lunch.
Because I have a theory for everything, I have a theory for this too. Men can park because they take pride in putting big things in tight places.
(I will now return to my regularly scheduled programming.)
Boy Stuff and Girl Stuff
Men and women both have lots of shit.
But the shit we collect is very different.
I have too many:
- Clothes (especially sweaters)
- Shoes – none of which are comfortable
- Makeup products, but I’m still searching for the right stuff
- Books
- Opinions
All of these things are crucial, as I am sure you would agree, but I maybe could cut down just a little.
My shoes. Actually, just the summer ones.
My husband has too many:
- Tools
- Broken things that he may fix someday
- Pieces of scrap wood
- Identical sneakers
- Little notes to himself
His shoes. Okay, fewer than mine, but they are IDENTICAL! And I didn't count the pair he was wearing. Also identical.
As I’m sure you can also see, most of what my husband has is completely unnecessary. Except for tools. But the last time I needed a screwdriver and he wasn’t home, I went into the garage where he keeps his massive impressive tool box – and it was locked. So no tools for me. Gee, thanks.
He also has power tools and chain saws and more than one tractor, but he can keep those. In exchange, I will keep all my jewelry, which I did not even list, since you can never have too much jewelry.
When we travel (which is seldom, since we can’t bear to leave our things), we both tend to overpack.
I bring too many hair products. I may need shampoo, creme rinse, root lift, mousse, gel, hairspray, dryer and curling iron. And a headband in case none of the above works. Because you never know.
My husband brings too much underwear. Because, I guess, you never know.
Here’s what I wish I had more of:
A SENSE OF ADVENTURE
Here’s what I wish he had more of:
A SENSE OF URGENCY
“Where’s my hat?” asked Waldo.
(Installment #2 for Heteronormative Week)
While your kids are looking for Waldo, Waldo doesn’t seem to know how to look.
Men can’t seem to find anything.
They will holler (from another room, from another floor, and sometimes, by phone, from another state):
“Where is:
– the mail?”
– the peanut butter?”
– my watch?”
– the cat?”
And the answers are (in no particular order): the pantry, your underwear drawer, under the newspaper, in the bathtub.
Waldo can be looking right at something, and not see it. My husband (not Waldo) called me at work to ask me to stop on the way home and buy sugar. He had the urge to bake …(that happens once every fifteen years, but the urge is urgent), and there was no sugar. I told him the pantry, the third shelf, the right side, in the front, blue bag. Nope, no sugar. When I got home I walked into the pantry – the third shelf, the right side, in the front, and took out the big blue bag that was deceptively labeled, “SUGAR.”
And Waldo can never admit that he might have misplaced something. Whatever is missing must be because I – (oops, I mean Waldo’s wife) – must have hidden it.
“Where did you hide my car keys?”
Or perhaps, even, Waldo’s evil wife could have thrown them away.
Yes, sometimes very sinister things happen.
Last week my husband wanted to replace the brush-heads on our electric toothbrushes. He was absolutely sure he had one more package of replacement heads. But he tore the bathroom apart and could not find the package.
Something despicable had happened.
“The cleaning lady took them.”
In our house, we have electronic equipment, fine jewelry, sterling silver service for twelve, and cold hard cash.
But those toothbrush heads were just too tempting.
Hetero-normative Week: Fire
About six weeks ago, I posted an essay, “The Conspiracy” – a theory that men pass down from father to son the key to getting out of housework. Basically, just screw it up so bad that your wife will never ask you again.
It was a relatively popular post, and I got quite a few appreciative comments. But I also got one comment that read, “How heteronormative.” This comment also had a little smiley face. I guess the smiley face was intended to take the edge off, but even when I don’t know what a word means, I’ve lived long enough to be able to sense a dig.
So I looked it up. Heteronormative has two meanings. The first is not very nice indeed. It states that sexual and marital relations are only appropriate in the most traditional way – a man and a woman. It is definitely anti-gay and often anti-interracial.
Well, my post may have been silly and stupid, but it certainly didn’t portray anything mean-spirited. At least, I certainly hope not.
But I also found a more innocuous definition of heteronormative. It can simply mean engaging in gender stereotypes.
Oh, in that case, Yeah. I do that.
Gee, just a few posts ago (“Not Quite Einstein“) I said that all Men think the Three Stooges are funny, and all Women think they are stupid.
If I didn’t engage in gender stereotyping, I’d be posting once a month, instead of four times a week.
So instead of removing that comment, or even writing a “defense of blog” reply, I have decided to take advantage of my newly found vocabulary word.
I am declaring this “Heteronormative Week” on NotQuiteOld. (but only in the second definition, of course.)
All my posts this week will wallow in gender stereotypes. Men and Women ARE different, and mostly in ridiculous ways.
It won’t be all at the expense of the ridiculous side of Men. I promise to post at least one essay demonstrating something at which Men show superiority. (even if I have to make it up.)
So here’s my first entry in the Heteronormative Week Celebration.
FIRE
This weekend we went to celebrate the end of the season at our friends’ campsite. Hubby-Friend picked us up, since even NASA’s GPS couldn’t find this place.
When we got there, Wifey-Friend had a nice little campfire going. A circle of large rocks with some good size logs inside making a decent flame. Pretty. Ready for some girl-scout-camp s’mores.
My Hubby and Hubby-Friend immediately set to work “fixing” the campfire. They dropped the tailgate of Hubby-Friend’s truck and proceeded to unload a half-cord of wood (which made me realize why the boys had spent so much time in our shed before we left.)
Well, they built a campfire all right. We weren’t talking marshmallow-toasting anymore. No. This was more like what Tom Hanks built in “Castaway” so ships could see his flames two miles away.
We all had to move our chairs well back. Our eyebrows were getting singed.
And when the fire got to its fullest expression of fire-dom, Hubby-Friend got out the lighter fluid.
Pyromania:
You decide:
Gender Stereotype?
-or-
True, Scientifically Proven, Testosterone-Related Phenomenon?
Image via Wikipedia
The Sweet Spot
Dogs are good at lots of things. Welcoming you is probably their best talent. They will protect your house and take a walk with you and comfort you when you are sad. They also can bring you sticks and run around in circles.
Cats, like Stewart here, excel at finding the sweet spot. That one place that is, at that moment, THE place. With thousands of square feet in our house, there were two square feet that were perfect in that late afternoon. Stewart found them.
We all have our sweet spots. Sometimes it’s a physical place, like Stewart’s cozy patch of sun. The right sofa with the right book (and also maybe a cat) can become the sweet spot on a Sunday morning.
But it doesn’t have to be a place. The sweet spot can be an object, an attitude. Whatever brings that warm feeling that’s not excitement, nor joy, nor even delight. It’s contentment.
What brings me contentment has evolved over my life.
When I was a teenager, the sweet spot was the perfect pair of jeans.
In my twenties, I felt that bliss with independence… my first car, my first apartment, my first…um, “sleepover”.
Through my career-building thirties, it was the drive home on a Friday night, knowing that all my work was done.
I discovered in my forties (later than most women) the sweet spot in weaving a story for a captivated child.
Then at fifty there was satisfaction in the kitchen, preparing a holiday meal while listening to my family laughing in the other room.
Now I’m in my sixties. And the sweet spot? The perfect pair of jeans.
———–
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 images and ideas through this amazing site. I was honored to be asked to contribute a guest post. You may want to wander over there – it’s fabulous.
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