Ready. Or Not.

My daughter and I watched a commercial yesterday that promised to remove ten years from your face. She assured me she had no desire to look like she was four; I told her I wouldn't mind looking forty. She didn't find that to be too unreasonable, but she did point out that, at some point, who cares.

Whatever the case, I did make a note of the product. I'm pretty sure I am the poster child for what they would call the "target audience," and promising to lop off ten years' worth of wrinkles certainly got my attention. But I still need to go back and study the sales technique manual provided to me by my new employer last week. I'm not sure if the instructions apply to phone solicitations, but I'm pretty sure the pest from the "exclusive dating service" who somehow has my cell phone number is breaking some rules.

Somebody from his, um, firm, had contacted me a year ago; either they have moles on the computer dating sites or they are somehow privy to updates in neighborhood gossip. Too polite to hang up, I feigned interest in the woman's sales pitch. It took me two phone calls to get rid of her; I was apologetic about not being quite ready to jump into a relationship with some dreamy guy who has even managed to pass their criminal background check. As I recall, I told her I wouldn't be ready for at least a year.

Well, I suppose it's been a year, because the nice, understanding lady's much pushier colleague -- we'll call him Ken, since that's what he called himself -- contacted me last week to see if I was ready yet. Again, I was too polite to hang up, but didn't bother feigning interest, and thought I was done. He asked if I'd give it some thought, and I said "sure," and he promised to call again in a few days. I gave it no thought, and assumed I'd be smart enough to not answer the phone when the number appeared on my screen.

Unfortunately, the "giving it no thought" part came very naturally to me, so naturally that I thought nothing of it when I answered the call last night from the same vaguely familiar number. Idiot. Now that I'm a retail professional, I recognized all the trappings of a training manual. Non-stop talking, constant tossing in of factoids about me or reminders of what I said last time, declarations about all the wonderful relationships awaiting me if I'd only agree to one cup of coffee with one of their pimps. I mean representatives.

The call was so unpleasant it almost made me yearn for another stab at phone sex. When Ken took a breath, I apologized and said I'm still not ready. Well, Ken had been in the throes of something, and my response was clearly a buzz kill. His voice became downright shrill. "I'm catching you in your fifties. How do you think I'm ever going to 'match' you if you wait?" WTF?

I burst out laughing, told him I'd take my chances, and hung up. Too bad you can't slam down a cell phone. My mother turns eighty today. My daughter pointed out that the miracle wrinkle serum would have reached the point of diminishing returns with somebody grandma's age. She may be right. But my mother looks damn good for eighty, and I doubt Ken would be able to 'match' her, but only because she'd have had the brains to hang up on him long before I did.

Happy birthday mom!

An Interesting Slant

When Manny the obese puggle cocks his head because he thinks he hears a food bag rustling, you can barely notice his multiple chins. Same with pictures of guys on computer dating sites; the head cock is a sure sign that the in-person meeting will be marred by disappointment and fistfuls of extra flesh.

It's not that I object to the extra flesh. My own potato head physique boasts a few extra flaps and rolls of its own. It's the feeble attempt at airbrushing, the painfully obvious tilt of the noggin to give the illusion of visible bone structure. Guys, I say wear your extra chins as proudly as I wear my spudly belly. I'm not even advocating full disclosure. There are ways to hide a muffin top so the rest of the world doesn't have to see it, and there are ways to disguise a cluster of chins without looking like your gazing at the stars in a picture taken in broad daylight.

My thinking is a little bit different when it comes to the attributes that aren't visible to the naked eye. I've come to realize that honesty -- or anything approaching full disclosure -- is just bad strategy. In my age group, most of us share at least one thing in common: a failed marriage. And even though most of the guys I've met, by their own accounts, spent years being victimized by a psychopathic spouse (I've shared a few stories of my own), I know, intellectually, that, on average, we can all legitimately accept about fifty per cent of the blame.

But there's no need to reveal your imperfections in your profile. When I was younger, I was the kind of girl boys could bring home to mom. Polite, pleasant looking, sexually repressed, and, theoretically, possessed of some considerable earning potential. Well, now I'm dating men who are the same age "mom" was back then, and the years have stolen some of those appealing traits. What I bring to the table now is not necessarily what mom would be counting on for her precious boy. And the precious boy, now fifty-something, is probably not spending hours daydreaming about an edgy, sometimes impolite old broad with the measurements of an Idaho potato.

They've realized that mom was right after all, and polite, pleasant looking, sexually repressed, and, if not earning potential at least a fat bank account are the things that make for life happily ever after. Sure, I might be good for a few yuks, but who needs to be laughing in a double wide if there's someone out there who brings more to the table, like drywall and ceiling fans and a real roof.

I'm going to re-up on the computer dating sites, and this time I'm going to pretend to be, let's just say, a more appealing version of myself. My pictures will be honest and lacking head tilts, because my ego wouldn't be able to withstand the look of horror on a guy's face when he meets me and sees the truth. But my written description will suggest a well put together fifty-something who just oozes firmly planted feet. Gone will be the quips from my "About Me" description which scream whimsical (i.e. unstable and fucked up). I will claim to be honest and sincere and loving and extremely organized about finances. I will not admit to being a blogger (men get a little nervous about being outed), and I will kind of tweak my status -- well, actually, I'm going to lie -- and say I'm already divorced. After all, anyone who's gone through a divorce knows that the most toxic, screwed up people are the ones who are still going through it. Who needs that shit?

So no head cocks in the picture. I'll be staring at the camera head-on, and I'll crop the photos just north of my gut. But my words? They might be a little bit slanted; I'll say whatever mom would want to hear.

Stupor Sunday

I woke this morning to the soft and comforting touch of a male forearm on mine. Maybe I had a bit too much wine, because I couldn't for the life of me remember anything about this man caressing my arm at six o'clock in the morning, but it sure felt nice, so I shimmied over to snuggle up (hoping maybe that would jog my memory).

As my legs flailed around looking for the rest of him so we could spoon, I thought for a moment I had picked up an amputee, until I opened my eyes to see the blackened nostrils of Manny the obese puggle. He flashed his rugged underbite, gazed back at me expectantly -- I am, after all, the lady with the food -- and then sneezed in my face. I took comfort in knowing I hadn't brought some stranger home. I guess. I closed my eyes and tried to trade in my morning stupor for a bit more peaceful slumber.

Today is the day when most Americans will extend their morning stupor through the afternoon and early evening, stuffing themselves with dip and chips and chili and pizza and chicken wings and beer while they watch a bunch of grown men jump all over each other. I still can't, for the life of me, figure out what role that funny shaped ball plays. At least the man I woke with this morning isn't fantasizing about football players. He may be drooling heavily, but that's just because it's almost time for breakfast.

While everybody else is watching the Superbowl, I will be sitting in an empty theatre with a bucket of popcorn and a large diet coke watching a movie. I might even treat myself to some gummi bears. I won't feel self-conscious, because anyone who happens to be in the theatre with me is no doubt as much of a loser as I am. But we'll see who's laughing later when everyone else is spending the night on the toilet and we are peacefully fast forwarding through the taped game to watch the half time show and the best commercials ever.

This year I'm at least a bit more tuned in than usual; I know which teams are not playing (the Jets and the Bears), and I even know where the game is being played. I vaguely recall something about some colorful bay in Wisconsin, but honestly, who cares about a bunch of cheeseheads?

Unable to fall back to sleep, I opened my eyes to find fat little Manny on his back, his four legs spread shamelessly toward the ceiling as he silently invited me to rub his belly. I obliged, and he farted. Is it too much to ask to just wake up with a man who will cook me breakfast and buy me jewelry? Oh well. At least Manny doesn't care about the Superbowl.

Pass the Raisin Brain

I'm afraid I have to retract any disparaging comments I made yesterday about dogs in general and Leo in particular. After all, a dog who is capable of feigning the symptoms of yet another ruptured bloody tumor -- even down to the pale, anemic looking gums -- must have a brain far larger than your average raisin. Not only is Leo brilliant, but he's as shifty as his criminal mastermind brother, Manny.

Just like folks who've lost their eyesight and end up compensating with a heightened sense of hearing, Leo seems to have made up for his inability to speak English with a heightened degree of cunning. Behind those innocent, soulful brown eyes lies a mind capable of all sorts of clever manipulation. He would have gotten away with it had he not blown his cover when we arrived at the veterinary hospital for what I thought was a major emergency.

I've been made a fool of by many people -- most often myself -- but I never in a million years would have guessed that dear old Leo would bite the hand that feeds him. Love is a powerful emotion, though, and obsessive attraction can lead even the most loyal pup down the path of betrayal. Leo is no exception. What dog in his right mind can resist a staff full of animal lovers who treat you like a prince when you visit, who spoon feed you with baby food and take you for long romps in the snow drifts the moment you whimper. Particularly a dog whose testicles were lopped off long before he could ever experience the joys of sex; a visit to the veterinary hospital is as good as it gets for Leo.

Yep, he had me going until the last minute. He thought of everything -- plopping on the ground with a look of sheer exhaustion when I tried to take him for a walk, turning his nose up at food, tucking his tail between his legs, and, yes, the old pale gums trick. He knew damn well I was going to rush him to the place he thinks of as heaven on earth. He even kept the act going for the entire car ride. Manny was in on it too, giving me that "don't even think of leaving me here alone or I'll eat every pair of underpants in the house" look as I dragged the seemingly dying Leo to the car.

But the gig was up when Leo's dopey impetuous side -- the side with which I'm most familiar -- took over, and he jumped up from his fake, sickly slumber as we pulled up at heaven on earth's gates. Wheels up, tail up -- he nearly killed a little poodle and its owners as he bounded out of the car. The good news is he's okay. (Leo, I mean. The poodle has been scarred for life.)

I'm onto him though. And the next time he pulls that crap, if you think I'm going to drop everything and head out in ridiculous Friday night rush hour traffic just to make a fool of myself in front of all the staffers at the animal hospital, well, you're absolutely right.

Tumor Shmumor

What Leo lacks in brain power he more than makes up for with pure instinct. Why else would he have been pressing his muzzle against the car window as we pulled up to the veterinary hospital, wild with anticipation about his return visit to the place where he had been poked and prodded and cut open and sewn up like a stuffed animal two weeks earlier.

It would have been nice if he could talk; he could have calmed me, told me the news would be as good as it could be for an old dog with aggressive, highly metastatic cancer. The oncologist laid it all out for me as Leo barked happily at the parade of canines visible through the glass door panel of our consultation room. The wildly successful removal of his cancerous spleen alone would buy him little more than two months; chemo could buy him six to nine. Add a little more magic potion after the standard chemo, and who knows, he could get more than a year. But none of this could happen unless the day's screening showed no metastasis in his liver, lungs, or brain.

So I waited anxiously while they screened him for raisin sized clusters in his major organs, thankful they were not going to bother screening his brain, which itself is the size of a raisin. I didn't want to risk a false positive. I sat at my friend's birthday lunch, staring at the extra craisins she had ordered for her salad as if they were little time bombs. Couldn't she have just gone with extra blue cheese?

As Leo knew all along, well before he bolted from the car to reconnect with his hospital friends, the high tech screens would detect no raisins, no evidence that the lethal cancer cells had travelled anywhere important. I signed off on the chemo, and the race is on. Those cells don't have a chance. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The good thing about having a brain the size of a raisin is that you live in the moment. I'm not sure what that says about us faithful yogis and yoginis, who try, as best as we can, to do the same. But the truth is we humans are incapable of doing what dogs do naturally; we are smart enough to put up with a little suffering to keep ourselves alive and at the top of the food chain. Most of us will agree to puke our guts out for months if there's some promise of a future.

It's a trade off. Dogs don't give a shit about the future, but they, unlike us, will give more than one hundred per cent of themselves to enjoy the present. If the chemo gets tough for Leo, Leo will prefer to be left alone. And we, and the doctors, will respect that. For now though, I have visions of smashed raisins dancing in my head, and have actually developed a bit of an aversion to all varieties of dried fruit. Leo, with his tiny little brain and huge capacity to enjoy life, is taking things the only way he knows how -- one moment at a time.

Happiness is a Cold Blanket

On day two of the blizzard of monstrous, historical, and biblical proportions, I spent more time outside than I have all winter. With the steady snowfall piling so high against the back door that simply letting the dogs out was not an option, I began to fear that Manny the obese and low-to-the-ground puggle might start spewing urine from his scrunched nostrils. Leo was game for a few romps in the thick white blanket, but I didn't just spend a million dollars to remove a tumor only to have him drown in the backyard.

So I dragged out the boots and the puffy coat and the hat and two left handed gloves (Leo is back in full lab form, and just recently destroyed the two right-handed mates) and braced myself for discomfort of, well, monstrous, historical, and biblical proportions. Even though the snowplows had been working all night, they couldn't keep up with the storm, and the streets were only slightly less impassable than the sidewalks. At some points, Manny looked like a submarine dirigible, with only his tail and the top of his head visible as he labored to slice through the heavy drifts. Between Manny's heavy breathing and concerns about Leo's lost insulation from his still shaved belly, I did wonder a bit about how I would get my car out of the garage to rush them both to the vet.

But everyone survived, and the three of us came home for a nice morning nap. Until my daughter woke about an hour later and suggested, of all things, that we walk the dogs. As fun as the walk had been, my bed was feeling pretty comfy, but not wanting to pass up my daughter's companionship, I got up and once again dragged out the boots and the puffy coat and the hat and the two left handed gloves and broke the news to the dogs that nap time was over. Well I don't think I've ever seen the two of them abandon slumber so quickly; their wagging tails propelled them immediately to the front door. I guess they had enjoyed our walking adventure.

Sometimes the days that promise to be the dreariest can surprise you. Several dog walks, a few shoveling episodes, and one satisfying workout in an otherwise empty gym later, my daughter and I were giddy with unexpected satisfaction and warmth. Add on some fresh baked cookies, a ridiculous escapade through unplowed streets so she and a friend could sneak into the house of some boy to deliver her baked invitation to the turnabout dance, and a large pizza for dinner, and the blizzard of monstrous, historical, and biblical proportions turned out to be anything but a disappointment.

Today I will take Leo to the oncologist so we can discuss treatment options for the cancer the doctors are sure will overtake him soon. It promises to be a dreary day. But my money's on Leo. I still think he's going to surprise us all.

Me and My Shadows

Last night I received another one of those writing contest notifications. This time, the task, should I choose to take it on, is to write a memoir essay or a personal story. Not as daunting as trying to write about the Colorado Plateau, but daunting all the same. Where do I begin?

For ideas, I started scanning my three blogs, beginning, of course, with the ground breaking (only in the sense that it was my first) "Narcissist's Tale." I wonder if the contest judges will get sucked in if I open with the phone sex episode. All I know is I'm going to have to dig deep for something memoir worthy; the present is about as blank as the view outside my window this morning, which is pure, blizzard white.

I suppose day one of my career in yoga retail yesterday should be newsworthy, but my biggest sale was to myself. Warnings of apocalyptic snowfall had kept most sane people out of the malls, and since my on-the-job training consisted of trying on almost everything in the store, naturally I found myself spending my first day's salary (and then some). Let's just think of it as an investment in my future there.

Which, to tell you the truth, does not seem promising. The most challenging part of my day -- outside of feigning friendliness to the few brave souls who entered the store -- was the death defying ride home through the beginnings of what has actually more than measured up to the dire predictions. I spent a good portion of the dead hours in the yoga store reading the employee instruction manual on how to make sales. I am now crushed to know that all the compliments I've ever received when walking into a store were simply part of a checklist.

I was also shocked to learn that some shoppers are sent in by "corporate" as spies, and are asked to fill out lengthy evaluations about the quality of your greeting, service, and general attentiveness. Those corporate types think of everything; the faux shoppers have to identify you by name and physical characteristics, so good luck pinning your foul disposition on a coworker. Most surprising was the notion that a salesperson's failure to repeatedly tap at a customer's fitting room curtain to offer up additional garments is a negative. For me, the pestering is the kiss of death; it's why I avoid certain stores.

Like I said, the present doesn't offer much in the way of fascinating memoir material, so I'll be digging through prose about phone sex and bikini waxes and botox beauty queen attorneys. I could, of course, talk about Punxsutawny Phil's failure (frankly, this winter, I think it was not failure but refusal) to see his shadow today, but Groundhog Day has already been written.

I'll think about it tomorrow. For now, I'm working on my customer service skills. "It's not the pants, honey. Your ass is fat."