A Shaving Account

It's winter, so I shave my legs on an as needed basis, which is basically hardly ever. But I am stocking up on shaving cream, and, no, it's not in anticipation of my menopausal beard.

There are two important lessons I have learned recently. Well three, actually. First, you can get answers to most of the great mysteries of life from Google. Second, you can get out the nastiest red wine stains with shaving cream. And, last but certainly not least, somebody watches over me from time to time.

The Google revelation is certainly not new, but I still marvel at the availability of all sorts of information with the mere tap of a key. Oh, how I used to hate trips to the public library. Or, worse still, talking to people who might have all the answers. Libraries are musty, and people with all the answers tend to be smug; Google is modern, as fresh smelling as the room in which you happen to be sitting, and though it knows it all it's not an obnoxious know it all. It offers up zillions of answers, some wrong, some right, and leaves it to you to decide. Nothing heavy handed or smug about that.

And Google is always there when you need it. Lately, I've been in the habit of spilling red wine on people. Not on purpose of course. It just seems that any time a glass of red is in close proximity, most of it tends to end up on somebody's lap before it gets the chance to work its brand of magic on my psyche. It's landed on me, friends, and complete strangers across the table at a wedding reception. I can't seem to help myself -- which makes me wonder a little bit if I'm just incredibly spiteful and nasty, but really, I had nothing against the folks at the wedding. Whether intended or not, a red wine stain is daunting, and usually seems to find its way on to a favorite garment. Or at least an expensive one.

Anyway, we all know that shaving cream has its uses, and can even be fun (like when my daughter tested some out on me at Walgreens the other day to see if it would be foamy and I ended up looking like an ice cream sundae). But an antidote to red wine stains? That's almost as cool as knowing that you have to use cold water to tackle blood stains. (Google to the rescue, again.)

As to that third lesson -- that someone is watching over me -- it's closely related to that thing people say all the time, that everything happens for a reason. Like spilling the wine at the wedding the other night. One more sip and I would not have made it to the ladies room to puke, and since I didn't have my laptop with me it would have been tough to figure out how to get vomit out of that perfectly nice woman's dress. So yes, someone was watching over me (and her), the spill happened for a reason, and (now here's another corollary) things could always be worse.

Yes, things could definitely be worse.  Spring is approaching, and now I have no excuses. My legs will be smooth.

Going Dark for a Week or Two...

See you in March!

Wake Up Calls

When things seem to be going poorly, the last thing you want to see is that you've been assigned to row 13 on your flight.

I knew it couldn't be good news when I heard my phone vibrating at six yesterday morning and saw my brother's name flash across the screen. My guess was that he wasn't calling me to report on the weather in Florida, where he was spending a long anticipated and much deserved few days. We knew before he left New York that mom was struggling with back pain, but we relied on our combined expertise (he's a psychiatrist, I'm just an unsympathetic lazy bitch) to determine that her agony was more about mental agitation than physical agony and I insisted my brother stick with his plan and get the heck out of Dodge.  "I'll fly in if need be," I assured him, fairly certain that need would not be.

This isn't the first time I've miscalculated, and I'm sure it won't be the last. As it turned out, need was, and, within two hours of the surprise wake up call, I had booked flights, packed, gotten my daughter to school and Manny to the dog lady, changed my work schedule, cancelled all the day's appointments, and was on my way to the airport.  The rest of the morning is a bit of a blur; I fell asleep the minute the plane hit the runway and somehow found myself on a death defying taxi ride into Manhattan, where I was to meet mom at her doctor's office.

When I was young -- before my sophomore year encounter with organic chemistry destroyed my dreams of becoming a doctor -- I always envisioned myself in a white coat in a fancy little street level office in a posh apartment building on the upper east side. Yesterday, except for the white coat, I came pretty darn close. It took me three tries to get the heavy door open when they buzzed me in. ("Push the daw hawd!" someone shrieked from within, and I walked in feeling like an idiot. It was only after sitting for a while and hearing the same refrain repeated each time a new patient arrived that I realized what I had thought was impatience and nastiness was really just a fond New York welcome.)

Exhausted from the door pushing fiasco, I entered the waiting room feeling a bit self conscious about my casual attire, particularly when I located mom perched in a corner chair. There she was, her make up perfect, her outsized David Yurman earrings and matching necklace in place, her elegant St. John suit looking as fresh as the day it was purchased. She sat ramrod straight, showing no signs of spinal discomfort. Her smile was broad and genuine. What could be better? She was sitting in a fancy upper east side Jewish doctor's office. It don't get any better than that -- unless, of course, it's your son's name engraved on the plaque outside the door.

Well, the doctor was very nice and not a prima donna at all and he politely told my mother that an eighty-one year old with osteoporosis is bound to have an occasional problem with a bone or two, and this was neither life threatening nor curable. Mom nodded, even though she had no idea what he said (remember? she's deaf!), and proceeded to talk, nonstop, about lots of stuff that was totally irrelevant to why we were there. To pass the time, the nice Jewish doctor taught me some "old school" Yiddish with which I could impress all the goys in Chicago.

Finally, after we spent about an hour clarifying the instructions of the new medication he was prescribing (one pill, once a day), off we went. Which, finally, brings me to what this post is about, i.e. how much I enjoy any trip to New York, especially these days. Before we headed off to Brooklyn, I ran across the street to a food vendor, where I picked us up some hot dogs and jumbo pretzels. Ambrosia. I gazed out the window of the car ("caw") service, enjoying the colorful mosaic and listening to the cacophony of horns, profanity, whistles, and noises of unknown origin that shape the city of my youth. Sweet nostalgia. I met my son for dinner, wrote down several things he said as only he could say them, and walked arm in arm with him for several blocks, oblivious to the hustle bustle of Park Slope, thrilled to be in such close proximity to my middle child. Pure bliss.

Mom's okay, and I earned some points for getting up off my lazy, unsympathetic ass. Now I can get back to business, to wondering why New Jersey is flying its flags at half staff for a dead rock star and not for the soldiers who lose their lives every day. Yesterday, my flight in row 13 went off without a hitch, and I am hopeful that row 26, today, will be equally uneventful. And I'll look forward, as always, to my next trip to the Big Apple.

Stupid Cupid

Happy Valentine's Day. HVD. Yipes. Sounds like an STD. For some, the excitement can be contagious. For me, well, it's just kind of like a nasty sore that keeps coming back.

Always one to look at the bright side, though, I am focusing on the benefits of not being on the receiving end of anybody's undying love and devotion or floral deliveries (FTD -- another insidious disease). There will be no rose petals littering my table, no impossible to open packets of flower food to ruin my manicure. I will not be stuffing myself silly with rich food at some fancy restaurant packed with couples gazing lovingly at each other over glasses of wine. I will not have to suffer through a break out of menopausal acne after overindulging in expensive chocolates.

Less bloat, clearer skin, no rosy mulch to wipe away. It don't get any better than that! I have yet to find a Hallmark card that adequately expresses my true sentiments. A friend sent me an email this morning with some samples of Valentines messages that cut to the chase and eliminate some of the bullshit. "Don't forget that blow jobs are like flowers for men." Hard cold facts. I like that. "I want to grow old and disgusting with you." I find such honesty refreshingly romantic, scintillatingly intimate. "There's nobody I'd rather spend this annual obligation with than you." Beats the crap out of most of the stuff in the card aisle at Walgreens.

"Why settle for Mr. Right when you could have Mr. Restraining Order?" Now there's a thought provoking question I can sink my teeth into. A far better intellectual exercise, certainly, than "Will you be my Valentine?" A simple "yes or no" question -- yawn. Where's the opportunity for discussion, for critical dialogue? No matter what the answer, the result is the same; someone will get screwed, one way or another.

Oh, dear. I hope I don't sound bitter. To all my blog fans, here's a heartfelt ditty: Hope your Valentine's Day isn't all that shitty.

Not My Type

Some things just defy explanation. 

Like why, at fifty-two, I'm staring straight into the headlights of a double wide as my next home.  Or why more people don't rise up and demand the permanent removal of Valentine's Day from the calendar. Or how everyday objects from my youth have, somehow, become antiques.

Recently, I came up with the idea to buy my son the writer a vintage typewriter as a college graduation gift. By vintage, incidentally, I mean circa my childhood, an era that is ancient history to my kids but as vivid in my own imagination as if it happened only yesterday. Though I was willing to dig deep into my trailer fund for some old machine I had located on line, a friend insisted that he could find a much cheaper one for me in his travels. A man of his word, he delivered.

Excited to let my son know that his graduation more than two months ago has not been forgotten, I called to tell him his mystery gift had finally arrived. All he knew about it was that he would think it was cool. I refused to tell him what it was, but added some hints: it's old, and I need to get it cleaned and repaired before I give it to him. Something old, that he would find cool, that needs repairs. It didn't take him long at all to guess what it was. He was thrilled.

I immediately snapped a picture of the typewriter and fired it off to him in a text. Try doing that with an old princess telephone! Then, I called him back so he could hear it. The sound of the paper being rolled into the carriage, the sound of the bar being flipped down to hold the paper in place. The sound of the metal spokes striking the carriage, and the sound of the little bell reminding you the margin was about to disappear and it was time to hit the big lever on the left if you didn't want to get stuck in the middle of a word. If only there was some way to digitally transmit odors (smell phones?) I could have given him a whiff of what life was like, back in the day. There are no words to describe the distinct aroma of a heavy metal machine that has no on/off switch, a device with moving parts that you can actually see.

I told him I'd have to get some ribbon for it. He told me I didn't have to bother wrapping it! I smiled. How do you explain to someone who prides himself on his no frills, "old fashioned" cell phone what typewriter ribbon is? One of the more savvy antique collectors of his generation, he knows that record albums aren't just giant CD's, and even appreciates the rich, deep sounds you can only get from spinning one of those oversized disks on a turntable. But punching letter shaped metal tips through flimsy ribbon to make a word appear -- that'll take some getting used to.  

My fingers hurt just thinking about trying to tap out several pages on an old manual typewriter. But my son cannot wait to give it a shot. Wait until he finds out there's no spell check.

The Hat Trick

                                      
We all wear different hats.

Almost immediately after my friend and I sat down for lunch the other day, the waitress appeared, looking not particularly happy to be there. It was early and the crowd was fairly thin. I have to admit I didn't give it that much thought, but I wondered for a moment why she looked so stressed.

The mystery was solved quickly.  "I know you," she said, looking at me almost accusingly. My brain kicked into its own pitiful version of high gear, and on closer inspection she did indeed look vaguely familiar. She clarified the connection for me -- our sons were the same age, had played tennis together in high school -- and I had no trouble recalling our first meeting. She had been a sharply dressed little pistol, spiffy in her tight designer jeans. I remember feeling awkward and dowdy in my Gap jeans and sweatshirt. She was divorced but seemed to be doing well. She had her own business. She was thin. She was put together, at a time when my life was just about to unravel.

I knew how difficult this had to be for her, serving lunch in a neighborhood restaurant to her peers, two ladies who could afford to be sitting at the table rather than standing over it in a white waitress apron. I wanted so badly to reassure her, to let her know I was on her team, trailer park bound.

As we left the restaurant (and my life savings in what was probably an overly exorbitant tip), we encountered a parade of ladies in red hats. Red straw hats, red hats with feathers, red wool caps, even a red baseball cap. Red hats, a self-proclaimed hallmark of the "over fifty" crowd, ladies who've made it past, well, something. I had bought my friend Barb a red hat, years ago, when she turned fifty. She was proud of her red hat; at a birthday dinner she threw for herself, she looked at us, her friends, and said if she died the next day she would feel as if her life had been complete. Fulfilling, maybe, but complete? I think not. Breast cancer took her less than two years later, leaving her red hat without a place to roost and leaving us, her friends, without a clue as to why she, of all people, should be taken so soon.

The red hat crowd we encountered the other day had clearly been sporting their fiery head gear for a long time. Retired ladies in their sixties and seventies, they wore their hats with panache and great pride, having made it past something, well, a lot more daunting than "fifty." Much to our delight, they assured me and my friend that we could wear pink hats until we reached the red hat milestone. Thanks for the compliment, ladies, but we have earned the red, and next time we go to lunch we just might be wearing it.

My "ladies who lunch" hat, no matter what the color, might soon be replaced by something a bit more tattered. But, like the well heeled businesswoman turned waitress, I will hold my head up, no matter what sits on top of it.

The Daddy Daughter Dance

Just when I thought matrimonial law was the most perverted segment of American jurisprudence, I saw the piece on the news about the rich guy in Florida who, through some very clever legal maneuvering, was able to protect his substantial piggy bank from a likely judgment against him in a wrongful death suit.

The nice thing about having lots of money is that you can buy the best legal talent there is, and, for a not so small fee, some genius member of the Bar will come up with a vile plan to relieve you of any responsibility for your actions. And so it was for the forty-eight year old self made kazillionaire (and by self made I mean he turned himself into a kazillionaire by inheriting his father's fortune, all by himself) who ended up adopting his forty-two year old girlfriend as his daughter so the parents of the twenty-three year old he killed while driving drunk would not be able to get their grubby little paws on what would now be "his daughter's" lawful inheritance.

Politics makes strange bedfellows, and the law, I suppose, breeds strange birds. One of the few lessons I remember from law school is the one my torts professor delivered by reading the definition of "small bird" from a statute designed to protect such creatures from hunters. I don't recall the specifics, but, as it turned out, various kinds of tiny dogs fit quite neatly into the highly specific and detailed definition. Strange as it seemed, some flightless puppy was entitled to legal protection under "The Small Birds Act." Odd? Yes. Bothersome? Not particularly. I am solidly behind outlawing the senseless murdering of dogs.

I do, however, struggle with the concept of using laws designed to protect children from the sins of the father to protect dad from his own sins. I watched the news report in disbelief as gag worthy pictures of the murderous tycoon smiling (post-accident) in a hospital bed set up by his magnificent pool were replaced by photos of the beaming cad with his brand new bleached blond offspring. I wonder if she calls him "daddy" as he hovers over her at bedtime, buck naked, motor running. The latest brand of helicopter parent. Ick.

Oh well. It doesn't matter much anyway. No amount of money will buy back the twenty-three year old son of the grieving parents who filed the wrongful death action, and the bleached blond will probably end up taking Richie Rich for a ride. Odds are the money is permanently out of his pocket, one way or another (which is why he just should have hidden the assets, like a normal crook).

I sure hope they don't decide to have a baby. I tremble to think what Florida law has to say about incest.