Clueless

                            Clueless

 

            This morning, as I rooted around in my closet, looking for something I couldn't quite remember what; I found a pair of flip flops, quite new looking.  I have no idea where they came from.  They're really nice with a thick blue foam sole, striped in pink.  I immediately liked them and hoped they were mine.  I think I'll wear them today, they fit.

            Yesterday I was writing something about someone, and couldn't come up with the word I wanted to use.  I was pretty sure it began with a "c" but that's about the only clue my brain would come up with.  I asked my husband but he hadn't the foggiest idea what I was talking about yet, he kept popping back into the room with words. 

            "Did you say? (We’re both hard of hearing) I repeated C. He said, "Sea? Like in "Old Man of sea?"

            When I repeated, again, “No, I mean the letter "c".” He thought for a minute and left the room.  Within seconds he was back.

            "How about concentrate," he offered.  I was sorry I'd asked him.  He had one word right but not that "C" word I was looking for. And by then I’d forgotten why I was trying to remember the word--whatever it was, I forgot.

            Last week Sally and I were having tea and discussing the movie I had seen the night before.  I wanted to tell her all about it.

            "It was about something to do with a hospital..."  I began.

            "Oh, do you mean the one that starred the actor who played in the film about the war lords in China with the actress who has that long dark hair and is married to the guy in that television series about cops?"  She asked.

            "No," I said, "she was in the show last week about New York, or maybe Chicago?  Anyway she was the one who sang that song about...well remember the song they sang in Oklahoma?  It was like that, I think or it might have been the one in Carousel.  Anyway, she had a big part."

            We finished our tea perfectly satisfied with a conversation that had more holes in it then that big golf course in California or Florida whose name I can't seem to recall. Remembering is getting harder as my hair gets grayer.  But, here's a joke that I do remember.  "Why did the dumb blond keep staring at the frozen can of juice?  Answer:  It said concentrate!"   I do, but like the title of the movie, let me see if I can remember the name? Oh! "A River Ran Through It" thoughts course through my brain like that river and sometimes at the speed of sound and then flows right out the other side. I can feel the breeze.

Hanging Pictures

 

How to Hang a Picture

Hubby is retired, is now home, and more than eager to help with household chores and goings on. And now, after all these many years we’ve been married, I’d never noticed how differently we do things. Take picture hanging, please.

B.H.R. (before his retirement) and, for the past too many years to fit onto this page, I’ve hung pictures without his help. It’s a simple procedure and goes something like this:

1. Find hammer and nail.

2. Place picture on wall.

3. Eye spot

4. Put picture down

5. Pick up hammer

6. Hold nail

7. Whack away.

Hung!

I’ll admit my method isn’t perfect and has caused some major unnecessary holes in the walls, but I discovered that toothpaste is a good hole filler-upper. Not the colored, but the white kind.

          His method involves me as his assistant and goes something like this: First, he calls for his tools: level, hammer, and jar of nails. Then, he requests I show him the exact spot on the wall where the picture is to be hung. Next, he cautiously approaches the wall, narrows his eyes to slits, scrutinized the spot, and knocks the wall all around the designated area. The dog barks. 

      One of two scenarios:

     “Uh, oh,” he shakes his head. “No stud here. Cannot do.” The picture sits on the rug, holding up the wall, until he leaves to get a haircut, or play golf and I hang it myself. Forget the stud!

      Scenario two:

He finds the stud. He requests I hold the picture at the exact location so he can mark it. “Pencil, pencil, I need a pencil!” He holds the picture and in an Edith Bunker trot I run off to find the pencil. Once the placement of the picture is marked, he needs the nail jar. “Nails, please.” He sorts through the jar with mouthwatering eagerness, like the nails are Belgium chocolates and he is looking for just the right caramel.

Once the right nail is chosen, with palm outstretched, he calls for his hammer. “Hammer, please.” I hear a drum roll.  With the concentration and precision of a surgeon about to do brain surgery, he places the nail on the penciled mark and carefully hits the nail into said spot. Along with the drum roll, I hear applause, a cheering crowd and the 1812 Overture.

Once the picture is hung, he needs his level. “Level, please.” It is placed on top of the hung picture. He steps back, squints, eyes the bouncing bubble in the middle, and instructs me, “No, down on the left, up a little bit, no, too far, down, no up, no…” and so on until it is picture perfect. The whole process I’m thinking, has taken longer than the artist’s rendering of the hung painting, but it is perfect and there was no need for a toothpaste filler. Where has he been all of my picture hanging life?

The Modeling Gig

The year was 1983, I was 50 years old and feeling the need of a career change, from housewife/mom to famous model. I had pictures taken and sent them out. Bloomingdale’s called and I got an interview for in-store modeling and also a runway fashion show. I was ecstatic. Fame called, I answered.

            The in-store modeling went okay, maybe not wonderfully. One dress was too big. No one seemed interested as I walked around the restaurant—in the store—trying to look professional. The runway gig was to die for and that’s just what I wanted to do when it was over—die. I was worse than bad, I was a nightmare.

            It’s 2012, almost thirty years later—six months shy of my 79^th birthday—my 80^th year! And, I find that I’m testing myself again. I’m showered and shaved and ready for another chance, another chance at runway modeling.  Not in Bloomingdale’s where they have placed a skull and crossbones next to my name, no this is a big fashion show at our clubhouse, a catered lunch for about, maybe more, 200 ladies—maybe one or two gentlemen—and they’ve asked me to model.

            I have everything packed that I need: Three pairs of shoes, the fourth just in case, makeup, brush, hairspray, my teeth, my hearing aids and my glasses. I’m wearing some falsies in my bra, where else, for heavens sakes, and I have on two pairs of tight panty girdles, one that covers the bulge around my waist. Please note: It covers it but certainly doesn’t take it away.

            I’m nervous and worry that my underarm deodorant will fail me. I worry that as I make a fashionable turn I might trip on my shoe tip over and fall off the runway. (In my mind UI thinks It’s at least five feet off the ground.) Then I worry I’ll be late, or I’ll not find my things, that no one will help me, maybe I’ll get stuck in my dress, or I’ll forget my cue, or I’ll have a stroke, maybe my heart will stop, worse I’ll embarrass myself and all my friends.

            My good friend Neda is modeling, too. She loves it, has no fear, thinks—knows—she looks great. She’ll be 90 in a couple of months.  “I’ve forgotten what I’m wearing,” she says to me a few hours before the show, “so I’m not sure about the jewelry.” She adds, “oh! Well!” No concern.  Whereas I’ve had my jewelry packed for two days, had written down each outfit so I’d know what I needed. 

I’m not Neda.

            I see by the clock that the time has come. Fame calls. Wish me luck.

Bob, The Ultimate Househusband

Looking back through the 57 years of marriage I can see where Bob has always had a househusband yearning. I think it began way back to us coming home from our honeymoon in the Pocono Mountains, and me dressing for bed, leaving sweater and skirt on the back of a chair, and him saying, “Aren’t you going to hang them up?” We were marriage for one week for goodness sakes!  But that should have been my first clue. I still don’t hang my clothing up right away because I consider it a sort of airing out process. Eventually they do take their place in the closet.

No, he doesn’t arrange all the spices in alphabetic order, or put the canned goods with their contents facing out. That’s compulsive, he’s househusband-y.

Over the years he’s tried to take over the food shopping and there were many times he managed to do it. Like when we only had the one car he would happily stop at the supermarket on the way home from work and bring home the bacon. There were also times he’d come with me to the supermarket and take charge. His—take no prisoners—attitude had me walking two steps behind the shopping cart. Yes, he knows what he was doing, does it well, and loves doing it. He has a coupon collection that is a thick as War and Peace.

The laundry was another factor in his goal of househusband. During the week while he was at work I would do all the laundry. On weekends he would disappear down to the basement right after breakfast and I’d hear the washer going. “What the heck is he washing?” I’d wonder. One time I went down to see. He’d done one load and was preparing another. I went to take the one load out of the washer and he snapped, “Don’t do it that way, shake, shake the wet clothes out before putting them into the dryer. Shake them.” I never again went down to the basement while he was washing.

The dishwasher organization still goes on. There are times when I foolishly place a cup or plate into the dishwasher only to have him move it to a better spot.

He’s a genius at this househusband thing. If only I could have had a job/a career that could have supported us letting him stay home to take care of the house. It would have run so much smoother. One time I came home from being away for 3 or 4 days, and found the house in perfect shape. My friend, who’d brought me home, and was never too tactful said, “Wow! I’ve never seen your house so clean and picked up.” Well, she was tactless but right about that.

Now he’s retired, retired for about almost twenty years and does his househusband job full time. Friends will ask me, “Well, what do you do?” It’s hard for me to answer that. I want to say: all the cooking, dusting, bathrooms, birthday, anniversary and sympathy cards, entertaining, gardening, and decorating but, instead I smile and say, “Just sit around popping grapes and looking pretty. I’m retired!” Actually, I consider myself upper management.

Right now as I write this I can hear the washer going and he’s got the ironing board set up in front of the TV. He’s humming. Eat your heart out girls, I’m keeping him.

On Parenting

As I type away at my computer this morning, I can see out the sliding glass door our resident mourning doves pecking away on the bird feeder. Just yesterday, I saw he/she in the nest up in the little space in the overhang that covers the front patio. They were there last year, too.

I read on the Internet that mourning doves make irresponsible parents. Sometimes they sit on old eggs beyond hatching, while sometimes they abandon their nests leaving their eggs. The nests they make are just  some twigs and hardly anything Martha Stewart would put her name to.

Since that overhang area was to be covered for the fumigation last year, we had no choice but to remove the nest and block it off with some screening so they wouldn’t come back until it was safe to do so. The nest we found up there was a mish marsh of twigs, and contained two tiny eggs. We felt terrible but…

Now the screening is down and they’ve taken up residency. The other day, one dove was sitting on the nest, while the other dove flitted around in the bushes below. The sitting dove then fluttered off the nest and joined the flitting dove, and the two flew off together—maybe the Hampton’s for the weekend, who knows. A wily crow could have swept in and robbed the abandoned nest and anything in it—such as an egg or two. HA! And I think I was a bad parent.

            All right, I left the “nest” once, leaving the kiddies all alone. The year was 1960 and we were young. Tom and Cheryl were little, but certainly old enough to dial the Child protective agency to report us—if there was such an agency in those days—but young enough to need a sitter, which we should have provided. After all, we rationalized, we’d be outside in the neighbor’s yard, only two houses away, the kiddies would be all right. It was a lovely summer evening, windows were open and…

Well, they were okay, thanks to diligent 5 year old Tommy who on our arrival home we found sitting on the bottom bunk bed where his 3 year old sister Cheryl, was fast asleep. His five year old eyes glared at us. “Don’t you know you should never leave children home alone?”  We were properly admonished.

Just call us Mr. and Mrs. Dove.

The Art of Rationalization

Friday, after a lovely lunch with our tapper friends, Marlene and Rosina, Susan and I went off to the swap meet right across the roadway from the restaurant. First we hit this photo tent with great photos on canvas along with lovely greeting cards and poetry. We each bought a pack of cards--Susan bought a box with a rainbow on it and a beautiful poem. I found a box with a beautiful peach rose on it. Each box was wrapped with a pretty ribbon. "I needed note cards so badly," I rationalized.

Then we walked on through the maze of tents and shoppers, clutching our note cards, and came upon a jewelry tent. Oh, oh! Jewelry. We oo'd and ah'd at gems set in silver, tried on rings, but managed to walk away to ooh and ahh at something in the tent across the way--I've forgotten what because as we turned from that tent and in the middle of an oo! and aah! we turned back to the jewelry tent and both of us--at the same time--spotted a turquoise link bracelet link bracelet with 5 stunning blue turquoise stones the size of quarters set in silver. "Oooh!" we both said in unison.

"How much?" I asked.

"$185," he replied smoothly like I might say $9.95.

 I dropped it like a hot potato, and the two of us pulled ourselves away and walked on. But, as we walked away I said to Susan, "Valentine's Day is coming. What a nice gift that would be for me from Bob."

Of course she agreed. We walked on oohing and ahhing at cute knitted hats, hand painted tiles and more jewelry. We made a complete circle around the tents and found ourselves up right back at the bracelet. Surprise!!!

I asked him what his bottom line price would be?

"$165!" he said.

 "Wrap it up!" I said, rationalizing that I would be saving Bob the angst of having to think of what to buy me for Valentine's Day. How nice is that. I wore it home.

We also made a stop at an old antique shop in Huntington Beach housed in the original family's furniture store looking older than I. Great, wonderful antiques with a small walkway through the the treasures. Old silver plate knives, forks and spoons in a large rummaging box, dishes, cups and saucers, pictures and of course jewelry. Old jewelry. And charms. Yes, again, selfless as I am I bought Bob a charm for one of my charm bracelets. It's an ironing board in honor of all his ironing. We came home satiated with giant smiles on our faces, treasures in our purses, and my arm laden in turquoise.

Happy Valentine's day!

Living to 102

It's 7:30 in the a.m. and the phone rings. It's my back east friend, Pat. We call each other every week on Tuesdays at 7:30 a.m. PST, 10:30 EST to discuss our past week. We got on to the subject of Dolores Hope's death and the fact she was one hundred and two when she died. Our usual weekly conversations are like the Jerry Seinfeld show—about nothing: what we’d be cooking that night, our aches, pains, her Italian classes, our card group, company, our kids and so on. Nothing of much importance--but sharing all this weekly gives our friendship continuity.Now we were on mortality, serious stuff--death.

“Lordy,” I gasped, “I don’t want to last for one hundred and two years, do you?”
She hesitated, “Maybe.”
"Really?" I said, "So you want your daughter wiping your chin and other unmentionable areas? Telling you when to get up, what to eat, and just generally bossing you around? Think about it!"
"I'm thinking," she said.

Pat and I, Mary, Barbara and Peg all met in our late 20's at a  neighborhood Tupperware party sometime in the early 60's, and have been friends for fifty years. As young, stay at home moms, we did everything together from coffee klatches to baby sitting, to holiday parties to shopping. Over the years we have put We hung out together, our club house the kitchen where we slurped coffee together with small kids hanging onto our legs, then through those first days of school, finally the angst of teen years, graduations, marriages, and now grandchildren. Like sisters, the bond was forged.  Now we are elderly and, even though distance separates us, we’ve never lost touch.


We  have occasional sisterly-like falling outs, but we've never fallen far enough to lose touch. Even with the moves--Mary and Pat moved further east on Long Island, and Peg and I moved to California, leaving Barbara, the "baby", all alone in the old neighborhood. The sisterhood bond we've formed is unconditional. A connection no amount of friction, years or miles can sever. 

About two years ago I received a frantic telephone call from Mary, on Long Island, to tell me that she'd heard that Barbara died. She'd panicked and called Pat. "Call her house," Pat, the sensible older "sister" advised. She did. When Barbara answered the phone Mary was taken aback. "Barbara, why are you answering the phone? You're dead!"

We all had a good laugh over that but the thought of one of us dying shook us all up. Our mortality became a reality.

Now Dolores Hope has died and Pat thinks she wants to live to be 102. We've done a lot together but I'm thinking--not this. "You'll be on your own," I told her. "No more Mary, Peg or Barbara. No more Tuesday telephone calls."

Next Tuesday when we talk, I must remember to ask her if she still wants to go it alone