Most of the time, I don't really know what I look like. I pretty much recognize myself in a mirror, at least at home, where I'm used to the mirrors and their quirks and only really look at my reflection in the one with soft lighting. But catching a glimpse of person dressed like self passing by a window? Not so easy, especially when reflected person doesn't much resemble what I think I'm projecting to the world.
Part of the problem is that you see what you're looking at, sort of. I look at my eyebrows (or lack thereof) fairly often, to see if they're once again filling in the area underneath them with coarse, rogue hair. I look at whether the part in my hair is drifting back to the middle of my head, exposing some sunburned scalp. I look at the creases deepening in that floodplane between my nose and the corners of my mouth and how, despite my efforts to be cheerful and carefree, the corners of said mouth turn resolutely down. Unsmiling, I am one scary looking Gramma.
So I take all these small facial components out for a walk in public and don't recognize them when they reflect me back in an unfamiliar venue. And wonder why I am so vain.
I don't remember being this vain during my extended youth. All my appendages worked. Nothing changed much from year to year, although my skin got dry and drier. Sometimes I had good haircuts, sometimes I just had to wait until a bad one grew out. I never learned what to do with makeup, so the most I could manage was mascara and brush-on blush. I have bought many lipsticks in my adult years, all of which got used twice, at most. None of them made my thin-lipped mouth look voluptuous, oddly enough. Chapstick was a good alternative which didn't show if it bled into the little cracks around my lips.
I think I'd better start celebrating my slender ankles and nicely shaped finger nails. Why not? Oh, and the temporary lack of hangnails is good. Given a bit more time, I may even get to enjoy my earlobes.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Rambling Retirees
Our neighbors, Hans and Shelley, the ones we eat with twice a week, are toddling off to Europe next Spring, at the insistence of their thirty-something daughter. Said daughter is a stalwart and intrepid adventurer, who speaks fluent Spanish and has a facility for languages. Neither parent speaks any language other than English, other than a little Mission District Spanglish (Taco, burrito, salsa, caliente - that kind of verbiage).
They are looking to go to Paris, Rome and Siena. Perhaps they will take the train from Paris to Rome and detour to Florence, but that will take a day and a half bite out of their two week trip. Is time spent sitting on a train, peering through the dark for a glimpse of a feeble night light a waste or does the exoticness of sharing a railroad car with fellow travelers, their food and their reading matter make up for the time spent? This has become our hot topic of conversation at dinnertime: right up there with the Giants latest win or loss and local politics.
The Mate and I are worried about this traveling situation. Hans is the kind of dude who doesn't notice me on the sidewalk in front of my house unless I call his name insistently, several times. The inside of his well-groomed, attractive head is too busy for inconsequential observations. When he walks with Shelley, they walk quickly, engaged in conversation. Neither one of them suffers from hearing loss yet, so the fact that she is usually a step or two behind him doesn't interfere with their discussions. As they walk and talk, they are usually looking downwards, the better to minimize random input and stay on topic. Or so we suppose.
How will these well-established routines play in the capitals of Europe? Will they wind up eating pigs knuckles, thinking they have ordered pasta primavera? Will they be able to find the Trevi Fountain or the Spanish steps? Will the cab driver deliver them to the train station instead of the airport? Will their fellow train travelers assume them to be Germans?
We have mentioned tour groups to them. It would set our ever-active imaginations to rest if they would simply sign on with a tour and get hauled around en masse from tourist attraction to tourist accommodation, with no opportunities to get lost or otherwise embarrassed.
They probably felt the same way about us when we traipsed off to France a couple years ago. We survived. I reckon they will, too.
They are looking to go to Paris, Rome and Siena. Perhaps they will take the train from Paris to Rome and detour to Florence, but that will take a day and a half bite out of their two week trip. Is time spent sitting on a train, peering through the dark for a glimpse of a feeble night light a waste or does the exoticness of sharing a railroad car with fellow travelers, their food and their reading matter make up for the time spent? This has become our hot topic of conversation at dinnertime: right up there with the Giants latest win or loss and local politics.
The Mate and I are worried about this traveling situation. Hans is the kind of dude who doesn't notice me on the sidewalk in front of my house unless I call his name insistently, several times. The inside of his well-groomed, attractive head is too busy for inconsequential observations. When he walks with Shelley, they walk quickly, engaged in conversation. Neither one of them suffers from hearing loss yet, so the fact that she is usually a step or two behind him doesn't interfere with their discussions. As they walk and talk, they are usually looking downwards, the better to minimize random input and stay on topic. Or so we suppose.
How will these well-established routines play in the capitals of Europe? Will they wind up eating pigs knuckles, thinking they have ordered pasta primavera? Will they be able to find the Trevi Fountain or the Spanish steps? Will the cab driver deliver them to the train station instead of the airport? Will their fellow train travelers assume them to be Germans?
We have mentioned tour groups to them. It would set our ever-active imaginations to rest if they would simply sign on with a tour and get hauled around en masse from tourist attraction to tourist accommodation, with no opportunities to get lost or otherwise embarrassed.
They probably felt the same way about us when we traipsed off to France a couple years ago. We survived. I reckon they will, too.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Not Quite Make A Wish
Last December, Susan and Diana and I took an overnight trip to Calistoga. I imagined we could hole up in a family suite at the Calistoga Spa Inn and drink a little wine, munch on small tasty olives and cheeses, have some girl time and - mostly - soak in the hot water and let our aches and cares vanish into the mists of steam.
Sooz and I had done a week together at the Russian River three months earlier. That was before her latest round of chemo and before she had the feeding tube. She'd had trouble swallowing and wasn't eating a lot, but she was sampling lots of soft, easy to swallow, easy to digest comestibles. That was also before we learned that the hard lump in her chest was a fast-growing cancer of the esophagus, slowly and steadily swelling to block both breathing and eating, rather than scar tissue from the previous radiation burns. Sooz brought a project to the river: a small quilt she wanted to put together for her soon-to-be-born grandchild. It was a complicated pattern, moving from light orange to dark amber, in various length strips. Getting the quilt pieced right absorbed most of our waking hours. It was too cold to lie on the beach or swim, but the house was cozy and we both brought books to read. We shared driving on the way home.
After that, her health went pretty much straight down hill. The feeding tube went in because she was so undernourished and dehydrated. She hated the feeding tube. She hated the feeling of the liquid food, often stopping the flow well before the amount in the feeding bag had been exhausted and refusing to continue. She fought and fought to stay in the present, to participate with her treatment, always thinking that whatever next procedure would somehow be restorative and she would then be strong enough for another round of chemo, which would beat back the cancer and banish all the damage, including wrinkles and greying hair.
She was in and out of emergency, in and out of the hospital. I saw her every ten days or so, in between doctor's appointments or minor operations. The day of our Calistoga excursion, I hadn't seen her for a couple weeks.
Diana was staying with Sooz at the house, by then, to help with all the infinite small set-ups for infusion of liquid food, the endless trips to nowhere but doctors. It had become harder and harder for Sooz to make herself heard, so Diana was our connection. Diana was being nudged into the role of food cop and she didn't care for it.
The day of the trip, I met them at the Alta Bates labs facility. Susan had required hydration, as she did several times a week. She emerged from the hour-long process in a wheelchair, looking skeletal and cross. She had brought a suitcase but had forgotten some of her meds and equipment, which meant a long swing off the freeway to retrieve the necessaries. Was Susan sure she wanted to go on this trip? Yes, she insisted. We made the swing west off the freeway and parked in the weeds near her back door. Walking from the car to the house exhausted her but, yes, she still wanted to go. She slept for the entirety of the two hour trip.
She had to rest awhile, halfway from the car to our motel room. The afternoon wind had kicked up and the courtyard patio was partially shadowed, so late in the year. Sooz was shivering under layers of sweatshirts and scarves. Even though she had a waterproof device to hold her colostomy bag and a bathing suit cut to accommodate it, she was too cold and too tired to strip, put on the suit and walk the twenty or so steps to the hot pool.
She tried a taste of guacamole, a drop or two of wine, a crumb of cheese. She balked at having her liquid meal by tube. We watched a Law and Order rerun and then we all went to bed and lay awake all night, while Susan struggled for breath. Diana and I managed a quick dip in the pool the following morning and then we headed home, with a sense of urgency. The next week, Susan had a tracheotomy, which left her unable to talk and breathing with the help of a machine.
She lasted long enough to hold her brand new grandson but not long enough to get her affairs in good order. She had hoped to be able to die by a body of water, alone and peaceful.Things don't seem to work out like we plan.
Sooz and I had done a week together at the Russian River three months earlier. That was before her latest round of chemo and before she had the feeding tube. She'd had trouble swallowing and wasn't eating a lot, but she was sampling lots of soft, easy to swallow, easy to digest comestibles. That was also before we learned that the hard lump in her chest was a fast-growing cancer of the esophagus, slowly and steadily swelling to block both breathing and eating, rather than scar tissue from the previous radiation burns. Sooz brought a project to the river: a small quilt she wanted to put together for her soon-to-be-born grandchild. It was a complicated pattern, moving from light orange to dark amber, in various length strips. Getting the quilt pieced right absorbed most of our waking hours. It was too cold to lie on the beach or swim, but the house was cozy and we both brought books to read. We shared driving on the way home.
After that, her health went pretty much straight down hill. The feeding tube went in because she was so undernourished and dehydrated. She hated the feeding tube. She hated the feeling of the liquid food, often stopping the flow well before the amount in the feeding bag had been exhausted and refusing to continue. She fought and fought to stay in the present, to participate with her treatment, always thinking that whatever next procedure would somehow be restorative and she would then be strong enough for another round of chemo, which would beat back the cancer and banish all the damage, including wrinkles and greying hair.
She was in and out of emergency, in and out of the hospital. I saw her every ten days or so, in between doctor's appointments or minor operations. The day of our Calistoga excursion, I hadn't seen her for a couple weeks.
Diana was staying with Sooz at the house, by then, to help with all the infinite small set-ups for infusion of liquid food, the endless trips to nowhere but doctors. It had become harder and harder for Sooz to make herself heard, so Diana was our connection. Diana was being nudged into the role of food cop and she didn't care for it.
The day of the trip, I met them at the Alta Bates labs facility. Susan had required hydration, as she did several times a week. She emerged from the hour-long process in a wheelchair, looking skeletal and cross. She had brought a suitcase but had forgotten some of her meds and equipment, which meant a long swing off the freeway to retrieve the necessaries. Was Susan sure she wanted to go on this trip? Yes, she insisted. We made the swing west off the freeway and parked in the weeds near her back door. Walking from the car to the house exhausted her but, yes, she still wanted to go. She slept for the entirety of the two hour trip.
She had to rest awhile, halfway from the car to our motel room. The afternoon wind had kicked up and the courtyard patio was partially shadowed, so late in the year. Sooz was shivering under layers of sweatshirts and scarves. Even though she had a waterproof device to hold her colostomy bag and a bathing suit cut to accommodate it, she was too cold and too tired to strip, put on the suit and walk the twenty or so steps to the hot pool.
She tried a taste of guacamole, a drop or two of wine, a crumb of cheese. She balked at having her liquid meal by tube. We watched a Law and Order rerun and then we all went to bed and lay awake all night, while Susan struggled for breath. Diana and I managed a quick dip in the pool the following morning and then we headed home, with a sense of urgency. The next week, Susan had a tracheotomy, which left her unable to talk and breathing with the help of a machine.
She lasted long enough to hold her brand new grandson but not long enough to get her affairs in good order. She had hoped to be able to die by a body of water, alone and peaceful.Things don't seem to work out like we plan.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Dental Recreation
Because my boy Hank had a November birthday, he was deemed not old enough to start kindergarten, that first Fall in Ward. Sad for him: all the other town kids, except two year old baby Caitlin, trudged to the school bus stop in front of the Old Depot every weekday morning at 7:30(well, most mornings) and climbed on the bus for the roller coaster ride to Nederland. They arrived back in the same big bus about 4 in the afternoon. Hank, therefore, had to hang with the guys.
This meant riding around in pickups, making supply runs, going up into the forest to cut down standing dead trees for firewood, grilled cheese for lunch at the Old Depot, picking up an expletive-heavy vocabulary, learning to chop kindling, lots of not-much-happening time, in which to retreat into a complicated fantasy life featuring large camper trucks and small stuffed animals, while he waited for Thespia to trundle home.
The other thing he got to do, for the first time in his four + years was go to the dentist. His teeth, not yet loosening to make room for big boy choppers, were decaying at an alarming rate. I had thought he brushed his teeth adequately. Apparently not. And I, after at least four years of dental neglect and chain smoking, needed both fillings and a root canal. Hank and I began making weekly trips down the mountain to the dentist.
We had a routine. We shopped for groceries first, knowing we weren't going to feel like taking our puffy, novocained, thick-tongued selves into MegaFoods after our dental visit. Shopping included big bags of ice for the coolers, so we could also buy meat and cheese and eggs and keep them from spoiling in the car. As winter came closer, we didn't need to take the coolers into town.
After the dentist, when we had been very brave and also not bitten anyone, we stopped for gas before the trip up the mountain. Gas at that point was 23.9 cents a gallon. Cigarettes - available at the Gas N Go, were $2.50 a carton. And we got our treat: Vernor's ginger ale and a block of hot pepper jack cheese. We pinched off chunks of the cheese, gently introduced them into our swollen mouths, gave a perfunctory chomp or two, to release the flavor, and washed it all down with Vernor's. Very fine dining.
I was actually sorry when our dental work was done. Hank was no longer in danger of mouth rot. I had a beautiful gold crown covering my dead tooth. But I had enjoyed my travels with Hank, cheerful, silent, willing, eyes wide open boy that he was, and now they were done.
This meant riding around in pickups, making supply runs, going up into the forest to cut down standing dead trees for firewood, grilled cheese for lunch at the Old Depot, picking up an expletive-heavy vocabulary, learning to chop kindling, lots of not-much-happening time, in which to retreat into a complicated fantasy life featuring large camper trucks and small stuffed animals, while he waited for Thespia to trundle home.
The other thing he got to do, for the first time in his four + years was go to the dentist. His teeth, not yet loosening to make room for big boy choppers, were decaying at an alarming rate. I had thought he brushed his teeth adequately. Apparently not. And I, after at least four years of dental neglect and chain smoking, needed both fillings and a root canal. Hank and I began making weekly trips down the mountain to the dentist.
We had a routine. We shopped for groceries first, knowing we weren't going to feel like taking our puffy, novocained, thick-tongued selves into MegaFoods after our dental visit. Shopping included big bags of ice for the coolers, so we could also buy meat and cheese and eggs and keep them from spoiling in the car. As winter came closer, we didn't need to take the coolers into town.
After the dentist, when we had been very brave and also not bitten anyone, we stopped for gas before the trip up the mountain. Gas at that point was 23.9 cents a gallon. Cigarettes - available at the Gas N Go, were $2.50 a carton. And we got our treat: Vernor's ginger ale and a block of hot pepper jack cheese. We pinched off chunks of the cheese, gently introduced them into our swollen mouths, gave a perfunctory chomp or two, to release the flavor, and washed it all down with Vernor's. Very fine dining.
I was actually sorry when our dental work was done. Hank was no longer in danger of mouth rot. I had a beautiful gold crown covering my dead tooth. But I had enjoyed my travels with Hank, cheerful, silent, willing, eyes wide open boy that he was, and now they were done.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Working Girls
After two months at 9400 feet, I was able to walk up to the Old Depot Cafe and Grocery Store without long pauses for breath catching. I walked slowly, true, but steadily, in my Vibram soled boots. Because Ward was full of crushed rock and therefore slippery. I didn't make that walk much. We usually drove the pickup to the Cafe because we needed to fill our five gallon water cans every second day. They got filled at the grocery store hose, just like everybody else's who didn't have running water. We might have made do with water from the creek across the road, but the creek ran down through town, down where everybody's outhouse leached into the stony soil. If you got your water at the top of the town, it was unpolluted, straight down from the forest, maybe having drowned a few small forest creatures or been shat in by large roaming creatures with antlers or fur, but otherwise pristine.
Once I was acclimated, I needed something more to do than those Rescue Me! letters I'd been sending to my feminist friends in California. And along came a Job! The woman who had been postmaster was planning to retire and have a baby. No one seemed to want the job. And I had creds, having worked a whole Christmas month for the USPS in San Francisco. With a minimum of training, mostly involving learning the locations of stamps and cancellers and how to send certified or registered mail, there I was installed in the old schoolhouse, with access to everybody's magazines and postcards.The post office was open from 8 - 11 a.m. and 1 - 4 p.m. I got paid every two weeks and there was pension money building up, at a slow but sure rate. We immediately started buying better beer and wine.
My dog, Zoom, liked hanging out at the post office. I didn't deliberately take him with me to work but he usually found his way there within half an hour of opening. He'd wait out on the stoop until a customer opened the door and then he'd prance in, ever so delighted to see me, happy to lie at my feet while I skimmed through Field and Stream or Playboy or Modern Romance, and waited for the post truck to arrive.
Mike drove the truck up from Golden, through Nederland and Ward, on up to Jamestown and then looped back. She was a genuine mountain girl, big all over, particularly ponderous in the thighs and calves. She took a shine to me and began coming over to hang out in Ward, keeping me company. Fortunately for my magazine addiction, she had to be on her way out of Ward and back to Golden with the outgoing mail by 2:30 p.m., which gave me almost enough time to peruse all the days magazines before their subscribers came in to collect them. In extreme cases, I held back delivery for a day.
Once I was acclimated, I needed something more to do than those Rescue Me! letters I'd been sending to my feminist friends in California. And along came a Job! The woman who had been postmaster was planning to retire and have a baby. No one seemed to want the job. And I had creds, having worked a whole Christmas month for the USPS in San Francisco. With a minimum of training, mostly involving learning the locations of stamps and cancellers and how to send certified or registered mail, there I was installed in the old schoolhouse, with access to everybody's magazines and postcards.The post office was open from 8 - 11 a.m. and 1 - 4 p.m. I got paid every two weeks and there was pension money building up, at a slow but sure rate. We immediately started buying better beer and wine.
My dog, Zoom, liked hanging out at the post office. I didn't deliberately take him with me to work but he usually found his way there within half an hour of opening. He'd wait out on the stoop until a customer opened the door and then he'd prance in, ever so delighted to see me, happy to lie at my feet while I skimmed through Field and Stream or Playboy or Modern Romance, and waited for the post truck to arrive.
Mike drove the truck up from Golden, through Nederland and Ward, on up to Jamestown and then looped back. She was a genuine mountain girl, big all over, particularly ponderous in the thighs and calves. She took a shine to me and began coming over to hang out in Ward, keeping me company. Fortunately for my magazine addiction, she had to be on her way out of Ward and back to Golden with the outgoing mail by 2:30 p.m., which gave me almost enough time to peruse all the days magazines before their subscribers came in to collect them. In extreme cases, I held back delivery for a day.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Evasive Tactic
Someday soon, the word "bank" will be used to denote the lowest rung of execrable, conscienceless behavior/attitude that could possibly be imagined. Arrogant exhibitionistic, small-minded flaunters of excrutiating stupidity will be described as "bankish". Maybe they already are and it's just another loop that I have been happily out of. Until now.
Yup, after six weeks of breath holding (don't try this at home) we got a response to our offer on the six bedroom House of Multiple Possibility and a garden too. The banks response to our bid of $425,000 on a house that was listed at $449,000 was to offer to sell it to us for $465,000. On what planet does this make sense?
Our realtor couldn't figure it out. The Listing Agent didn't have a clue. Heads were being scratched up and down the 101 corridor, to no avail.
We said no to the bank and no to making another counter-offer unless it was a lower offer than our previous one. I mean, WTF? Lock into a little charade of throwing numbers at each other for the rest of the winter, only to discover (which seemed likely) that the two other feckless lenders were not being considered here and therefore wouldn't sign off on the deal? Or maybe we could just get on with our lives. . .
So, we won't be moving in beneath the astonishing arms of the world's largest magnolia tree, across the faculty parking lot from the regional high school, down the street of high steps and hidden gardens, a mere two blocks from Whole Foods. I get to keep my drawer full of holey socks and stretched-out underwear. No need just yet to finally toss away those battered toys in the back closet of the back bedroom. I don't even need to sort the utensil drawers in the kitchen. Reprieve! Or is it?
Yup, after six weeks of breath holding (don't try this at home) we got a response to our offer on the six bedroom House of Multiple Possibility and a garden too. The banks response to our bid of $425,000 on a house that was listed at $449,000 was to offer to sell it to us for $465,000. On what planet does this make sense?
Our realtor couldn't figure it out. The Listing Agent didn't have a clue. Heads were being scratched up and down the 101 corridor, to no avail.
We said no to the bank and no to making another counter-offer unless it was a lower offer than our previous one. I mean, WTF? Lock into a little charade of throwing numbers at each other for the rest of the winter, only to discover (which seemed likely) that the two other feckless lenders were not being considered here and therefore wouldn't sign off on the deal? Or maybe we could just get on with our lives. . .
So, we won't be moving in beneath the astonishing arms of the world's largest magnolia tree, across the faculty parking lot from the regional high school, down the street of high steps and hidden gardens, a mere two blocks from Whole Foods. I get to keep my drawer full of holey socks and stretched-out underwear. No need just yet to finally toss away those battered toys in the back closet of the back bedroom. I don't even need to sort the utensil drawers in the kitchen. Reprieve! Or is it?
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