I have a singing voice like a Dutch Nightingale. For the edification of all non-history buffs, that's actually a FROG! -- Centuries back, the British and the Dutch were rivals. So anything inferior, or just plain crappy was labeled "Dutch". Think Dutch Treat or Dutch Courage and you get the idea.
As a small child, holiday songs sounded spooky and weird to me. Remember the ancient troll who tied up Carol? Woo hoo! And lets not forget Don and his gay apparel!
But then came New Year's and the scariest song of all, OLD MAN TIME! Which is exactly what I heard whenever AULD LANG SYNE was sung. And that old man was downright creepy, too! With the long blade over his shoulder, he looked just like the Grim Reaper's younger brother.
Here we are on the verge of 2012. Arguably the most frightening year in history. According to the Mayan Calendar (the most accurate ever created) this is the year the world ends on Dec. 21. I believe that's on a Friday.
For the record, I never bought into the Y2K scare.
I would not find this prophecy disturbing except that way back in 1987 a psychic couple gave me a prediction. They claimed that early in the next century the earth would shift on it's axis and the entire map would change. Also most of the planet's population would perish. And the few survivors would find themselves existing in a new stone age.
These were personal friends who never charged a cent. The lady (a former school teacher) also made predictions about my own life which came true .-- Things I never would have imagined! And they predicted more turbulence and extremes in the weather before the new earth emerged. This is happening, folks. The weather all over the planet seems to be going crazy!
Even my father was impressed by some of their revelations. Because they told us significant facts upon our 1st meeting. Personal information they could never have guessed! However, we both still had our doubts. Mostly because they had a friend (another psychic in town) who claimed the Empress of Atlantis was buried in his back yard.
I know if she was in our back yard I would have dug her up, taken her on tour, and sold tickets! Imagine the historical significance of such a discovery! Why hide this, display her to the world!
Still, it looks as if I've got one stressful year ahead. If this is my last year alive, I want to really enjoy it! At the same time, I don't want to squander my money in case this disturbing prediction proves incorrect. I can't afford any lavish high times. But I did buy myself the expensive basket of dark chocolate gophers for Christmas.
I could never adjust to life in a stone age. Especially now that I've entered my later years. I know I couldn't exist in a world without electricity! Just those few weeks without it after the hurricanes was intolerable enough. Besides, I now consider myself married to the DVR, which came between my menage a' trois with the microwave and the refrigerator.
I live in Florida and near the coast. So I'll probably end up buried under sand on the bottom of the ocean.
Since the Mayans existed several thousands years ago, I wonder if their calendar is really all that accurate? Or could it possibly be off by a few days, even months, or hopefully years. My psychics did say it would be an inexact date. Just in case, I plan to be home on that particular Friday. If the colossal tsunami strikes, I want to be inside this house as my last memory. The place I found my freedom and discovered happiness.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
ME & OLE HOPPIN' JOHN
Ewww yuck! That's my reaction upon 1st tasting a dish called Hoppin' John. Yet I eat the stuff every New Year's Eve & New Year's Day. But I do it for altruistic reasons. And everyone in my zip code and surrounding areas owes me an enormous debt of gratitude.
After getting struck by a 4th hurricane, after living in Vero Beach for only 6 yrs, I was starting to become unglued to the extent of being downright psychotic. The hurricane ordeal in itself is hair-raising enough. But the aftermath is another tribulation, usually prolonged; not to mention expensive!
There is an old superstition that eating a serving of Hoppin' John will ward off misfortune in the coming year. My anxiety was reaching the point of hysteria, plus I was desperate, and ready to try anything! But I couldn't remember if you were supposed to eat it on New Year's Eve or New Year's Day. I decided to eat it for both, so I'd be covered either way.
Frankly, most old southern dishes make me gag! And this one was no exception. Hoppin' John is mostly black-eyed peas with tomatoes and spices. Some versions of it have sausage. -- There is no way I would ever put sausage in my mouth. And that includes any type of sausage! (If you get my drift.) It's disgusting! Another has jalapino. --With my acid reflux, I'd end up in the hospital!
I found a version without those 2 ingredients. Instead it has onions and is more tolerable, but still awful-tasting. The nasty stuff comes in a can. Since I've already bought into the superstition, I feel that throwing any away would be unlucky. So I finish the can in small doses the rest of New Year's week. If I ate any larger portions, there would be hoppin' vomit.
Ever since I began this tradition on New Year's Eve 2005, Vero Beach and the surrounding areas have not been hit by any hurricanes! Of course we are now on the brink of the infamous 2012. I wonder if even ole Hoppin' John has magic powerful enough to tame that year if the Mayan prediction proves correct.
If a hurricane strikes, or the world ends in 2012; I could perish shrieking in dire agony from a horrendous demise. But at least I'll never stomach that $#!% &@^) Hoppn' Crud ever again! Until then, I'm gagging it down.
After getting struck by a 4th hurricane, after living in Vero Beach for only 6 yrs, I was starting to become unglued to the extent of being downright psychotic. The hurricane ordeal in itself is hair-raising enough. But the aftermath is another tribulation, usually prolonged; not to mention expensive!
There is an old superstition that eating a serving of Hoppin' John will ward off misfortune in the coming year. My anxiety was reaching the point of hysteria, plus I was desperate, and ready to try anything! But I couldn't remember if you were supposed to eat it on New Year's Eve or New Year's Day. I decided to eat it for both, so I'd be covered either way.
Frankly, most old southern dishes make me gag! And this one was no exception. Hoppin' John is mostly black-eyed peas with tomatoes and spices. Some versions of it have sausage. -- There is no way I would ever put sausage in my mouth. And that includes any type of sausage! (If you get my drift.) It's disgusting! Another has jalapino. --With my acid reflux, I'd end up in the hospital!
I found a version without those 2 ingredients. Instead it has onions and is more tolerable, but still awful-tasting. The nasty stuff comes in a can. Since I've already bought into the superstition, I feel that throwing any away would be unlucky. So I finish the can in small doses the rest of New Year's week. If I ate any larger portions, there would be hoppin' vomit.
Ever since I began this tradition on New Year's Eve 2005, Vero Beach and the surrounding areas have not been hit by any hurricanes! Of course we are now on the brink of the infamous 2012. I wonder if even ole Hoppin' John has magic powerful enough to tame that year if the Mayan prediction proves correct.
If a hurricane strikes, or the world ends in 2012; I could perish shrieking in dire agony from a horrendous demise. But at least I'll never stomach that $#!% &@^) Hoppn' Crud ever again! Until then, I'm gagging it down.
Friday, December 16, 2011
BURN DOWN THE CHRISTMAS TREE
My father and I celebrated only 2 Christmas holidays together in our new house. Yet they are memorable for mostly negative reasons. The first, Dad was recovering well from his heart attack and triple by-pass.
I wanted a Christmas tree, and a big one, the minute we stepped inside this house. There was a 30 ft cathedral ceiling, and our little one just wouldn't cut it here.
Since we are people who always take the easy route, we got a plastic tree. It was an 8 ft high one we purchased 2nd hand. Then we placed it atop a heavy 2 ft marble table in front of our high double-picture window. Soon we discovered we didn't have enough ornaments.
We bought a small bagful of decent ones at a thrift shop before heading to Walmart. Immediately a rack full of half-price clothes caught my eye! I raced toward it before disappearing in the dressing room. When I emerged, my father looked so angry you could almost see steam emanating from his body.
It's amazing he was never a case of spontaneous human combustion! I would not have been surprised to come down the stairs one day and find a charred and smouldering skeleton in his recliner. He certainly fit the profile!
"You look pissed," I said. "What's wrong?"
"We came here to buy ornaments and nothing else!" he snapped.
"But we have all afternoon," I reminded him.
"Well I don't want to be here all afternoon." My father fumed. He was angry for the remainder of the day.
On the way home we stopped at a Drug Store. I ran inside to pick-up his medication, plus a few other items. The place was crowded due to the holiday season. As usual, my father was sitting in the station wagon timing me with his watch. The minute I touched the car handle, I could hear him yelling because I took so long! This happened frequently.
Fast forward to the day after Christmas. We were getting ready to take the tree down. My friend Pat called long-distance with personal news. We talked for about 45 minutes. When I came downstairs, my father was just sitting there waiting. I thought he would have at least removed the ornaments.
We dismantled the tree, and put everything else in boxes. I wanted to store the Xmas stuff in our big garage. There was a huge cabinet that was nearly empty. It was the perfect spot.
"I don't want it there!" Dad snarled. He ordered me to put it in the crawlspace under the stairs. -- That spot is deep, narrow, dark, and filled with spiders! It has what I call an elf door. I have to get down on my hands and knees to maneuver in there. Plus I'm claustrophobic!
To make a long story short, that's where the tree ended up!
Six months later, my father suffered his stroke. The following Christmas was our final one together. Dad was dying of cancer, already on borrowed time.
After Christmas, when I dismantled the tree and boxed the ornaments, I told Dad I was putting the Xmas stuff in the garage. At this point, it was obvious even to him he would not be around for another holiday. So I didn't think he would object. -- Wrong!
"I told you I didn't want it there!" he hollered. "It's not up for argument!"
I informed him I wasn't crawling through that portal to Hell again! We'd have to find another place for the tree.
"Burn it, then!" He was furiously brandishing his arm in the air! "Burn it! Burn it!"
Arguing with him was useless. He got his way again. Because I knew that soon I could do anything I wanted with the tree. Including having it cremated with his cadaver!
I wanted a Christmas tree, and a big one, the minute we stepped inside this house. There was a 30 ft cathedral ceiling, and our little one just wouldn't cut it here.
Since we are people who always take the easy route, we got a plastic tree. It was an 8 ft high one we purchased 2nd hand. Then we placed it atop a heavy 2 ft marble table in front of our high double-picture window. Soon we discovered we didn't have enough ornaments.
We bought a small bagful of decent ones at a thrift shop before heading to Walmart. Immediately a rack full of half-price clothes caught my eye! I raced toward it before disappearing in the dressing room. When I emerged, my father looked so angry you could almost see steam emanating from his body.
It's amazing he was never a case of spontaneous human combustion! I would not have been surprised to come down the stairs one day and find a charred and smouldering skeleton in his recliner. He certainly fit the profile!
"You look pissed," I said. "What's wrong?"
"We came here to buy ornaments and nothing else!" he snapped.
"But we have all afternoon," I reminded him.
"Well I don't want to be here all afternoon." My father fumed. He was angry for the remainder of the day.
On the way home we stopped at a Drug Store. I ran inside to pick-up his medication, plus a few other items. The place was crowded due to the holiday season. As usual, my father was sitting in the station wagon timing me with his watch. The minute I touched the car handle, I could hear him yelling because I took so long! This happened frequently.
Fast forward to the day after Christmas. We were getting ready to take the tree down. My friend Pat called long-distance with personal news. We talked for about 45 minutes. When I came downstairs, my father was just sitting there waiting. I thought he would have at least removed the ornaments.
We dismantled the tree, and put everything else in boxes. I wanted to store the Xmas stuff in our big garage. There was a huge cabinet that was nearly empty. It was the perfect spot.
"I don't want it there!" Dad snarled. He ordered me to put it in the crawlspace under the stairs. -- That spot is deep, narrow, dark, and filled with spiders! It has what I call an elf door. I have to get down on my hands and knees to maneuver in there. Plus I'm claustrophobic!
To make a long story short, that's where the tree ended up!
Six months later, my father suffered his stroke. The following Christmas was our final one together. Dad was dying of cancer, already on borrowed time.
After Christmas, when I dismantled the tree and boxed the ornaments, I told Dad I was putting the Xmas stuff in the garage. At this point, it was obvious even to him he would not be around for another holiday. So I didn't think he would object. -- Wrong!
"I told you I didn't want it there!" he hollered. "It's not up for argument!"
I informed him I wasn't crawling through that portal to Hell again! We'd have to find another place for the tree.
"Burn it, then!" He was furiously brandishing his arm in the air! "Burn it! Burn it!"
Arguing with him was useless. He got his way again. Because I knew that soon I could do anything I wanted with the tree. Including having it cremated with his cadaver!
Friday, December 9, 2011
GETTING CARDED X
I knew civilization was rapidly declining when people stopped mailing Christmas cards. Sure the electronic ones with their singing and dancing are cute. But I prefer the kind I can hold to admire.
Growing up it was not unusual to receive 60 cards in a season. Nowadays I average about 6! Usually I give around 20. A few, I hand deliver. The rest, I mail.
Many of the recepients thank me for my card, followed by an apology. Then an explanation that they're just too busy to send cards. A pity! Although I realize most have more hectic lives than I do. -- Hey that's what you get when you have a family! Here's an idea, put the damn kids to work on the cards!
I began mailing out my own Christmas cards while in my teens. Of course cards and postage were both cheap then. Also it was lots of fun! I used colored inks, plus a variety of holiday stickers.
Christmas cards were always special to me. As a child, I insisted upon opening all letters with cards. Then I would critique them. Back in the day, most were dazzling with lots of gold, silver, & colored glitter! They were too beautiful to toss. After Chrismas we kept them in boxes in the attic. Now most are so plain and unimaginative I have no problem deep-sixing them after the holidays.
I also delight in odd and funny cards, too. Awhile back, I sent ones with a crotchety Santa on the cover complaining about all the goody two-shoes, suck-up kids and swearing only to reward bad ones that year. Inside it read, "Looks like it's going to be your year!" That always brought a laugh!
Another featured a neon-red eyed tree frog in a Santa hat that a former neighbor swore gave her nightmares!
I once sent cards with a sleigh pulled by dinosaurs and a tyrannosaurus Rex dressed as Santa. Inside it read, "Have an old-fashioned Christmas!"
Lately, I've been sending Christmas cards with Barbie, including the usual type of Barbie comments. In one she declares, "Christmas is weird!" -- Right on Barbie, that's very true!
Not being religious in the conventional sense, I rarely send reverent cards for 2 reasons. 1... I have suspicions that Christ was actually an extraterrestrial. 2... The exact date of Christ's birth is unknown. -- Dec. 25 was a date commandeered from an ancient Roman holiday. A wildly pagan festival of debauchery called Saturnalia, rife with state-sanctioned rape, looting, naked singers, and human sacrifice! -- Just imagine the cards you could create for that event!
A popular singer/actress born on Dec. 25 used to celebrate with 2 birthday cakes. The extra was for the Christ child. Others found it touching. I thought it just showed her lack of education. I always wondered who ate the extra cake!
I have a relative I dearly love. The man is well-versed in the bible. He can quote any holy scripture. But when you try to talk to him on any other subject, the guy is dumb as dog poop. And worse, he's arrogant about his ignorance!
As a believer in reincarnation, I see God as more of a cosmic conciousness. Karma makes sense to me. However, I'm willing to admit I could be wrong! No one knows all the answers! Because no one has all the information. Not even the bible-thumpers, even if they think they do.
But I embrace the spirit of Christmas! Also I believe The Golden Rule and The Ten Commandments are perfect guidelines for life. They should be practiced year-round! Everyone backslides, now and then. Just be sure to take 2 leaps forward! And don't turn your holiday celebration into Saturnalia!...It's bad karma.
Growing up it was not unusual to receive 60 cards in a season. Nowadays I average about 6! Usually I give around 20. A few, I hand deliver. The rest, I mail.
Many of the recepients thank me for my card, followed by an apology. Then an explanation that they're just too busy to send cards. A pity! Although I realize most have more hectic lives than I do. -- Hey that's what you get when you have a family! Here's an idea, put the damn kids to work on the cards!
I began mailing out my own Christmas cards while in my teens. Of course cards and postage were both cheap then. Also it was lots of fun! I used colored inks, plus a variety of holiday stickers.
Christmas cards were always special to me. As a child, I insisted upon opening all letters with cards. Then I would critique them. Back in the day, most were dazzling with lots of gold, silver, & colored glitter! They were too beautiful to toss. After Chrismas we kept them in boxes in the attic. Now most are so plain and unimaginative I have no problem deep-sixing them after the holidays.
I also delight in odd and funny cards, too. Awhile back, I sent ones with a crotchety Santa on the cover complaining about all the goody two-shoes, suck-up kids and swearing only to reward bad ones that year. Inside it read, "Looks like it's going to be your year!" That always brought a laugh!
Another featured a neon-red eyed tree frog in a Santa hat that a former neighbor swore gave her nightmares!
I once sent cards with a sleigh pulled by dinosaurs and a tyrannosaurus Rex dressed as Santa. Inside it read, "Have an old-fashioned Christmas!"
Lately, I've been sending Christmas cards with Barbie, including the usual type of Barbie comments. In one she declares, "Christmas is weird!" -- Right on Barbie, that's very true!
Not being religious in the conventional sense, I rarely send reverent cards for 2 reasons. 1... I have suspicions that Christ was actually an extraterrestrial. 2... The exact date of Christ's birth is unknown. -- Dec. 25 was a date commandeered from an ancient Roman holiday. A wildly pagan festival of debauchery called Saturnalia, rife with state-sanctioned rape, looting, naked singers, and human sacrifice! -- Just imagine the cards you could create for that event!
A popular singer/actress born on Dec. 25 used to celebrate with 2 birthday cakes. The extra was for the Christ child. Others found it touching. I thought it just showed her lack of education. I always wondered who ate the extra cake!
I have a relative I dearly love. The man is well-versed in the bible. He can quote any holy scripture. But when you try to talk to him on any other subject, the guy is dumb as dog poop. And worse, he's arrogant about his ignorance!
As a believer in reincarnation, I see God as more of a cosmic conciousness. Karma makes sense to me. However, I'm willing to admit I could be wrong! No one knows all the answers! Because no one has all the information. Not even the bible-thumpers, even if they think they do.
But I embrace the spirit of Christmas! Also I believe The Golden Rule and The Ten Commandments are perfect guidelines for life. They should be practiced year-round! Everyone backslides, now and then. Just be sure to take 2 leaps forward! And don't turn your holiday celebration into Saturnalia!...It's bad karma.
Monday, December 5, 2011
BE SEATED & DIE
A recent report stated that the more time spent sitting down the shorter the life span. Just reading that nearly gave me a heart attack! Because I'm still on my honeymoon with my DVR and movie channels. Plus during the holiday season, I spend so much time watching television I worry about getting bedsores on my behind.
Perusing the programming guide on my DVR often I see titles of movies I've already watched. Always I think back to what was going on in my life at that time. Sometimes I feel melancholy, or homicidal. And for that reason I won't sit through those films again. But there's plenty of others to keep me entertained. I've seen movies so cheesy they're fun, such as FLIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, Zombies On A Plane.
I absolutely LOVE movies! Zombie flicks are my favorite of the horror genre. I also adore sweeping 3 hour long historical costume dramas. I enjoy foreign films with subtitles and old silent movies as well. Action & slasher flicks are exhilarating to watch! Cartoon comedies are also a delight. Bring on the movies, I can't get enough!
Also this time of year I deviate from my diet . During the holiday season all the special food goes on display. Fruitcake, rum, & Amaretto cake, frosted Christmas cookies, shortbread & butter cookies, every sort of torte, multiple varieties of fudge, holiday ice creams, pecan logs, divinity candy, chocolate covered fruit, platters of petits fours & bon bons etc; everything sweet, delicious, and wonderful! Desserts are an integral part of the holidays. Also the brie wheels stuffed with fruit & nuts: and of course eggnog, what would the holiday season be without it. If I don't indulge, I feel deprived!
Yet I am a woman who absolutely refuses to be overweight! My vanity is as much a source of strength as it is a weakness. I have a lust for sweets akin to an addiction! But I do try to be moderate and ration the goodies.
A few years back, I was ogling a Christmas cake at a supermarket bakery. Tempted as I was, I told the clerk I was going to decline. Because a holiday party was coming up. I wanted to be certain I could fit into my beautiful tight dress.
Well she launched into a tirade about how it took her 50 yrs to finally accept herself as she was. But by golly, now she did! After she finished her rant, I told her, " I like myself trim. And I intend to stay this way!"
I can't relate to people who don't give a crap about their appearance! And they seem to be in the majority. But dropping weight has always come easily to me. And I love to eat, too!
Who doesn't love to eat?! But there's an old saying, "Don't dig your grave with your teeth." Over-indulging and being sedentary is a lethal combination. And this is a dangerous time of the year.
Plus this is one of the best television seasons in memory! I hate saying goodbye to those frisky and DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES. They will be missed. Despite of all the great new programs, returning favorites and lots of variety to enjoy.
The History channel was best when it was still the Hitler channel. But then I'm a World War II buff. However, I must admit I am intrigued by those ANCIENT ALIENS.
I am loving FX's AMERICAN HORROR STORY. And don't get me started on AMC's THE WALKING DEAD! I wish it was on every night of the week! I am fervidly awaiting the next episode when the season resumes in February. Also I've quickly become addicted to that riveting western series HELL ON WHEELS. And there's my old returning favorite ID's DEADLY WOMEN.
Recently in the news, were articles about 2 dead women. One was found mummified in her chair. The other was fused to it. It gave me chills! Could that be the way I'll go out? Which reminded me of another favorite show on the Spike channel. I don't want to be a feature on 1000 WAYS TO DIE!
I'm getting out my weights and doing extra push-ups, right now!
Perusing the programming guide on my DVR often I see titles of movies I've already watched. Always I think back to what was going on in my life at that time. Sometimes I feel melancholy, or homicidal. And for that reason I won't sit through those films again. But there's plenty of others to keep me entertained. I've seen movies so cheesy they're fun, such as FLIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, Zombies On A Plane.
I absolutely LOVE movies! Zombie flicks are my favorite of the horror genre. I also adore sweeping 3 hour long historical costume dramas. I enjoy foreign films with subtitles and old silent movies as well. Action & slasher flicks are exhilarating to watch! Cartoon comedies are also a delight. Bring on the movies, I can't get enough!
Also this time of year I deviate from my diet . During the holiday season all the special food goes on display. Fruitcake, rum, & Amaretto cake, frosted Christmas cookies, shortbread & butter cookies, every sort of torte, multiple varieties of fudge, holiday ice creams, pecan logs, divinity candy, chocolate covered fruit, platters of petits fours & bon bons etc; everything sweet, delicious, and wonderful! Desserts are an integral part of the holidays. Also the brie wheels stuffed with fruit & nuts: and of course eggnog, what would the holiday season be without it. If I don't indulge, I feel deprived!
Yet I am a woman who absolutely refuses to be overweight! My vanity is as much a source of strength as it is a weakness. I have a lust for sweets akin to an addiction! But I do try to be moderate and ration the goodies.
A few years back, I was ogling a Christmas cake at a supermarket bakery. Tempted as I was, I told the clerk I was going to decline. Because a holiday party was coming up. I wanted to be certain I could fit into my beautiful tight dress.
Well she launched into a tirade about how it took her 50 yrs to finally accept herself as she was. But by golly, now she did! After she finished her rant, I told her, " I like myself trim. And I intend to stay this way!"
I can't relate to people who don't give a crap about their appearance! And they seem to be in the majority. But dropping weight has always come easily to me. And I love to eat, too!
Who doesn't love to eat?! But there's an old saying, "Don't dig your grave with your teeth." Over-indulging and being sedentary is a lethal combination. And this is a dangerous time of the year.
Plus this is one of the best television seasons in memory! I hate saying goodbye to those frisky and DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES. They will be missed. Despite of all the great new programs, returning favorites and lots of variety to enjoy.
The History channel was best when it was still the Hitler channel. But then I'm a World War II buff. However, I must admit I am intrigued by those ANCIENT ALIENS.
I am loving FX's AMERICAN HORROR STORY. And don't get me started on AMC's THE WALKING DEAD! I wish it was on every night of the week! I am fervidly awaiting the next episode when the season resumes in February. Also I've quickly become addicted to that riveting western series HELL ON WHEELS. And there's my old returning favorite ID's DEADLY WOMEN.
Recently in the news, were articles about 2 dead women. One was found mummified in her chair. The other was fused to it. It gave me chills! Could that be the way I'll go out? Which reminded me of another favorite show on the Spike channel. I don't want to be a feature on 1000 WAYS TO DIE!
I'm getting out my weights and doing extra push-ups, right now!
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
THE DOG WHO WAS INTIMATE WITH CATS
Their love was a perverse, yet passionate and star-crossed one. He was a callow, young charmer with a cocky, devil-may-care attitude and orange-reddish hair. She was an earthy type with a long, freckled nose and missing teeth. And she was old enough to be his great-grandmother. But they connected on a deep spiritual level as soul-mates. Were they human, poets and singers would have mellifluously immortalized them in song and verse.
Of course each had their rivals. She stood riveted, eyes wide and ears perked, every time a certain mixed breed hunk with a feathery, curled tail swaggered by the front of our house. Several times I had to prevent her from running down the street after him. He was the dog with which she most wanted to swap fleas. -- And yes, she was spayed!
Kitty-corner from our house lived a platinum toy poodle who let the callow, young charmer know she was game for anything; including getting kinky with a member of a different species. She was always throwing herself at him. French poodles have a certain reputation, you know.
Our dog was into her teens at this point, a senior citizen in canine years. We got her through mutual friends when she was a 10 month old hellion. She turned out to be too much for her elderly owner who had paid top price for this pure bred. Now she was looking for a good home. We treated animals better than family, so we were perfect.
"She's gigantic for a chihuahua!" I thought aloud upon 1st seeing her. The dog was about twice the size of our previous one. She more closely resembled a terrier.
"She's an asthmatic chihuahua," the lady told me, "they're a larger breed. They're supposed to help people who suffer from asthma. But I'm just getting too old to tend a pet."
Upon bringing the dog home, she went wild, tearing up everything within reach! Among other things, she pulled a photo from my mother's open purse and shredded it. She barked non-stop at a vase of flowers on the table, also clothes hanging on the line, too. -- She sure wasn't the sharpest stick in the yard!
Our elderly cat was not happy to see her. He had only tolerated our previous dog. And this one was constantly shoving her long nose up his behind. -- He didn't swing that way!
She had one really disgusting habit as well! The dog was constantly raiding the litter box and gulping down it's contents before we could stop her! Sometimes, she liked to just sit in the litter box and stare at the river outside through our glass door. -- Perhaps she was pretending she was at the beach!
It took us 3 long years to completely house-break her. For several Christmas's I used to sing, "Check the hall for piles of dog poop!" whenever anyone got up to use the bathroom.
The previous owner had named her Cocoa because of her chocolate color. -- I used to call it poopy brown! Seems every 3rd dog, cat, or monkey I knew was named Cocoa. I wanted something more distinctive! I suggested altering it to Cocote' (pronounced Co-co-tay) after a floral designer who once worked in our shop. But the lady had bitterly told my father off before she quit. So he adamantly refused to have an animal in our home with that name!
Our elderly cat died a year later. Soon after, we got a new one, a year old female from an ad in the newspaper. She was unused to dogs. Especially one who was constantly shoving its nose up her backside. It was an affront to her dignity! She ran away, back to her previous owner. They decided to keep her.
We found another female cat from the newspaper. A Russian Blue who was the same age as Cocoa. Her name was Tasha. She didn't take any nonsense from dogs! Big ones from down the street would wander onto our property. Cocoa would cower and want to be carried. Tasha would charge them, yowling with claws and teeth barred! And they'd run, too! Sometimes multiple dogs at once. It was hilarious to see!
Early one evening, the 3 of us were outside together. Out from the bushes sprang an impudent young tomcat less than a year old. He ignored Tasha and went straight to Cocoa as if to say, "Hey baby, smell me up, smell me down!"
The dog was at first startled, then confused by his attention. He began jumping on her rather than the other way around. Tasha watched transfixed in amazement, as did I. Soon Cocoa wagged her tail as she and the tomcat began to play a flirtatious game of tag.
He came courting right before dark every day. We learned he belonged to a neighbor at the end of our street. The only cat in a household filled with dogs; his name was Clyde.
"He probably thinks he's a dog, too!" my father used to say.
"Well that explains a lot," I said. My nickname for him was, "The Little Pervert." I remember the way his eyes lit up upon 1st seeing Cocoa.
The poodle's owner didn't want her messing around with any cat. So Cocoa and Clyde became an item.
Soon he was neutered. But that didn't seem to deter his ardor for our female dog. He continued to come courting. Both delighted in each other's company! They had clicked and bonded unlike any 2 animals I had ever seen before.
Tasha perished from lung cancer, which mystified us. No one in our family smoked! And the cat sure didn't!
Later that same year, Clyde was struck and killed by a car. It happened right before dark! Probably on his way to see Cocoa. She looked around sadly for him on many evenings.
That Thanksgiving, before our feast, I told my father we should observe a moment of silence for both cats. Only months later, we put our house up for sale.
By the time we moved to our new home in Vero Beach, Cocoa was nearly 16 yrs old and afflicted with Cushing's disease. We were told it was fatal! But she seemed to do well on medication.
Now she had a new companion. The cat that came with the house.
As my father's health continued to decline, so did the dog's. Her hearing and eyesight started to go. She became so arthritic I had to lift her up and down from furniture, and carry her on the stairs. Also she couldn't hold her bladder for long.
My father wanted to put Cocoa to sleep. But she still had that mischievous gleam in her eye, and she still enjoyed food. So I refused.
A few months after my father's death, the cat failed to come for breakfast. I found him dead outside. The dog's health continued to deteriorate. I swore our next trip to the Vet would be one-way for her.
A couple months later, I ended up putting her down over a dental infection. She was 18 yrs old. I was with her right until the end. As I held her in my arms, I assured her there would be lots of familiar dogs, cats, and humans to welcome her on the other side. And one special feline in particular, the great amour of her life, Clyde!
Of course each had their rivals. She stood riveted, eyes wide and ears perked, every time a certain mixed breed hunk with a feathery, curled tail swaggered by the front of our house. Several times I had to prevent her from running down the street after him. He was the dog with which she most wanted to swap fleas. -- And yes, she was spayed!
Kitty-corner from our house lived a platinum toy poodle who let the callow, young charmer know she was game for anything; including getting kinky with a member of a different species. She was always throwing herself at him. French poodles have a certain reputation, you know.
Our dog was into her teens at this point, a senior citizen in canine years. We got her through mutual friends when she was a 10 month old hellion. She turned out to be too much for her elderly owner who had paid top price for this pure bred. Now she was looking for a good home. We treated animals better than family, so we were perfect.
"She's gigantic for a chihuahua!" I thought aloud upon 1st seeing her. The dog was about twice the size of our previous one. She more closely resembled a terrier.
"She's an asthmatic chihuahua," the lady told me, "they're a larger breed. They're supposed to help people who suffer from asthma. But I'm just getting too old to tend a pet."
Upon bringing the dog home, she went wild, tearing up everything within reach! Among other things, she pulled a photo from my mother's open purse and shredded it. She barked non-stop at a vase of flowers on the table, also clothes hanging on the line, too. -- She sure wasn't the sharpest stick in the yard!
Our elderly cat was not happy to see her. He had only tolerated our previous dog. And this one was constantly shoving her long nose up his behind. -- He didn't swing that way!
She had one really disgusting habit as well! The dog was constantly raiding the litter box and gulping down it's contents before we could stop her! Sometimes, she liked to just sit in the litter box and stare at the river outside through our glass door. -- Perhaps she was pretending she was at the beach!
It took us 3 long years to completely house-break her. For several Christmas's I used to sing, "Check the hall for piles of dog poop!" whenever anyone got up to use the bathroom.
The previous owner had named her Cocoa because of her chocolate color. -- I used to call it poopy brown! Seems every 3rd dog, cat, or monkey I knew was named Cocoa. I wanted something more distinctive! I suggested altering it to Cocote' (pronounced Co-co-tay) after a floral designer who once worked in our shop. But the lady had bitterly told my father off before she quit. So he adamantly refused to have an animal in our home with that name!
Our elderly cat died a year later. Soon after, we got a new one, a year old female from an ad in the newspaper. She was unused to dogs. Especially one who was constantly shoving its nose up her backside. It was an affront to her dignity! She ran away, back to her previous owner. They decided to keep her.
We found another female cat from the newspaper. A Russian Blue who was the same age as Cocoa. Her name was Tasha. She didn't take any nonsense from dogs! Big ones from down the street would wander onto our property. Cocoa would cower and want to be carried. Tasha would charge them, yowling with claws and teeth barred! And they'd run, too! Sometimes multiple dogs at once. It was hilarious to see!
Early one evening, the 3 of us were outside together. Out from the bushes sprang an impudent young tomcat less than a year old. He ignored Tasha and went straight to Cocoa as if to say, "Hey baby, smell me up, smell me down!"
The dog was at first startled, then confused by his attention. He began jumping on her rather than the other way around. Tasha watched transfixed in amazement, as did I. Soon Cocoa wagged her tail as she and the tomcat began to play a flirtatious game of tag.
He came courting right before dark every day. We learned he belonged to a neighbor at the end of our street. The only cat in a household filled with dogs; his name was Clyde.
"He probably thinks he's a dog, too!" my father used to say.
"Well that explains a lot," I said. My nickname for him was, "The Little Pervert." I remember the way his eyes lit up upon 1st seeing Cocoa.
The poodle's owner didn't want her messing around with any cat. So Cocoa and Clyde became an item.
Soon he was neutered. But that didn't seem to deter his ardor for our female dog. He continued to come courting. Both delighted in each other's company! They had clicked and bonded unlike any 2 animals I had ever seen before.
Tasha perished from lung cancer, which mystified us. No one in our family smoked! And the cat sure didn't!
Later that same year, Clyde was struck and killed by a car. It happened right before dark! Probably on his way to see Cocoa. She looked around sadly for him on many evenings.
That Thanksgiving, before our feast, I told my father we should observe a moment of silence for both cats. Only months later, we put our house up for sale.
By the time we moved to our new home in Vero Beach, Cocoa was nearly 16 yrs old and afflicted with Cushing's disease. We were told it was fatal! But she seemed to do well on medication.
Now she had a new companion. The cat that came with the house.
As my father's health continued to decline, so did the dog's. Her hearing and eyesight started to go. She became so arthritic I had to lift her up and down from furniture, and carry her on the stairs. Also she couldn't hold her bladder for long.
My father wanted to put Cocoa to sleep. But she still had that mischievous gleam in her eye, and she still enjoyed food. So I refused.
A few months after my father's death, the cat failed to come for breakfast. I found him dead outside. The dog's health continued to deteriorate. I swore our next trip to the Vet would be one-way for her.
A couple months later, I ended up putting her down over a dental infection. She was 18 yrs old. I was with her right until the end. As I held her in my arms, I assured her there would be lots of familiar dogs, cats, and humans to welcome her on the other side. And one special feline in particular, the great amour of her life, Clyde!
Thursday, November 24, 2011
THANKSGIVING, MY WAY
After my father's death in Oct. of 2001, the holidays were soon upon me. I was still grieving and just wanted them to be over. However, the following Thanksgiving in 02, I realized the time had come to start my own holiday traditions.
Since my idea of cooking mostly involves poking holes in a tray, I looked for an alternative. But I didn't want to spend time in a crowded restaurant either. The local hospital held a Thanksgiving meal in their cafeteria for a reasonable price. It was open to the public and had several seatings. I found it wasn't as crowded if I attended the earliest one. Afterward I drove to a matinee. This became my tradition.
One year, my friend Margaret announced she would be coming to spend Thanksgiving with me. She offered to cook a turkey dinner for the 2 of us.
"It won't feel like a holiday if there's any work involved!" I said. I wanted to enjoy it like a man with no messy clean-up jobs afterward. I told her I would take her out, my treat.
Margaret was surprised to say the least when I drove her to the hospital cafeteria for our holiday dinner.
"Hey, the food is delicious and it's cheaper than a restaurant," I explained. "Plus they have a wonderful assortment of desserts, not just boring ole pumpkin pie."
"Well I've eaten in hospital cafeterias, before," Margaret replied. "Remember I am a doctor. But it never occurred to me to go to one for a holiday meal."
"If you don't like it," I said, "next time we can go to one of those churches in town offering a free Thanksgiving dinner. For you, I'll put up with the preaching!"
Two years later, Margaret was again joining me for Thanksgiving. This time I promised to treat her to an actual restaurant. It was a popular local establishment that was noted for it's cuisine and affordable prices. I made a reservation.
As soon as we stepped inside, Margaret started loudly complaining it was too dark! After we sat down, she complained she couldn't read the menu due to the dim lighting. Also her coffee was too cold! There were other complaints as well. For a minute I thought my father had risen from the grave! I told her to be quiet or they would be spitting in her food! The waitresses were all giving me sympathetic looks. They probably thought she was my bitchy mother!
I usually enjoy Margaret's company, but I discovered that I prefer to spend my holidays alone.
After awhile, the Thanksgiving dinners at the hospital cafeteria became too crowded, noisy and routine. So I decided to stay in and enjoy my home. I decorated the big dining room table under the chandelier. I brought out the fancy lace tablecloth & place settings, also my good china. Plus frozen food had become better than ever!
Right in my grocer's freezer I found delectable stuffed chicken breasts and fish, seasoned mashed potatoes already prepared, vegetables with sauces, everything easy to fix! Not to mention lots of tasty appetizers from which to choose. Plus I had a garage freezer filled with pastries from the bakery. -- An exotic feast fit for an empress! And afterward, as I enjoy action flicks on my DVR, Mr. Dishwasher does the dishes. -- It just doesn't get any better!
Since my idea of cooking mostly involves poking holes in a tray, I looked for an alternative. But I didn't want to spend time in a crowded restaurant either. The local hospital held a Thanksgiving meal in their cafeteria for a reasonable price. It was open to the public and had several seatings. I found it wasn't as crowded if I attended the earliest one. Afterward I drove to a matinee. This became my tradition.
One year, my friend Margaret announced she would be coming to spend Thanksgiving with me. She offered to cook a turkey dinner for the 2 of us.
"It won't feel like a holiday if there's any work involved!" I said. I wanted to enjoy it like a man with no messy clean-up jobs afterward. I told her I would take her out, my treat.
Margaret was surprised to say the least when I drove her to the hospital cafeteria for our holiday dinner.
"Hey, the food is delicious and it's cheaper than a restaurant," I explained. "Plus they have a wonderful assortment of desserts, not just boring ole pumpkin pie."
"Well I've eaten in hospital cafeterias, before," Margaret replied. "Remember I am a doctor. But it never occurred to me to go to one for a holiday meal."
"If you don't like it," I said, "next time we can go to one of those churches in town offering a free Thanksgiving dinner. For you, I'll put up with the preaching!"
Two years later, Margaret was again joining me for Thanksgiving. This time I promised to treat her to an actual restaurant. It was a popular local establishment that was noted for it's cuisine and affordable prices. I made a reservation.
As soon as we stepped inside, Margaret started loudly complaining it was too dark! After we sat down, she complained she couldn't read the menu due to the dim lighting. Also her coffee was too cold! There were other complaints as well. For a minute I thought my father had risen from the grave! I told her to be quiet or they would be spitting in her food! The waitresses were all giving me sympathetic looks. They probably thought she was my bitchy mother!
I usually enjoy Margaret's company, but I discovered that I prefer to spend my holidays alone.
After awhile, the Thanksgiving dinners at the hospital cafeteria became too crowded, noisy and routine. So I decided to stay in and enjoy my home. I decorated the big dining room table under the chandelier. I brought out the fancy lace tablecloth & place settings, also my good china. Plus frozen food had become better than ever!
Right in my grocer's freezer I found delectable stuffed chicken breasts and fish, seasoned mashed potatoes already prepared, vegetables with sauces, everything easy to fix! Not to mention lots of tasty appetizers from which to choose. Plus I had a garage freezer filled with pastries from the bakery. -- An exotic feast fit for an empress! And afterward, as I enjoy action flicks on my DVR, Mr. Dishwasher does the dishes. -- It just doesn't get any better!
Friday, November 18, 2011
MIGRAINES & MULTI-GRAINS
My father was still alive & quite ill when I began going through the change of life. That's when the migraine headaches started. Or as I call it, migraine hell. Usually it was about 3 days of pure torture!
Dad required constant care. My father couldn't take himself to the bathroom, or bathe with out my help. Also he had doctor's appointments to keep and meals had to be prepared. I couldn't take time out to be sick. Nor could I ask the young mother next door for any more favors. She was too busy with her own family. It was a miserable time to be alive.
After my father passed, I had the luxury of taking care of myself. Usually twice a month, I spent 3 straight days in bed without food. Often the pain was too excruciating to sleep. I couldn't even keep water on my stomach. Even strong aromas sent me to the bathroom heaving. Nothing over the counter worked. I couldn't keep it down.
My worst migraine lasted into a 4th day. I was so weak, I had difficulty walking down the stairs. I'll never forget the meal that magically restored my strength. It was a can of chicken soup, soda crackers, lime yogurt, & lemon tea. After a migraine, I always seemed to crave tart & salty foods.
Saturdays, my long-time friend Pat would call from North Florida. She had moved there right before my father and I had moved to Vero Beach. We both acknowledged we would probably never see each other again in life. But we stayed close by phone.
"Why don't you go to a doctor?!" she always queried.
"Because migraine pills cost $20. a piece!" I always told her. "Plus doctor visits are not cheap! I keep thinking of all the other things for which I would rather spend that money."
"So you prefer to suffer?" The idea seemed incredulous to her.
"It's better than being ripped-off," I stated. "The price of medicine and doctors are all too high. I feel like a sucker paying those prices! But unfortunately they have most people over a barrel and they know it...Oh yeah, the doctors all complain they're forced to charge those exorbitant fees due to the whopping cost of malpractice insurance. Get real! They don't want to give up their expensive cars, boats, & luxury homes and the assorted rich people toys."
"It's not going to change, Dianne," she said. "It's the way of the world."
"Well the world had better change!" I told her. "Way back in 1961, when I was 10 yrs old, my grandfather spent 3 days in the hospital. My father paid the bill in cash! We weren't millionaires. Back then, health care was affordable! Now everything is out of whack!"
I read someplace that the reason pharmaceutical companies charge so much is because they need money for research. I think that's just more acid eye wash! It's so their CEO's can retire with their golden parachutes! -- I'd like to give them all a golden shower!
Actually at the time I had Health Insurance. But it didn't pay for spit! Every time I pulled out my card, some doctor's secretary would practically laugh in my face. Then ask to see my REAL insurance. -- I was certainly paying REAL premiums! After I lost so much money in investments I decided it wasn't worth having anymore.
Eventually the migraines became so frequent and severe I was forced to see a doctor. He gave me free samples. The very next day I had a migraine. I took the 1st pill and immediately threw it up. Later, I placed the other under my tongue as per instructions. I heaved that one, too! There was no relief from the excruciating pain in my brain.
My former neighbor Gertrude told me she experienced the same thing while going through the change. She assured me they would gradually taper off. Mine only seemed to be getting worse. I thought I'd tried everything by now.
At the 1st throb of a migraine, I started drinking strong black tea with industrial strength lemon. -- I was actually able to keep it down! (A miracle!) Every subsequent hour I prepared another cup. I still had pain, but it wasn't the knife twisting in my brain variety as before. Also I didn't have to spend as much time in bed. -- As long as I stuck to that liquid diet.
When I felt better, I gave up my daily greasy breakfasts. I love buttery biscuits & cheesy potatoes. -- Or at least I limited them to once a week! This also helped. I started eating only multi-grain bread and cereals. I began getting fewer and less severe migraines. I wasn't gaining weight from those fatty foods because I was getting sick instead. My body had been sending me a message.
Dad required constant care. My father couldn't take himself to the bathroom, or bathe with out my help. Also he had doctor's appointments to keep and meals had to be prepared. I couldn't take time out to be sick. Nor could I ask the young mother next door for any more favors. She was too busy with her own family. It was a miserable time to be alive.
After my father passed, I had the luxury of taking care of myself. Usually twice a month, I spent 3 straight days in bed without food. Often the pain was too excruciating to sleep. I couldn't even keep water on my stomach. Even strong aromas sent me to the bathroom heaving. Nothing over the counter worked. I couldn't keep it down.
My worst migraine lasted into a 4th day. I was so weak, I had difficulty walking down the stairs. I'll never forget the meal that magically restored my strength. It was a can of chicken soup, soda crackers, lime yogurt, & lemon tea. After a migraine, I always seemed to crave tart & salty foods.
Saturdays, my long-time friend Pat would call from North Florida. She had moved there right before my father and I had moved to Vero Beach. We both acknowledged we would probably never see each other again in life. But we stayed close by phone.
"Why don't you go to a doctor?!" she always queried.
"Because migraine pills cost $20. a piece!" I always told her. "Plus doctor visits are not cheap! I keep thinking of all the other things for which I would rather spend that money."
"So you prefer to suffer?" The idea seemed incredulous to her.
"It's better than being ripped-off," I stated. "The price of medicine and doctors are all too high. I feel like a sucker paying those prices! But unfortunately they have most people over a barrel and they know it...Oh yeah, the doctors all complain they're forced to charge those exorbitant fees due to the whopping cost of malpractice insurance. Get real! They don't want to give up their expensive cars, boats, & luxury homes and the assorted rich people toys."
"It's not going to change, Dianne," she said. "It's the way of the world."
"Well the world had better change!" I told her. "Way back in 1961, when I was 10 yrs old, my grandfather spent 3 days in the hospital. My father paid the bill in cash! We weren't millionaires. Back then, health care was affordable! Now everything is out of whack!"
I read someplace that the reason pharmaceutical companies charge so much is because they need money for research. I think that's just more acid eye wash! It's so their CEO's can retire with their golden parachutes! -- I'd like to give them all a golden shower!
Actually at the time I had Health Insurance. But it didn't pay for spit! Every time I pulled out my card, some doctor's secretary would practically laugh in my face. Then ask to see my REAL insurance. -- I was certainly paying REAL premiums! After I lost so much money in investments I decided it wasn't worth having anymore.
Eventually the migraines became so frequent and severe I was forced to see a doctor. He gave me free samples. The very next day I had a migraine. I took the 1st pill and immediately threw it up. Later, I placed the other under my tongue as per instructions. I heaved that one, too! There was no relief from the excruciating pain in my brain.
My former neighbor Gertrude told me she experienced the same thing while going through the change. She assured me they would gradually taper off. Mine only seemed to be getting worse. I thought I'd tried everything by now.
At the 1st throb of a migraine, I started drinking strong black tea with industrial strength lemon. -- I was actually able to keep it down! (A miracle!) Every subsequent hour I prepared another cup. I still had pain, but it wasn't the knife twisting in my brain variety as before. Also I didn't have to spend as much time in bed. -- As long as I stuck to that liquid diet.
When I felt better, I gave up my daily greasy breakfasts. I love buttery biscuits & cheesy potatoes. -- Or at least I limited them to once a week! This also helped. I started eating only multi-grain bread and cereals. I began getting fewer and less severe migraines. I wasn't gaining weight from those fatty foods because I was getting sick instead. My body had been sending me a message.
Friday, November 11, 2011
THE LADY DOCTOR & MY TA-TAZ
My friend Dr. Margaret had a religious bent. Which is a good thing, if not taken to extreme. Being a generation younger, I was more of a daring dresser. Frequently, she would scold me for my low-cut tops. -- Now they were no worse than what you see on network TV during prime time! Plus displaying cleavage happened to be the style early in the naughty-aughty decade.
Margaret was hardly a modest dresser herself! We both had a taste for flashy frills. Plus her clothes were so tight, they almost appeared sprayed on. Margaret had a great figure and a bosom most strippers would envy. Yet for some strange reason she had this bug-a-boo about cleavage.
Upon one of her visits, I wore a flowery low-cut summer dress. I had purchased it new, on sale. Plus the day was hot and humid, as is typical of Florida weather. Margaret criticised my attire as being indecent.
"I bought it from a CHADWICK catalogue, not a whore store! And it's not as if my nipples are showing!" I vehemently protested.
"If that was the style I bet you'd be doing that too!" Her nostrils flared. "And don't you bulge your boobs at me!"
"Hey, I get tons of complements on the way I dress," I told her defiantly. "People are always asking if I'm an actress!"
"That's because they're probably too embarrassed to ask if you're a prostitute!" She sniffed.
At my advanced age, (I was in my 50's then) I felt I should be free to wear whatever I want! I wasn't backing down. "Most men of my years are all dating younger women anyway. But I still want to look pretty!" I bristled.
To which Margaret replied, "No matter how old, ugly, or fat a woman gets, a man's appendage always fits! -- So you need to be careful." According to Margaret, I was placing myself in danger with my revealing clothes. "You have no idea how strong the male sex drive really is!" she said with a tone of expertise.
She labeled me a "P.T." or "Prick Teaser"! Funny thing too, at the time I was considering purchasing a PT Cruiser, seriously!
"Yes men are so lecherous even our pets, farm animals, fruits, and baked goods aren't safe from their urges," I replied. -- I needed to explain the last two to her. Turning on a man is no great accomplishment. It's tantamount to making a dog wag its tail. Those Puritan women in their ugly clothes all did it, too!
"Haven't you ever noticed that other people don't dress like you?" she continued.
"Look in the mirror, Margaret." I pointed out. "Besides, I'm me! I'm not like everyone else!"
"No you are not!" she snapped. "You are seriously disturbed like everyone else in your family!"
"Well you know darn well I am no slut! I don't even believe in sex outside marriage!" I hollered back. "And even after marriage it should be unnecessary."
"True, you are no nymphomaniac," she agreed.
"Yeah, and I get so disgusted whenever I hear all these women gush about men's buns. I can't even look at a man's behind without thinking about what comes out of it," I said.
Margaret laughed.
Before he died, my father told me he could go to his grave assured his money would never be spent on any gigolos. "Not with my daughter!" he said.
"Remember, I am your friend unconditionally," Margaret stated. " That's why I worry about you courting trouble. You are naive."
"Actually trouble has come a'courting me a few times. You've forgotten," I reminded. "But I kicked it on it's way."
"Still, I pray for you," she said with a sigh.
Margaret and I tarted-up to dine at a restaurant over on the beach. I wore a rather tight, low-cut dress. Of course I received a disapproving stare.
"This is a vintage dress from the 80's," I told her. "Do you know what my mother said to me the 1st time I wore it?"
Margaret rolled her eyes. "I can just imagine!" she gasped.
Mom said, "That dress gives you a figure just like that Margaret character I introduced you to a few years back."
Margaret was hardly a modest dresser herself! We both had a taste for flashy frills. Plus her clothes were so tight, they almost appeared sprayed on. Margaret had a great figure and a bosom most strippers would envy. Yet for some strange reason she had this bug-a-boo about cleavage.
Upon one of her visits, I wore a flowery low-cut summer dress. I had purchased it new, on sale. Plus the day was hot and humid, as is typical of Florida weather. Margaret criticised my attire as being indecent.
"I bought it from a CHADWICK catalogue, not a whore store! And it's not as if my nipples are showing!" I vehemently protested.
"If that was the style I bet you'd be doing that too!" Her nostrils flared. "And don't you bulge your boobs at me!"
"Hey, I get tons of complements on the way I dress," I told her defiantly. "People are always asking if I'm an actress!"
"That's because they're probably too embarrassed to ask if you're a prostitute!" She sniffed.
At my advanced age, (I was in my 50's then) I felt I should be free to wear whatever I want! I wasn't backing down. "Most men of my years are all dating younger women anyway. But I still want to look pretty!" I bristled.
To which Margaret replied, "No matter how old, ugly, or fat a woman gets, a man's appendage always fits! -- So you need to be careful." According to Margaret, I was placing myself in danger with my revealing clothes. "You have no idea how strong the male sex drive really is!" she said with a tone of expertise.
She labeled me a "P.T." or "Prick Teaser"! Funny thing too, at the time I was considering purchasing a PT Cruiser, seriously!
"Yes men are so lecherous even our pets, farm animals, fruits, and baked goods aren't safe from their urges," I replied. -- I needed to explain the last two to her. Turning on a man is no great accomplishment. It's tantamount to making a dog wag its tail. Those Puritan women in their ugly clothes all did it, too!
"Haven't you ever noticed that other people don't dress like you?" she continued.
"Look in the mirror, Margaret." I pointed out. "Besides, I'm me! I'm not like everyone else!"
"No you are not!" she snapped. "You are seriously disturbed like everyone else in your family!"
"Well you know darn well I am no slut! I don't even believe in sex outside marriage!" I hollered back. "And even after marriage it should be unnecessary."
"True, you are no nymphomaniac," she agreed.
"Yeah, and I get so disgusted whenever I hear all these women gush about men's buns. I can't even look at a man's behind without thinking about what comes out of it," I said.
Margaret laughed.
Before he died, my father told me he could go to his grave assured his money would never be spent on any gigolos. "Not with my daughter!" he said.
"Remember, I am your friend unconditionally," Margaret stated. " That's why I worry about you courting trouble. You are naive."
"Actually trouble has come a'courting me a few times. You've forgotten," I reminded. "But I kicked it on it's way."
"Still, I pray for you," she said with a sigh.
Margaret and I tarted-up to dine at a restaurant over on the beach. I wore a rather tight, low-cut dress. Of course I received a disapproving stare.
"This is a vintage dress from the 80's," I told her. "Do you know what my mother said to me the 1st time I wore it?"
Margaret rolled her eyes. "I can just imagine!" she gasped.
Mom said, "That dress gives you a figure just like that Margaret character I introduced you to a few years back."
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
THE MERETRICIOUS MARGARET
I met Margaret during the summer of 1980 when I was a 29 yr old blonde chick. Ironically, we were introduced by my mother. During my mid-teens Mom became a religious fanatic and joined a Holy Roller church. She remained a member until her death in 1987. But that's a story for a future blog.
That summer my mother was adamant I attend a wedding at her church. I had never met the couple and had zero interest. But Mom was eager to acquaint me with a new member of the congregation. The lady would be picking us up since neither of us drove.
"She's a peculiar person," Mom stated, You two might hit it off. She's close to your age."
I told her in no uncertain terms that I didn't want to know anyone who would belong to that church!
"The woman just experienced a painful divorce. She's lonely and looking for friends. She is disappointed the people there aren't more friendly," Mom explained. "Her ex-husband was a doctor. They used to fly to Florida on their private plane."
Well I was friendless, dateless, and a few months earlier, my father had sold our family business, so now I was unemployed, too. I couldn't imagine myself clicking with some rich doctor's ex-wife.
"The other people at church think she dresses way too flashy," Mom continued.
Bingo! We had something in common.
"She sings in the choir," Mom went on, "Everyone was shocked to see her make a bellydancer move with her tambourine."
Now she was beginning to sound like she might be interesting.
As I first saw Margaret, I knew instantly why the church ladies wouldn't like her. She was trim, attractive, and dressed with style. Clearly not a member of the frump-a-dump brigade. Also she was more educated.
Margaret was not close to my age. In fact she was closer to my mother's age. However they looked opposite as night and day! I told her she didn't seem like the type to gravitate to that particular denomination.
"They featured an ad in the newspaper that caught my eye," she replied. "It was a program for single people. I never thought my husband would leave me. I'm having trouble adjusting."
That's one problem I've never had, I embrace and enjoy my aloneness! I felt she could learn a lot from me. The following week we enjoyed lunch together sans my mother.
"It was sweet of you to attend the wedding with your mom," Margaret told me.
"She paid me $20. to go," I said. And I wasn't joking!
But I'm glad I attended! Had you told me that this woman would still be in my life during my 50's as my longest and dearest friend, I would probably have considered it incredulous! Especially since she moved out of state only 2 weeks after our meeting.
We exchanged letters for awhile. Suddenly she seemed to just drop off the map! I heard nothing for several years. My mother thought she had probably remarried and didn't want to know me anymore.
But then one Christmas in my mid-30's, I received a card from her! Margaret had returned to college late in life and became a doctor herself. Her ex-husband had done every sneaky thing in his power to avoid paying alimony causing her financial hardship. She had been forced to give up the lifestyle she loved.
Now she was working in a Lab in North Carolina to earn enough money to retire in Florida. We began corresponding again. Shortly after, my mother died from cancer.
I received a beautiful sympathy card from Margaret. "One day, when it's your time, your mother will come for you," she wrote.
"Well if she does, I'm not going!" I wrote back. "Because if I do, I'm liable to end up in Hell!"
Margaret was shocked. Like everyone else, she had only seen my mother's artificially nice veneer. My mother had too many sociopathic traits to end up in heaven, as I see it.
Eventually Margaret retired to the Orlando area with a beautiful home. It's several hours away from here. She also became enamoured of the R.V. lifestyle. The lady doctor owned both a large and a small of the vehicles.
After our Stuart home went on the market, Margaret came in her smaller R.V. to see the place for a final time. Like most people she loved our river view. It was also the 1st time she met my father.
We learned she had been a professional dancer in her youth. Margaret had even attracted the notice of a Hollywood agent.
"I just wasn't interested in pursuing it," she told us. "All I wanted was a husband and family."
"I really thought you'd remarry," I said. "My mother believed you had."
"Most of the men I've met since my divorce are just users." She grimaced. "And my ex-husband "Fred" had deep-seated psychological problems. He punched me in the face once!"
"And you still loved him! That's amazing!" I exclaimed. I learned years later that he was the 2nd husband who beat her. In many ways Margaret was as damaged as I had been.
Later after my father and I moved to Vero Beach, Margaret visited many times in her R.V.. Dad delighted in her company, too.
Upon her 1st visit, she came attired in her infamous leopard slacks. I insisted she wear them. I surprised her wearing mine! However, Margaret went me one better with a broad-brimmed leopard hat, too.
On a less fit and attractive woman that outfit would have appeared outlandish. However Margaret looked just like a Palm Beach socialite. She kept her dancer's figure her entire life.
During a later visit, she wore a trendy red leather pants & jacket set with a matching cap. She was into her 80's by then, but you'd never guess it! Margaret loved clothes as much as I do, especially flashy styles! We both admitted our love of reading SEVENTEEN magazine.
"I don't like the clothes they make for people my age," Margaret used to say.
I think the same. Both of us shopped in the Junior section. Later in her retirement, when she fell on economic hard times, I introduced her to Thrift & Consignment stores.
After my father's passing, she was a godsend! She helped me to find my way around what was still a strange city. Following directions after my father's stroke had been harrowing. He was too deaf to comprehend my questions. And I couldn't understand his answers due to his impaired speech. Cars would be honking at us while drivers gave me the finger!
Usually Margaret came twice a year. I always looked forward to her visits. We would ooh and aah over each other's garish frills like a pair of drag queens. It was a glorious time!
We often tried to out-do each other with our outfits. I used to think of us as an older, poorer version of PARIS & NICOLE. -- A popular program at the time. Except that we weren't tramps!
But after all those decades, she still seemed obsessed with Fred. She spoke of her ex-husband so frequently, I used to call him her F-word.
"My husband always told me how much he loved me," she lamented. "But the first time we had a problem he was crying on the shoulder of another woman. I'll never get over that!"
"Yeah the guy who hit you!!! But didn't you say he married someone different?" I asked.
"His current wife, a patient came later," she replied. "It was his nurse who broke up our marriage. Why she refused to let me see my own husband when I went to his office. In fact she threw a glass of water in my face because I refused to leave!"
"You should have decked her!" I laughed.
"I could have ducked, but I wanted to see how far she would go," Margaret explained. " His staff called the police. Meanwhile my husband sneaked out the back and drove home."
What a coward!!!
"The nurse ended up going back to her husband, but my marriage had been destroyed." Margaret sighed. "After my divorce, I joined a different church. And guess what?... That nurse held a high paid position there. -- But I got her fired after I told them she broke up my marriage!"
"I'm proud of you!" I said. "She deserved that!"
"I had such difficulty adjusting to being single," Margaret stated. "But now I prefer it."
"Right on!" I replied.
Usually after 3 days, 4 at the most, we were both eager to resume our routines and separate lives. Margaret was a unique spirit and a valued friend. Best of all, she never over-stayed her welcome.
Monday, October 31, 2011
ME & THE MORE MAN
My hair was dark brown then, almost black. It fell mid-neck in rolling, tousled waves. A dramatic contrast to my snowy, white skin, it wasn't unattractive. At age 50, I looked 32. During my younger, blonde years I was pretty enough to intimidate men from approaching me.
It was mid-summer 2001, just months before my father's death in October. I took Dad to the Medical Center for his blood work. Since there was usually a long wait, I brought the newspaper.
The man seated to my left, asked to see the section I had just finished. When I gave it to him, he pulled out a pen and began writing on it. Then he handed it back to me. -- He wanted a date. His name was "Ralph."
I was amused, and showed the paper to my father. He chortled, then smirked. Ralph and I began to talk. He had noticed me there before and thought I was quite a looker.
With hesitation, I gave him my name and phone number. I wasn't attracted to him, but I was depressed and eager for diversion.
I wondered aloud why he was there for blood work.
"Probably V.D.," Dad kidded.
Less than an hour after returning home, Ralph phoned. As we talked, I learned he was a retired contractor who lived in the next municipality to the south. He bragged of his house on the water overlooking mangroves. He was a Mormon who had 4 ex wives and 7 kids.
I've always felt that those who have had multiple divorces should get a clue that perhaps they're not marriage material!
I let him know that I was not interested in anything beyond a strictly platonic friendship. My father required constant attention due to illness. Also marriage just never interested me.
"But I want to get married again! And I have a good feeling about yooou," he cooed.
Ugh, didn't he hear anything I had just said! I could have sworn I felt my lips moving. I repeated my sentiments.
"Oh but I want to court you and change your mind," he declared.
I informed him I had no compunction about dropping men who pushed and pressured me. He swore he wouldn't.
The Mormon was almost 70. At age 50, Ralph was only the 4th man I'd ever dated in my entire life. Two of the other three, I'd only dated once. In both instances, it was 1 time too many.
We made a date for lunch. I found a neighbor to tend Dad for the afternoon.
Ralph's car was a gaudy red vintage Lincoln Continental with fins. As we walked toward it, he paused to look me over. "You've lost weight!" he exclaimed.
"No, I'm the same weight as always," I replied.
"Well I'm attracted to your beautiful face," he responded.
What an idiotic thing to say to a woman who has never had a weight problem! But I'd already tagged him as an insincere flatterer.
As we waited on a red light, I made conversation. Old Ralph turned and snarled, "Are you always this loud!" (I was stunned speechless.) Quickly he added, "Maybe because your father is so hard of hearing."
Geez, he could have phrased that more tactfully. Had he said, "Keep your voice down, I'm not as deaf as your father." I would have cracked up laughing. Unfortunately, he was so dour, I found him almost depressing to be around.
Ralph had heart problems and was allergic to poppy seeds.
He confessed he hated reading. And that he had never read a book the entire way through. I told him I was disappointed to hear that. I love to read. Also I had written several unpublished books.
He gave me a look as if to say, "What you? Come on!" -- I assured myself this would be our final date.
His eyes narrowed. "Are you a lesbian?" he asked. "I can't believe that a woman who looks like you has never been married. I'd a thought some guy would have scooped you up years ago."
"No, I'm not a lesbian in a sexual sense. But I enjoy the company of women more," I explained. "Perhaps it's because I was never close to my mother. Also I have too much emotional baggage. Men don't like that."
"They probably weren't strong enough. Well, I am a strong man," he crowed.
I noticed he did a lot of John Wayne swaggering and posturing during our date. He was a big fellow, over 6 ft tall. But he had that apple-on-a-stick body type which I find repulsive.
I repeated that I had no interest in a marriage. Also that I found most people to be disingenuous. And I knew plenty of women who married duplicitous men. The husbands were Prince Charming during the courtship and after marriage they became Mr. Hyde.
"Oh you won't get any surprises with me. I'm just what you see!"
That wasn't much, I thought.
"You need to think about the future," he told me sternly. "After your father's gone life's going to be really hard. You'll be alone!" he said that in a tone as if the Bogey man was going get me.
My female friends were far more empowering. They all told me to plan on encountering problems. But also added, it would be nothing I couldn't handle. One even warned, "If you marry Ralph, expect to be picking up another old man's poop in 10 years."
"You haven't yet seen what a great guy I can be," Ralph boasted.
What's stopping you? I wanted to scream in his face!
"I'm certainly glad I found you." He smiled. "There aren't many eligible women out there."
"Are you serious?" I replied. "Everywhere I go there seems to be almost as many single women as couples!"
"Yeah, but most of them aren't attractive," he said.
I felt my jaw drop. "Don't you own a mirror?!" I wanted to holler.
Two days later, he phoned and wanted to treat me to a matinee. I bit my lip. There was a film I really wanted to see. If I didn't go with Ralph, I'd have to wait and see it on TV, probably edited to pieces. Reluctantly, I agreed to another date. I'd tell him we're finished after the movie.
The same neighbor (a young mother) agreed to sit with my father for the afternoon.
"Hey," Dad piped up, "after Ralph brings you home, have him come in and fix the bathroom drain. I could do it myself if I was able to get down there."
"Egads, show me what to do, I'll repair it." I insisted. I knelt down and attempted to follow my father's instructions. "Damn!" It was no use, I would have to ask Ralph.
Before and after the movie, Ralph yammered constantly about why we should marry. Despite my arguments to the contrary, or my attempts to change the subject. Ugh!
"Don't you a least want to give it a try?" he asked enthusiastically.
Good grief, you try an hor d'oeuvre, not a marriage! Before the movie began, he walked me to the Ladies Room and waited outside. Geez, did he think I'd run away?
On the way home, he informed me he was a skilled cook. Also we'd have a maid twice a week. -- Had we actually married, he would be paying another woman for something else twice a week! Also I would be slipping him poppy seeds.
I had no intention of agreeing to marry a total stranger. The big mystery in my mind was how this guy ever persuaded 4 women to marry him in the 1st place.
Ralph agreed to repair the bathroom drain. -- But only for a hug and a kiss! I grit my teeth. As with most men, he had that quid pro quo mentality. A trait I detest! He lost one of the parts and had to drive to the hardware store.
I told my father I'd pay Ralph for the part, then I would call a plumber. -- I wasn't prostituting my lips for plumbing!
When I informed Ralph, he claimed he had been joking. He repaired the drain and left.
The next time he phoned, I told Ralph I wanted to end it. My father was dying and I didn't need any additional stress from him! He did not appear surprised.
Fast forward to the day after Thanksgiving. Around 2:30 PM, I opened the front door to let out the cat. A bright red vehicle with fins caught my eye. I knew that car! I ran up to the landing out of curiosity. Since the street ended in a cul de sac, I knew I'd get another look.
I didn't have to wait long. The driver had turned before reaching the cul de sac. The car approached at a crawl. I looked closely at the driver. He was carefully scrutinizing my house. Ralph! He spotted me in the window. We made eye contact. The car awkwardly lunged forward. Dramatically it speed up! Hurriedly, he drove away. That was the last I saw of the Mormon.
As a child, when I fought with my mother, she'd scream, "When your husband beats you, don't come running home to us!" I often wondered if she battered me in preparation for marriage.
But my father never struck her, nor me. He wasn't the type! He had the cutting tongue with words that wound.
A few decades ago, I read that a 40 yr old spinster has as much chance of marrying as getting killed by terrorists. Still single at age 60, I probably have more chance of getting kidnapped by space aliens. I'm just saying, not complaining. Frankly I've had all the family I can stomach for one lifetime.
I think I dodged a bullet with Ralph. He dodged a howitzer.
It was mid-summer 2001, just months before my father's death in October. I took Dad to the Medical Center for his blood work. Since there was usually a long wait, I brought the newspaper.
The man seated to my left, asked to see the section I had just finished. When I gave it to him, he pulled out a pen and began writing on it. Then he handed it back to me. -- He wanted a date. His name was "Ralph."
I was amused, and showed the paper to my father. He chortled, then smirked. Ralph and I began to talk. He had noticed me there before and thought I was quite a looker.
With hesitation, I gave him my name and phone number. I wasn't attracted to him, but I was depressed and eager for diversion.
I wondered aloud why he was there for blood work.
"Probably V.D.," Dad kidded.
Less than an hour after returning home, Ralph phoned. As we talked, I learned he was a retired contractor who lived in the next municipality to the south. He bragged of his house on the water overlooking mangroves. He was a Mormon who had 4 ex wives and 7 kids.
I've always felt that those who have had multiple divorces should get a clue that perhaps they're not marriage material!
I let him know that I was not interested in anything beyond a strictly platonic friendship. My father required constant attention due to illness. Also marriage just never interested me.
"But I want to get married again! And I have a good feeling about yooou," he cooed.
Ugh, didn't he hear anything I had just said! I could have sworn I felt my lips moving. I repeated my sentiments.
"Oh but I want to court you and change your mind," he declared.
I informed him I had no compunction about dropping men who pushed and pressured me. He swore he wouldn't.
The Mormon was almost 70. At age 50, Ralph was only the 4th man I'd ever dated in my entire life. Two of the other three, I'd only dated once. In both instances, it was 1 time too many.
We made a date for lunch. I found a neighbor to tend Dad for the afternoon.
Ralph's car was a gaudy red vintage Lincoln Continental with fins. As we walked toward it, he paused to look me over. "You've lost weight!" he exclaimed.
"No, I'm the same weight as always," I replied.
"Well I'm attracted to your beautiful face," he responded.
What an idiotic thing to say to a woman who has never had a weight problem! But I'd already tagged him as an insincere flatterer.
As we waited on a red light, I made conversation. Old Ralph turned and snarled, "Are you always this loud!" (I was stunned speechless.) Quickly he added, "Maybe because your father is so hard of hearing."
Geez, he could have phrased that more tactfully. Had he said, "Keep your voice down, I'm not as deaf as your father." I would have cracked up laughing. Unfortunately, he was so dour, I found him almost depressing to be around.
Ralph had heart problems and was allergic to poppy seeds.
He confessed he hated reading. And that he had never read a book the entire way through. I told him I was disappointed to hear that. I love to read. Also I had written several unpublished books.
He gave me a look as if to say, "What you? Come on!" -- I assured myself this would be our final date.
His eyes narrowed. "Are you a lesbian?" he asked. "I can't believe that a woman who looks like you has never been married. I'd a thought some guy would have scooped you up years ago."
"No, I'm not a lesbian in a sexual sense. But I enjoy the company of women more," I explained. "Perhaps it's because I was never close to my mother. Also I have too much emotional baggage. Men don't like that."
"They probably weren't strong enough. Well, I am a strong man," he crowed.
I noticed he did a lot of John Wayne swaggering and posturing during our date. He was a big fellow, over 6 ft tall. But he had that apple-on-a-stick body type which I find repulsive.
I repeated that I had no interest in a marriage. Also that I found most people to be disingenuous. And I knew plenty of women who married duplicitous men. The husbands were Prince Charming during the courtship and after marriage they became Mr. Hyde.
"Oh you won't get any surprises with me. I'm just what you see!"
That wasn't much, I thought.
"You need to think about the future," he told me sternly. "After your father's gone life's going to be really hard. You'll be alone!" he said that in a tone as if the Bogey man was going get me.
My female friends were far more empowering. They all told me to plan on encountering problems. But also added, it would be nothing I couldn't handle. One even warned, "If you marry Ralph, expect to be picking up another old man's poop in 10 years."
"You haven't yet seen what a great guy I can be," Ralph boasted.
What's stopping you? I wanted to scream in his face!
"I'm certainly glad I found you." He smiled. "There aren't many eligible women out there."
"Are you serious?" I replied. "Everywhere I go there seems to be almost as many single women as couples!"
"Yeah, but most of them aren't attractive," he said.
I felt my jaw drop. "Don't you own a mirror?!" I wanted to holler.
Two days later, he phoned and wanted to treat me to a matinee. I bit my lip. There was a film I really wanted to see. If I didn't go with Ralph, I'd have to wait and see it on TV, probably edited to pieces. Reluctantly, I agreed to another date. I'd tell him we're finished after the movie.
The same neighbor (a young mother) agreed to sit with my father for the afternoon.
"Hey," Dad piped up, "after Ralph brings you home, have him come in and fix the bathroom drain. I could do it myself if I was able to get down there."
"Egads, show me what to do, I'll repair it." I insisted. I knelt down and attempted to follow my father's instructions. "Damn!" It was no use, I would have to ask Ralph.
Before and after the movie, Ralph yammered constantly about why we should marry. Despite my arguments to the contrary, or my attempts to change the subject. Ugh!
"Don't you a least want to give it a try?" he asked enthusiastically.
Good grief, you try an hor d'oeuvre, not a marriage! Before the movie began, he walked me to the Ladies Room and waited outside. Geez, did he think I'd run away?
On the way home, he informed me he was a skilled cook. Also we'd have a maid twice a week. -- Had we actually married, he would be paying another woman for something else twice a week! Also I would be slipping him poppy seeds.
I had no intention of agreeing to marry a total stranger. The big mystery in my mind was how this guy ever persuaded 4 women to marry him in the 1st place.
Ralph agreed to repair the bathroom drain. -- But only for a hug and a kiss! I grit my teeth. As with most men, he had that quid pro quo mentality. A trait I detest! He lost one of the parts and had to drive to the hardware store.
I told my father I'd pay Ralph for the part, then I would call a plumber. -- I wasn't prostituting my lips for plumbing!
When I informed Ralph, he claimed he had been joking. He repaired the drain and left.
The next time he phoned, I told Ralph I wanted to end it. My father was dying and I didn't need any additional stress from him! He did not appear surprised.
Fast forward to the day after Thanksgiving. Around 2:30 PM, I opened the front door to let out the cat. A bright red vehicle with fins caught my eye. I knew that car! I ran up to the landing out of curiosity. Since the street ended in a cul de sac, I knew I'd get another look.
I didn't have to wait long. The driver had turned before reaching the cul de sac. The car approached at a crawl. I looked closely at the driver. He was carefully scrutinizing my house. Ralph! He spotted me in the window. We made eye contact. The car awkwardly lunged forward. Dramatically it speed up! Hurriedly, he drove away. That was the last I saw of the Mormon.
As a child, when I fought with my mother, she'd scream, "When your husband beats you, don't come running home to us!" I often wondered if she battered me in preparation for marriage.
But my father never struck her, nor me. He wasn't the type! He had the cutting tongue with words that wound.
A few decades ago, I read that a 40 yr old spinster has as much chance of marrying as getting killed by terrorists. Still single at age 60, I probably have more chance of getting kidnapped by space aliens. I'm just saying, not complaining. Frankly I've had all the family I can stomach for one lifetime.
I think I dodged a bullet with Ralph. He dodged a howitzer.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
MY DRAMATIC FASHION
I LOVE clothes! I live to wear them. And what would clothes be without accessories? -- Insipid and blah! They are the difference between being dressed and being chic. In a past life I must have been a transvestite. I think they are magnificent looking! They put real women to shame.
Hats galore, exotic costume jewelry, gloves, scarves, and lots of shoes with personality and pzazz, that's my closet! Rather closets, plural. And for a really extreme change, I've a variety wigs in many lengths, colors, and styles.
My gloves are all lengths, some are fingerless. My boots come in every style, some with fringe and faux fur. Over-the-knee boots are my favorite! The 1 in a white snake print is the most awesome! Plus I love anything that looks like a costume. I have shoes with fins, and a pair with braided tassels around the ankles. I have tiger and zebra leggings, too. I don't just wear clothes, I have fun with fashion! I'm the only 60 yr old I know who has a Bond Girl section of her wardrobe.
For a woman who has struggled with shyness and self-confidence issues her entire life, I am certainly a bold dresser.
When I was younger, frequently I was asked, "Are you a model?" After I hit middle-age, I have often been asked, "Were you ever an actress?" The answer is no on both counts. I was too self-conscious about my imperfections. Years later, I've met women who are professional models. I didn't find them all that attractive. I thought to myself, "Damn, I should have gone for it!"
Don't get me started on my collection of purses. Speaking of purses, I really don't spend that much $$$ for all of this, because I rarely throw anything out! Passion is the reason I buy clothes. Everything eventually comes back in style. Classic clothes never go out of vogue. I'm always combing new styles with the old.
Another reason I've never married is because the poor guy would never get any closet or drawer space. Plus I'd throw out the man before I'd part with the clothes I love. Friends have actually called this a sickness.
At my advanced age of 60, I've acquired quite a collection over the decades. I've been a creative dresser all of my adult life. Why limit your style when there's a fantasyland of couture. I've never understood why people choose to dress boring. Yes, I'm familiar with the phrase, Mutton Dressed As Lamb. And I've made some concessions to age, but not many.
Why should I! I'm trim and youthful-looking for my age. I'm somewhere between the frump-a-dump brigade and the young-tarts-on-parade. Besides, you don't stop being who you are just because you get older.
Egads, whatever happened to make-up? Everywhere I go, I see nothing but dish-rag faces. Yes, there is the popular argument that make-up creates a phony image. Yet, I've always felt it's far worse to be phony on the inside. And most people fall into that category, I've found.
I purchase most of my cosmetics at the Dollar Store, occasionally from Big Lots or Walmart. On rare occasions I buy it at the Drug Store. You don't have to spend a lot of money to look presentable.
A (questionable) friend told me I look like I try too hard. I replied that if I didn't, I'd look as bad as everyone else! Liberace used to say, "I dress up to me, not down for everyone else." -- That is my philosophy, too. And I say, "You are out there or you are nowhere." Dianne doesn't do dowdy! And I'll never understand why people go out in public looking like crumb-bums.
In my opinion, jeans should only be worn for mucking out barns.
Some have commented that I look like a Stepford wife. I prefer to think of it as AARP Barbie. My mother used to say that I dressed like a visiting celebrity. And my stepmother used to tell me I looked like a freak from Mars.
I've always prided myself on having good fashion sense for a white woman. Black women take their appearance seriously and know how to dress! Some have actually asked me for fashion advice in clothing stores. I'm flattered! I've purchased more than a few items from Black women's catalogues. You could say I'm an equal opportunity shopper. I certainly shop all over the map for bargains.
Some of my most unusual and prized pieces come from thrift shops or consignment stores. Actually I'm paying the same amount there (often more) than what I used to pay for new clothes in my 20's.
Back then, a $15. dress was for a special occasion. I've never been into designer fashions. I can't afford them. Also I think they're a big rip-off. You're paying an outrageous price only to enrich some overrated designer. -- And I don't allow other people to dictate to me what I should wear! Clothes should be an expression of the individual wearing them, only! Unfortunately most people seem to lack imagination. And they take no pride in their appearance.
Often I purchase broken costume jewelry at 2nd hand stores. I get out my hammer & pliers, and pull it apart. I use the pieces to create a new original design on a metal hoop. Whenever an earring breaks, the other 1 becomes a pendant on a chain. Or I use some colorful or lacy ribbon and create a choker.
I've made headbands and necklaces from old belts. I've even created turbans from old pairs of pants! I love using my imagination. Plus I've always been into recycling.
About half the men I've dated wanted to pick out clothes for me. -- That's a dumping offense! Because it's a form of control. As a child I was forced to wear my mother's gad-awful taste. I call it carnival cutesy. And as an adult, my stepmother was constantly trying to impose her taste on me as well. Hers was frozen in 1962. Plus I'm really not interested in anyone else's input.
After the back-to-back hurricanes of 04, I often heard said that possessions don't matter, only people really matter. I vehemently disagree! My things were there giving me comfort and happiness when other people couldn't be bothered. This has been true my entire life.
According to that silly dramedy THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA, at size 8 I'm a fat girl. I moved into an 8 around my mid-40's. Suddenly I discovered I had curves and cleavage I never possessed as a 6! I wasn't stick-like anymore. That 10 lbs went to all the right places. I like my body better, now.
Although when I shop in the Junior section most of the tops are cut almost to the navel. (And these are for school age girls!) Most of the young ones don't have anything to put inside them. My breasts are spilling over. Sometimes I use a lacy camisole bra for coverage, sometimes not.
At age 60, I feel more in my prime than I did at 30. I don't care what anyone else thinks. This is my time at last.
A year ago I had my height and weight measured by a nurse. She marked me down as 5'7. I told her that had to be wrong! I've been 5'6 my entire life. Certain my feet were bare, I made her measure again. Still, I was 5'7! -- I've always thought one is supposed to lose height with age! But the funny thing is, since my father died, I actually feel taller.
Hats galore, exotic costume jewelry, gloves, scarves, and lots of shoes with personality and pzazz, that's my closet! Rather closets, plural. And for a really extreme change, I've a variety wigs in many lengths, colors, and styles.
My gloves are all lengths, some are fingerless. My boots come in every style, some with fringe and faux fur. Over-the-knee boots are my favorite! The 1 in a white snake print is the most awesome! Plus I love anything that looks like a costume. I have shoes with fins, and a pair with braided tassels around the ankles. I have tiger and zebra leggings, too. I don't just wear clothes, I have fun with fashion! I'm the only 60 yr old I know who has a Bond Girl section of her wardrobe.
For a woman who has struggled with shyness and self-confidence issues her entire life, I am certainly a bold dresser.
When I was younger, frequently I was asked, "Are you a model?" After I hit middle-age, I have often been asked, "Were you ever an actress?" The answer is no on both counts. I was too self-conscious about my imperfections. Years later, I've met women who are professional models. I didn't find them all that attractive. I thought to myself, "Damn, I should have gone for it!"
Don't get me started on my collection of purses. Speaking of purses, I really don't spend that much $$$ for all of this, because I rarely throw anything out! Passion is the reason I buy clothes. Everything eventually comes back in style. Classic clothes never go out of vogue. I'm always combing new styles with the old.
Another reason I've never married is because the poor guy would never get any closet or drawer space. Plus I'd throw out the man before I'd part with the clothes I love. Friends have actually called this a sickness.
At my advanced age of 60, I've acquired quite a collection over the decades. I've been a creative dresser all of my adult life. Why limit your style when there's a fantasyland of couture. I've never understood why people choose to dress boring. Yes, I'm familiar with the phrase, Mutton Dressed As Lamb. And I've made some concessions to age, but not many.
Why should I! I'm trim and youthful-looking for my age. I'm somewhere between the frump-a-dump brigade and the young-tarts-on-parade. Besides, you don't stop being who you are just because you get older.
Egads, whatever happened to make-up? Everywhere I go, I see nothing but dish-rag faces. Yes, there is the popular argument that make-up creates a phony image. Yet, I've always felt it's far worse to be phony on the inside. And most people fall into that category, I've found.
I purchase most of my cosmetics at the Dollar Store, occasionally from Big Lots or Walmart. On rare occasions I buy it at the Drug Store. You don't have to spend a lot of money to look presentable.
A (questionable) friend told me I look like I try too hard. I replied that if I didn't, I'd look as bad as everyone else! Liberace used to say, "I dress up to me, not down for everyone else." -- That is my philosophy, too. And I say, "You are out there or you are nowhere." Dianne doesn't do dowdy! And I'll never understand why people go out in public looking like crumb-bums.
In my opinion, jeans should only be worn for mucking out barns.
Some have commented that I look like a Stepford wife. I prefer to think of it as AARP Barbie. My mother used to say that I dressed like a visiting celebrity. And my stepmother used to tell me I looked like a freak from Mars.
I've always prided myself on having good fashion sense for a white woman. Black women take their appearance seriously and know how to dress! Some have actually asked me for fashion advice in clothing stores. I'm flattered! I've purchased more than a few items from Black women's catalogues. You could say I'm an equal opportunity shopper. I certainly shop all over the map for bargains.
Some of my most unusual and prized pieces come from thrift shops or consignment stores. Actually I'm paying the same amount there (often more) than what I used to pay for new clothes in my 20's.
Back then, a $15. dress was for a special occasion. I've never been into designer fashions. I can't afford them. Also I think they're a big rip-off. You're paying an outrageous price only to enrich some overrated designer. -- And I don't allow other people to dictate to me what I should wear! Clothes should be an expression of the individual wearing them, only! Unfortunately most people seem to lack imagination. And they take no pride in their appearance.
Often I purchase broken costume jewelry at 2nd hand stores. I get out my hammer & pliers, and pull it apart. I use the pieces to create a new original design on a metal hoop. Whenever an earring breaks, the other 1 becomes a pendant on a chain. Or I use some colorful or lacy ribbon and create a choker.
I've made headbands and necklaces from old belts. I've even created turbans from old pairs of pants! I love using my imagination. Plus I've always been into recycling.
About half the men I've dated wanted to pick out clothes for me. -- That's a dumping offense! Because it's a form of control. As a child I was forced to wear my mother's gad-awful taste. I call it carnival cutesy. And as an adult, my stepmother was constantly trying to impose her taste on me as well. Hers was frozen in 1962. Plus I'm really not interested in anyone else's input.
After the back-to-back hurricanes of 04, I often heard said that possessions don't matter, only people really matter. I vehemently disagree! My things were there giving me comfort and happiness when other people couldn't be bothered. This has been true my entire life.
According to that silly dramedy THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA, at size 8 I'm a fat girl. I moved into an 8 around my mid-40's. Suddenly I discovered I had curves and cleavage I never possessed as a 6! I wasn't stick-like anymore. That 10 lbs went to all the right places. I like my body better, now.
Although when I shop in the Junior section most of the tops are cut almost to the navel. (And these are for school age girls!) Most of the young ones don't have anything to put inside them. My breasts are spilling over. Sometimes I use a lacy camisole bra for coverage, sometimes not.
At age 60, I feel more in my prime than I did at 30. I don't care what anyone else thinks. This is my time at last.
A year ago I had my height and weight measured by a nurse. She marked me down as 5'7. I told her that had to be wrong! I've been 5'6 my entire life. Certain my feet were bare, I made her measure again. Still, I was 5'7! -- I've always thought one is supposed to lose height with age! But the funny thing is, since my father died, I actually feel taller.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
THE BIG S's
At age 17, my father took me on a weekend cruise to the Bahamas. Seconds after we departed ship in Freeport we were besieged by little boys with outstretched palms. All demanding, "Paper money or big coin with eagle."
We brushed past, leaving most behind. But 1 little boy followed us and was persistent. My father reached inside his pocket and pulled out a nickel. "This is big American money," he told the kid.
The boy snorted and chortled. He quickly ran back to join his companions.
My father turned to me. "You and I have a big "S" on our foreheads for SUCKER," he said. "And so does everyone on our ship."
Fast forward decades later. During my 50's I discovered the "S" for SUCKER is also synonymous with SINGLE woman. Dealing with a business or service people was eye-opening to say the least.
Back in Stuart, 1 of our nicer neighbors was a single woman named "Gertrude". My father always laughed at her because she paid through the nose for everything. "They see her coming and adjust their bills accordingly," he used to say.
Once, I asked her, "Do you ever feel some of these workers take advantage?"
She rolled her eyes. "Let me put it this way," she told me, "Whenever they find a woman alone in a house, they see $$$ and a pigeon. You have no idea. You still have your father. But one day you're going to find out!"
Woe, did I ever!
Gertrude, a seasonal resident, was planning to move to Florida full time. She was in the process of renovating her ancient kitchen. A thoughtful person, she purchased a bag of cookies for the workers. After gobbling them down, they were still hungry. So they ferreted through her cabinets until they found some Pepperidge Farm Sausalitos she had been saving for dessert.
"You just can't be nice," she lamented. -- That was an understatement!
After my father passed, I made many expensive mistakes due to ignorance. I imagined my Dad standing there in spirit and labeling me his favorite "S" word STUPID! I used to assume that most in business are ethical. I've found it's closer to 50-50.
Shortly after his death, my garage door broke. I phoned the company with the most impressive ad. Also the one that stressed their honestly. Not only were they expensive, they were unable to repair the attached light. Friends were shocked by what I paid. For HALF that money I could have bought a brand new door with a light included. They informed me.
From that point forward, I would get 3 estimates whenever possible. I was determined to turn that "S" into SAVVY. But I was still too trusting. Even when I went with the lower price, workers cut corners or pulled numbers on me. When you are naive, people take advantage.
I hear this repeatedly from my single friends. Many of whom have been alone for decades. Women whom I consider to be savvy.
"I could tell you horror stories one right after another," Margaret used to say. "When you're part of a couple they're dealing with 2 people. They talk differently to you if you're alone. When there's a man in the picture they're more intimidated."
Actually that depends on the man. I recall when I had my bedroom set delivered from a 2nd hand store. (It's a gorgeous old Spanish style that was probably quite expensive, new.) The pieces are well-made and heavy wood which may have been a factor. Also the guys may have been having a lousy day or have had a negative experience with someone else earlier. Still, that's no excuse. Anyway they were oozing attitude.
I commented to my father that I was sorry I instructed them to place my chest of drawers to the right of the window. It looked wrong, there.
"Just tell them to move it when they come back up," he replied.
I pointed out they didn't come across as the accommodating type. I dreaded to ask. They already seemed resentful.
"Oh it's their job," my father insisted, "go ahead and ask."
I politely did.
"Well then you move it!" the 1st man snapped nearly biting my head off!
I felt my jaw drop. I looked at my father as if to say, "How about some backup here? Are you going to let this guy talk that way to me!" Dad was staring at the floor, eyes darting back and forth as he looked down. He had distanced himself from the situation. I bugged my eyes at the guy in an angry stare. Acimoniously, the man moved the drawers.
I've had my property damaged by workers. Who, along with their bosses tried to shift blame on me. I've had business owners tell me that I didn't have the merit to criticize their workers. I've been screamed and sworn at by people I've hired, also insulted. And several have even derided my housekeeping. I am not the type whose naturally inclined to give anyone a hard time. For this reason, I'm an easy target.
No matter how valid the reasons, if you complain and you are a woman, you're automatically a bitch! Even if you do it in a polite, non-accusatory way, it's called being a sugar-coated bitch. But if you say nothing, they really bulldoze you and take advantage. In other words, you are deliberately placed in a situation where you can't win. -- So you really have nothing to lose by being a relentless bitch.
Also I live on 1 small fixed income. I can't afford that kind of nonsense or any expensive mistakes.
I've had so many downright horrible experiences the big "S" on my forehead was beginning to stand for SCHIZOPHRENIC as in the paranoid variety. I began to loathe hiring anyone to do anything. Seems there were always problems!
Eventually, I found I've had to threaten people with the nasty big "S" word SUE, as in lawsuit!" -- It's quite effective! Also I've threatened to call the media and write letters to the editor. And now I have the Internet, too.
I save the business cards of everyone with whom I've had a terrible experience as a reminder. Also I'm quite vocal! I don't hesitate to warn other people.
These shady types think they're smart and slick when they slip their fingers into your back pocket. They're just slimy as well as stupid! Because in the long run they are going to lose a few fingers.
Whenever you deal with a business, there is only 1 big "S" they should ever want to see on your forehead. It should stand for SATISFACTION.
We brushed past, leaving most behind. But 1 little boy followed us and was persistent. My father reached inside his pocket and pulled out a nickel. "This is big American money," he told the kid.
The boy snorted and chortled. He quickly ran back to join his companions.
My father turned to me. "You and I have a big "S" on our foreheads for SUCKER," he said. "And so does everyone on our ship."
Fast forward decades later. During my 50's I discovered the "S" for SUCKER is also synonymous with SINGLE woman. Dealing with a business or service people was eye-opening to say the least.
Back in Stuart, 1 of our nicer neighbors was a single woman named "Gertrude". My father always laughed at her because she paid through the nose for everything. "They see her coming and adjust their bills accordingly," he used to say.
Once, I asked her, "Do you ever feel some of these workers take advantage?"
She rolled her eyes. "Let me put it this way," she told me, "Whenever they find a woman alone in a house, they see $$$ and a pigeon. You have no idea. You still have your father. But one day you're going to find out!"
Woe, did I ever!
Gertrude, a seasonal resident, was planning to move to Florida full time. She was in the process of renovating her ancient kitchen. A thoughtful person, she purchased a bag of cookies for the workers. After gobbling them down, they were still hungry. So they ferreted through her cabinets until they found some Pepperidge Farm Sausalitos she had been saving for dessert.
"You just can't be nice," she lamented. -- That was an understatement!
After my father passed, I made many expensive mistakes due to ignorance. I imagined my Dad standing there in spirit and labeling me his favorite "S" word STUPID! I used to assume that most in business are ethical. I've found it's closer to 50-50.
Shortly after his death, my garage door broke. I phoned the company with the most impressive ad. Also the one that stressed their honestly. Not only were they expensive, they were unable to repair the attached light. Friends were shocked by what I paid. For HALF that money I could have bought a brand new door with a light included. They informed me.
From that point forward, I would get 3 estimates whenever possible. I was determined to turn that "S" into SAVVY. But I was still too trusting. Even when I went with the lower price, workers cut corners or pulled numbers on me. When you are naive, people take advantage.
I hear this repeatedly from my single friends. Many of whom have been alone for decades. Women whom I consider to be savvy.
"I could tell you horror stories one right after another," Margaret used to say. "When you're part of a couple they're dealing with 2 people. They talk differently to you if you're alone. When there's a man in the picture they're more intimidated."
Actually that depends on the man. I recall when I had my bedroom set delivered from a 2nd hand store. (It's a gorgeous old Spanish style that was probably quite expensive, new.) The pieces are well-made and heavy wood which may have been a factor. Also the guys may have been having a lousy day or have had a negative experience with someone else earlier. Still, that's no excuse. Anyway they were oozing attitude.
I commented to my father that I was sorry I instructed them to place my chest of drawers to the right of the window. It looked wrong, there.
"Just tell them to move it when they come back up," he replied.
I pointed out they didn't come across as the accommodating type. I dreaded to ask. They already seemed resentful.
"Oh it's their job," my father insisted, "go ahead and ask."
I politely did.
"Well then you move it!" the 1st man snapped nearly biting my head off!
I felt my jaw drop. I looked at my father as if to say, "How about some backup here? Are you going to let this guy talk that way to me!" Dad was staring at the floor, eyes darting back and forth as he looked down. He had distanced himself from the situation. I bugged my eyes at the guy in an angry stare. Acimoniously, the man moved the drawers.
I've had my property damaged by workers. Who, along with their bosses tried to shift blame on me. I've had business owners tell me that I didn't have the merit to criticize their workers. I've been screamed and sworn at by people I've hired, also insulted. And several have even derided my housekeeping. I am not the type whose naturally inclined to give anyone a hard time. For this reason, I'm an easy target.
No matter how valid the reasons, if you complain and you are a woman, you're automatically a bitch! Even if you do it in a polite, non-accusatory way, it's called being a sugar-coated bitch. But if you say nothing, they really bulldoze you and take advantage. In other words, you are deliberately placed in a situation where you can't win. -- So you really have nothing to lose by being a relentless bitch.
Also I live on 1 small fixed income. I can't afford that kind of nonsense or any expensive mistakes.
I've had so many downright horrible experiences the big "S" on my forehead was beginning to stand for SCHIZOPHRENIC as in the paranoid variety. I began to loathe hiring anyone to do anything. Seems there were always problems!
Eventually, I found I've had to threaten people with the nasty big "S" word SUE, as in lawsuit!" -- It's quite effective! Also I've threatened to call the media and write letters to the editor. And now I have the Internet, too.
I save the business cards of everyone with whom I've had a terrible experience as a reminder. Also I'm quite vocal! I don't hesitate to warn other people.
These shady types think they're smart and slick when they slip their fingers into your back pocket. They're just slimy as well as stupid! Because in the long run they are going to lose a few fingers.
Whenever you deal with a business, there is only 1 big "S" they should ever want to see on your forehead. It should stand for SATISFACTION.
Monday, October 3, 2011
THE BACK DOOR HURRICANE OF 99
Here I am again in the midst of the most stressful time of year. The heart of hurricane season. The same yearly issue! I have no one to board up my windows, should one strike.
The boards are all cut & marked. And yes, there are men willing to do the job. -- But only for an obscene amount of money! I'm a woman alone. Gouging seems to go with the territory.
I belong to several groups, and have let it be known what I am seeking. But only for a reasonable price, gougers need not apply. Other single women have slipped me phone numbers. "Call so-and-so," they told me, "Don't worry honey, he'll take care of you and he won't gouge you."
Most of the so-and-so's don't return my calls. Or they tell me they don't want the job, soon as they learn I own a two-story house.
The 1st time I was in a similar predicament was the Fall of 99. I wasn't alone, my father and I had just moved here the January before. A bad boy named Floyd was stirring up trouble in the Atlantic. A category 4 hurricane, it looked like our paths were bound to cross!
A category 5 can completely destroy your house. So a category 4 hurricane is nothing to dismiss. Our home, was the only one in the neighborhood, (probably the entire Treasure Coast) that wasn't boarded up. In fact we didn't have boards, period! And this house has large picture windows everywhere!
My father was still recovering from his heart attack and triple by-pass. I asked him what we were going to do???? He shrugged, and said he didn't know.
"So we're just going to die, then?" I responded sardonically.
He took a deep breath. "This happened suddenly, so we're stuck unprepared," my father lamented. He repeated he didn't know what to do. Then he calmly sat down in front of the TV to channel surf as usual. -- As if a category 4 hurricane was not storming toward us!
I was ready to rip my hair out!!! I wanted to shriek at him!!!
Retreating to his dome of denial was the typical way my father handled problems. His philosophy seemed to be that an issue was not really a problem if you don't acknowledge it. I saw this my entire life!
Frantically I ran upstairs and grabbed the phone book. I called every single agency that dealt with Senior citizens and asked for help. Couldn't they send someone out here while we still had some time? I was given lots of phone numbers. Before long, they were giving me each others numbers.
Frustrated, I tried calling the TV networks. I was able to get through to only one. The 1st question they asked was, "Don't you have neighbors?"
I told them this wasn't the 1950's ! Neighbors don't care if you end up as a battered piece of bloody meat hanging from a tree! And this was a Republican neighborhood, too. -- I may as well paint a target on myself, climb on the roof and wait for the hurricane!... They me gave a list of numbers I had already called.
The network had been my last hope. It was getting late. The hurricane was supposed to strike during the night. I decided that when it hit, Dad and I would just huddle in the bathroom downstairs and hope for the best.
Before moving here, my father vehemently insisted that Vero Beach never got hurricanes due it's location on the map. And he always said that hurricane season was over by Oct. 1. -- Both were dangerous misconceptions!
Had it not been for the hurricane, my Halloween decorations would have been up.
I slept little that night as I listened to the winds. At the 1st sound of a crash, I planned to get Dad and we'd go downstairs. But it never happened, soon all was quiet. There is a God!!! The hurricane had shifted direction during the night, sparing us.
Neighbors unboarded their houses. The sun was bright and we were all elated. -- Then came a nasty lass called Irene!
Shortly after the Floyd scare, Irene would be upon us as a category 1. Unlike Floyd, it would be coming over land. No one bothered to board up this time. A back door hurricane, and a category 1, no one expected it to be much.
Irene struck during the night. I heard the winds whipping around furiously! The electricity went out! The lashing winds intensified. I began to get nervous. I sat up in bed, listening and waiting. My room was pitch-black. I heard a crash outside!
The following A.M. after the storm passed, we had no running water. We used a well then. (I always thought that water tasted skanky!) Due to no electricity, our well didn't work. But we had bottled water, which we had to use sparingly.
Irene was a wet hurricane rather than a wind one. Which I thought strange because it came over land. But I found out that's typical. Anyway, we were back to owning waterfront property. Our street was now a canal. We even had a large pond in the back yard. Also a good-sized tree had been blown down.
I took a bucket and walked out to our new pond to get some water for washing dishes and flushing. Our neighbor saw me and let us use his hose. -- It would be an entire week before our electricity was restored.
We ate cold canned food. That October was a hot and humid one. I remember putting on my bathing suit to shower under the hose in our back yard.
But some good came of this ordeal. My father paid the exorbitant amount required to get us switched to city water. (We noticed others in the neighborhood doing likewise.) No more skanky-tasting well water, yuck!
Also he hired a man to measure our windows and cut marked boards for each. My father assured me there would be no problem finding someone to put them up. Lots of people would do it for a reasonable price. -- Another one of his misconceptions!
The next 3 hurricanes (all higher than category 1) I would be enduring alone.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
THE GHOST OF BIRTHDAYS PAST
My dear friend Margaret, returned to celebrate my birthday. I appreciated her thoughtful, considerate gesture. This would be my 1st one the wrong side of 50.
As a small child, my birthdays were never acknowledged. This often led to confusion where my age was concerned. I don't remember ever being 5 yrs old. I went directly from age 4 to 6.
Once when asked my age, I give the wrong answer. "6" I said.
"You are 7," my mother corrected, "you had a birthday three months ago." -- Well that was news to me!
Always I was envious of kids who had lavish birthday parties. I wanted one, too. I never really understood why I couldn't have one. Often, I complained to my mother.
"We celebrate your birthday with Christmas," she lied. -- That was more acid eyewash! My birthday was never mentioned during the holidays.
Every year my birthday falls 2 weeks to the day after Christmas and 1 week to the day after New Years. For that reason; family, friends, and relatives have always told me my birthday is easy to forget. To my mind, that should make it easier to remember.
Aunt Kiki even suggested I have my birthday legally changed to the end of January.
Why should I? Just write it down on the calendar, for crying out loud!
I think the very least my parents could have done was buy me a cake. Or my mother could have baked one! -- She baked them all the time! A pretty cake with roses and your name written in frosting is a big, honking deal to a small child.
Of course my parents weren't the type to make a big hoopla out of birthdays anyway. My brother was 11yrs older, and I never recall his birthday being acknowledged either. I wonder what excuse they gave him? -- They celebrated it at Easter!
But I know for fact he received at least 1 lavish party with all the fancy trimmings. -- I saw the evidence in our family photo album! There were hats, balloons, a big cake, and lots of gift-giving guests. Geez, I never once received so much as a verbal "Happy Birthday!"
However, my parents only got away with this for so long. Eventually I became old enough to follow a calendar. This occurred at age 9. I began demanding a cake! I was relentless! They were resentful. They couldn't cut off my head, so they bought me a cake to shut me up. Also I guilted my relatives (up north) into sending me cards, sometimes a check. At last my birthday was acknowledged!
I didn't get my lavish party until age 40. And I had to fight my stepmother Avis fang & claw to get one! She insisted I was too old for a birthday party. It just looked like a cheap ploy for gifts and the whole idea embarrassed her.
I informed her that 40 was the perfect age. I was determined to have a least 1 birthday party in my life. I wanted to always remember it.
She refused to help. Even threatened to leave and spend that day in another city. I told her, "Just go!" -- I would have had a better time without her around! But my father insisted she stay. Because her sister & brother-in-law would be attending and her absence would look awkward.
Everything about that party was stressful. But I enjoyed it anyway. Although I never wanted another. I got it out of my system.
For the big 5 ouch, I wanted to plan something extraordinary. Unfortunately, my father was terminally ill and had little time remaining. So it came and went without fanfare.
During my early 50's it wasn't unusual for me to spend 3 or 4 days celebrating my birthday. Making up for lost time, I told myself. I'd treat myself to expensive lunches, go to movies, have massages & pedicures. Around my mid 50's, I lost a staggering amount of money in investments. I had to limit my birthday fun. However, I still had friends who treated me to gifts and lunches.
For the big 6 oh-my-God, things had changed. Margaret was gone now, as were all of my other friends. They had either died, moved, or gone loopy with dementia and had to be institutionalized.
I wanted to do something unusual, but I didn't know what. I thought about sky-diving. But since I can't afford Health Insurance, that wasn't a good idea. Also I doubt sky-diving is an inexpensive endeavor. For that same amount, I'd rather buy myself snazzy shoes and an outfit with pizazz. That would make me happier than jumping from a plane!
Well, I did none of the above. Mostly, it was DVR Saturday in my nightgown as usual. I just stayed home and prepared myself a holiday style meal with all my favorite food. Also I had a birthday cake! I must admit, it was an enjoyable day.
Also, I finally put away my Christmas cards. The month before, I received a big glittery one from my brother. Inside, under Merry Christmas, he had written, AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TOO!
As a small child, my birthdays were never acknowledged. This often led to confusion where my age was concerned. I don't remember ever being 5 yrs old. I went directly from age 4 to 6.
Once when asked my age, I give the wrong answer. "6" I said.
"You are 7," my mother corrected, "you had a birthday three months ago." -- Well that was news to me!
Always I was envious of kids who had lavish birthday parties. I wanted one, too. I never really understood why I couldn't have one. Often, I complained to my mother.
"We celebrate your birthday with Christmas," she lied. -- That was more acid eyewash! My birthday was never mentioned during the holidays.
Every year my birthday falls 2 weeks to the day after Christmas and 1 week to the day after New Years. For that reason; family, friends, and relatives have always told me my birthday is easy to forget. To my mind, that should make it easier to remember.
Aunt Kiki even suggested I have my birthday legally changed to the end of January.
Why should I? Just write it down on the calendar, for crying out loud!
I think the very least my parents could have done was buy me a cake. Or my mother could have baked one! -- She baked them all the time! A pretty cake with roses and your name written in frosting is a big, honking deal to a small child.
Of course my parents weren't the type to make a big hoopla out of birthdays anyway. My brother was 11yrs older, and I never recall his birthday being acknowledged either. I wonder what excuse they gave him? -- They celebrated it at Easter!
But I know for fact he received at least 1 lavish party with all the fancy trimmings. -- I saw the evidence in our family photo album! There were hats, balloons, a big cake, and lots of gift-giving guests. Geez, I never once received so much as a verbal "Happy Birthday!"
However, my parents only got away with this for so long. Eventually I became old enough to follow a calendar. This occurred at age 9. I began demanding a cake! I was relentless! They were resentful. They couldn't cut off my head, so they bought me a cake to shut me up. Also I guilted my relatives (up north) into sending me cards, sometimes a check. At last my birthday was acknowledged!
I didn't get my lavish party until age 40. And I had to fight my stepmother Avis fang & claw to get one! She insisted I was too old for a birthday party. It just looked like a cheap ploy for gifts and the whole idea embarrassed her.
I informed her that 40 was the perfect age. I was determined to have a least 1 birthday party in my life. I wanted to always remember it.
She refused to help. Even threatened to leave and spend that day in another city. I told her, "Just go!" -- I would have had a better time without her around! But my father insisted she stay. Because her sister & brother-in-law would be attending and her absence would look awkward.
Everything about that party was stressful. But I enjoyed it anyway. Although I never wanted another. I got it out of my system.
For the big 5 ouch, I wanted to plan something extraordinary. Unfortunately, my father was terminally ill and had little time remaining. So it came and went without fanfare.
During my early 50's it wasn't unusual for me to spend 3 or 4 days celebrating my birthday. Making up for lost time, I told myself. I'd treat myself to expensive lunches, go to movies, have massages & pedicures. Around my mid 50's, I lost a staggering amount of money in investments. I had to limit my birthday fun. However, I still had friends who treated me to gifts and lunches.
For the big 6 oh-my-God, things had changed. Margaret was gone now, as were all of my other friends. They had either died, moved, or gone loopy with dementia and had to be institutionalized.
I wanted to do something unusual, but I didn't know what. I thought about sky-diving. But since I can't afford Health Insurance, that wasn't a good idea. Also I doubt sky-diving is an inexpensive endeavor. For that same amount, I'd rather buy myself snazzy shoes and an outfit with pizazz. That would make me happier than jumping from a plane!
Well, I did none of the above. Mostly, it was DVR Saturday in my nightgown as usual. I just stayed home and prepared myself a holiday style meal with all my favorite food. Also I had a birthday cake! I must admit, it was an enjoyable day.
Also, I finally put away my Christmas cards. The month before, I received a big glittery one from my brother. Inside, under Merry Christmas, he had written, AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TOO!
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
MY HAIR OF MANY COLORS
Since moving to Vero Beach, I've been more hair colors (and styles) than Cher, Madonna, and Brittany Spears combined. My therapist joked that neighbors probably wondered about all these strange women shacking-up with with my father.
I was born a blonde. But my hair darkened to the color of dead leaves by the time I reached mid-teens. It didn't suit me. After I graduating High School, I bleached my hair and entered Junior College as a brassy blonde.
Through the years I experimented with toners and rinses, and have been every shade of blonde imaginable.
Once, I put a red rinse in my pale blonde hair and it came out pinkish-purple. Fortunately, it was Halloween week and I was still young enough to pull off the punk look. But to my horror, it wouldn't wash out! I made an emergency call to the Clairol Hot Line and followed their instructions. I came out a strawberry blonde. The color slowly faded with each subsequent washing.
1998 I was 47 yrs old, my hair was almost platinum and fell to mid-waist. I decided I was getting too old for that look. We were preparing to put our house on the market and move to another town. The time was perfect for a change.
I've always hated short hair. So I decided to find a more natural-looking color.
Long hair is ultra feminine and extremely versatile. Women sporting short styles always appear like they're wearing a stupid-looking helmet. Also I was never allowed lengthy locks as a child. Though I longed for them.
My mother refused to have a daughter who looked like a beatnik. As soon as my hair reached mid-neck she'd whip out the scissors! I'd cry and fuss. She'd yell and start hitting me with the hair brush. Always there was a scene! "You can have long hair when you're 21!" She'd scream.
A burly, neighbor named George was sympathetic. "You'll have long hair by the time you're 16," he told me. "A parent doesn't have the same control over a teenager as they do over an 11 yr old."
The man was a prophet! At age 16, I had waist-length hair just like a hippie! However, that look wasn't right for me at age 47.
I've always been a do-it-yourself gal when it comes to cutting & coloring my hair. I trust beauticians about as much as I trust my mother, for valid reasons.
Shortly after I turned 26, I went to a Beauty Parlor to have my hair styled. The 1st thing I told the woman was NOT to cut my hair short. I pulled out a pad & pencil to show her exactly what I wanted, just a little off the top and sides. Then I asked if she understood. She nodded.
Red flares and warning sirens should have been rattling my head as she swung my chair away from the mirror. A few minutes later, I looked down and saw most of my long hair on the floor! Quickly, I turned to face the mirror and almost shrieked! She was cutting behind my ear and only the very back remained long.
"What are you doing!?" I hollered. "I specifically told you NO short hair!!!"
She paused and gave me the sweetest smile. "But I have to dear," she replied, "otherwise you won't have any style."
"Well don't cut off any more!" I snapped.
Actually long hair was in style that year! I don't know what she was thinking. -- My parents figured jealousy and sabotage.
I ended up with a style similar to a gypsy shag. I didn't like the ridiculous way she teased and sprayed the short hair to frame my face like spider legs. I looked like a 60's gospel singer at the Grand Ole Opry. People gasped as I showed up for work the next day. After I washed it out and styled it softer, it looked much better.
But after doing my own hair for decades, I decided to let the hairdressers take over. -- I should have trusted my experience, instead. Remember what I told you about Realtors, politicians, used car salesmen, and lawyers in a previous blog? Well you can shove hairdressers in that same bag and shake it! I found most of them equally deceitful.
One was even insulting. He was gushing to another stylist about a woman who gave him a $50 tip. "Oh her hair was the color of camel suede," he enthused, She had the thickest, most beautiful hair I have ever seen! About 10 times as thick as this!" -- He grabs a handful of MY hair. My jaw dropped! Just because I had chemicals in my hair didn't mean I'd gone deaf.
After that remark, I never returned. And he was the best one! Although once, when he tin foiled my entire head, (I looked like the Naboo Queen from Star Wars.) he jerked the strips out so fast, I yelped and jumped in my chair! Later, I found a bald spot the size of a dime on my front left side. Fortunately, it grew back.
At one point I had been forced to cut my hair short and return to my natural hue. A color I never wanted to see again!!! I was told it was necessary to eventually get the look I wanted. I was shocked to see more than a few strands of gray. To make it more flattering, I put in a black rinse while it was growing out.
Also I had several dark-brunette and blonde synthetic wigs of short to medium length. Aunt Kiki sent them to Mom while she was enduring chemotherapy. Now they were mine.
I returned to doing my own hair, and happily so. Beauticians work on the same principle as doctors. They can be servicing 3 other clients along with you. It's too time consuming. I'm faster! Plus I can cut & color for less than the price of their tip.
However, I can also mess-up! Same as they do! I found I have no talent for working with tin foil. It was a disaster! I came out looking like a mutant leopard. Again, it was my surrogate mother, Miss Clairol to the rescue! I phoned their Hot Line.
"How do you feel about RED?" the technician asked.
I had never been a redhead. But I was willing to give it a try. After following their instructions, my hair came out auburn. It looked rather pretty with my teal eyes and porcelain skin. Intrigued, I wanted to go redder.
Unfortunately, my father hated red hair. Also that was the summer he discontinued chemotherapy. As my color grew out, I went back to using the dark rinse. I also cut it short due to damage from colorings and the elements.
After my father's death, and one week before his memorial service, I became a flaming, copper redhead. I still am, and I love it! This is an exotic look to me. Because there are no redheads in my family tree.
When I was 36, a psychic told me that in later years my life would completely change. Also that a red-haired person would be someone important to me. I always thought that person would be someone else.
I was born a blonde. But my hair darkened to the color of dead leaves by the time I reached mid-teens. It didn't suit me. After I graduating High School, I bleached my hair and entered Junior College as a brassy blonde.
Through the years I experimented with toners and rinses, and have been every shade of blonde imaginable.
Once, I put a red rinse in my pale blonde hair and it came out pinkish-purple. Fortunately, it was Halloween week and I was still young enough to pull off the punk look. But to my horror, it wouldn't wash out! I made an emergency call to the Clairol Hot Line and followed their instructions. I came out a strawberry blonde. The color slowly faded with each subsequent washing.
1998 I was 47 yrs old, my hair was almost platinum and fell to mid-waist. I decided I was getting too old for that look. We were preparing to put our house on the market and move to another town. The time was perfect for a change.
I've always hated short hair. So I decided to find a more natural-looking color.
Long hair is ultra feminine and extremely versatile. Women sporting short styles always appear like they're wearing a stupid-looking helmet. Also I was never allowed lengthy locks as a child. Though I longed for them.
My mother refused to have a daughter who looked like a beatnik. As soon as my hair reached mid-neck she'd whip out the scissors! I'd cry and fuss. She'd yell and start hitting me with the hair brush. Always there was a scene! "You can have long hair when you're 21!" She'd scream.
A burly, neighbor named George was sympathetic. "You'll have long hair by the time you're 16," he told me. "A parent doesn't have the same control over a teenager as they do over an 11 yr old."
The man was a prophet! At age 16, I had waist-length hair just like a hippie! However, that look wasn't right for me at age 47.
I've always been a do-it-yourself gal when it comes to cutting & coloring my hair. I trust beauticians about as much as I trust my mother, for valid reasons.
Shortly after I turned 26, I went to a Beauty Parlor to have my hair styled. The 1st thing I told the woman was NOT to cut my hair short. I pulled out a pad & pencil to show her exactly what I wanted, just a little off the top and sides. Then I asked if she understood. She nodded.
Red flares and warning sirens should have been rattling my head as she swung my chair away from the mirror. A few minutes later, I looked down and saw most of my long hair on the floor! Quickly, I turned to face the mirror and almost shrieked! She was cutting behind my ear and only the very back remained long.
"What are you doing!?" I hollered. "I specifically told you NO short hair!!!"
She paused and gave me the sweetest smile. "But I have to dear," she replied, "otherwise you won't have any style."
"Well don't cut off any more!" I snapped.
Actually long hair was in style that year! I don't know what she was thinking. -- My parents figured jealousy and sabotage.
I ended up with a style similar to a gypsy shag. I didn't like the ridiculous way she teased and sprayed the short hair to frame my face like spider legs. I looked like a 60's gospel singer at the Grand Ole Opry. People gasped as I showed up for work the next day. After I washed it out and styled it softer, it looked much better.
But after doing my own hair for decades, I decided to let the hairdressers take over. -- I should have trusted my experience, instead. Remember what I told you about Realtors, politicians, used car salesmen, and lawyers in a previous blog? Well you can shove hairdressers in that same bag and shake it! I found most of them equally deceitful.
One was even insulting. He was gushing to another stylist about a woman who gave him a $50 tip. "Oh her hair was the color of camel suede," he enthused, She had the thickest, most beautiful hair I have ever seen! About 10 times as thick as this!" -- He grabs a handful of MY hair. My jaw dropped! Just because I had chemicals in my hair didn't mean I'd gone deaf.
After that remark, I never returned. And he was the best one! Although once, when he tin foiled my entire head, (I looked like the Naboo Queen from Star Wars.) he jerked the strips out so fast, I yelped and jumped in my chair! Later, I found a bald spot the size of a dime on my front left side. Fortunately, it grew back.
At one point I had been forced to cut my hair short and return to my natural hue. A color I never wanted to see again!!! I was told it was necessary to eventually get the look I wanted. I was shocked to see more than a few strands of gray. To make it more flattering, I put in a black rinse while it was growing out.
Also I had several dark-brunette and blonde synthetic wigs of short to medium length. Aunt Kiki sent them to Mom while she was enduring chemotherapy. Now they were mine.
I returned to doing my own hair, and happily so. Beauticians work on the same principle as doctors. They can be servicing 3 other clients along with you. It's too time consuming. I'm faster! Plus I can cut & color for less than the price of their tip.
However, I can also mess-up! Same as they do! I found I have no talent for working with tin foil. It was a disaster! I came out looking like a mutant leopard. Again, it was my surrogate mother, Miss Clairol to the rescue! I phoned their Hot Line.
"How do you feel about RED?" the technician asked.
I had never been a redhead. But I was willing to give it a try. After following their instructions, my hair came out auburn. It looked rather pretty with my teal eyes and porcelain skin. Intrigued, I wanted to go redder.
Unfortunately, my father hated red hair. Also that was the summer he discontinued chemotherapy. As my color grew out, I went back to using the dark rinse. I also cut it short due to damage from colorings and the elements.
After my father's death, and one week before his memorial service, I became a flaming, copper redhead. I still am, and I love it! This is an exotic look to me. Because there are no redheads in my family tree.
When I was 36, a psychic told me that in later years my life would completely change. Also that a red-haired person would be someone important to me. I always thought that person would be someone else.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
A SHADED FAMILY SECRET
Dark secrets can in fact be quite illuminating. This one, I had long suspected. However, it turned out to be deeper and more baneful than I had ever imagined.
Aunt "Kiki" was the beauty of her family. In her younger years, she had modeled. She married a man from a prominent family who adored her and gave her everything she wanted. Unfortunately, she wanted other men and was a habitual cheater.
One of her proudest conquests was an official at the French Embassy. I've always thought she was capable of better. During her 20's and 30's she looked like movie star. She had a figure better than Betty Grable's and a face more beautiful than Lana Turner. My favorite photo is the 1 of her kneeling toward the camera in a tight swimsuit in front of a French flag.
Kiki was in her 80's as we entered the new millennium. Almost broke and often bitter, she now lived in a Nursing Home up north. I had not seen her since age 12, but we had been pen-pals for many decades.
Though an unfaithful wife, she was a wonderful mother to her only son. Often, she reminded him, it didn't matter if someone was richer, better looking, or even more talented. HE WAS STILL THEIR EQUAL and to never forget it! -- I received the opposite from my parents. For this reason, as well as her beauty, I admired her.
Due to age, Kiki began to phone more and write less. She was eager to boast of her new, much younger lover. "He's 40 yrs old," she told me," and married. But he and his wife have grown apart."
"How did you meet?" I was curious to know.
"His son works as an orderly here. He introduced us. The kid would be shocked if he knew his dad was taking me out afternoons to check into a motel!" She giggled. "Joe prefers older women," she added, "He has a teeny little weeny, but he sure knows how to use it!"
"Mom always said you were promiscuous," I scolded. "You should be ashamed."
"Dianne, don't you know that your parents HAD to get married!" She sniffed.
Not until that moment, I didn't. But I've always suspected. My parents seemed an odd match. The only common factor was they were both highly negative individuals. I've been called that, too. But compared to them I'm a cock-eyed optimist! They were the type that not only saw the glass half full, but also cracked and teaming with germs.
"So perhaps that explains why Dad and my brother were never close," I wondered aloud.
"You're wrong!" she stated. "Your mother aborted that baby right after the marriage."
"What!?" This truly was a revelation.
"I was with her," Kiki continued, "We went to this strange woman in a rundown house. She didn't seem all there. I had a bad feeling. Afterward your mother began hemorrhaging. There was blood everywhere! I called our family doctor and we swore him to secrecy."
"But why? Wasn't she married, then? Why an abortion?" I wanted to know.
"She didn't want our parents, and everyone else knowing she'd had sex before marriage. Remember how religious your grandmother was, she wouldn't allow a Christmas tree in the house because she considered it pagan."
"Yes, she was pill."
"And our father was strict, too!"
"But there was nothing they could do to her," I said. "She didn't live under their roof. She had a husband!"
"She couldn't exist under that kind of shame," Kiki replied.
I shook my head in disgust. Yes, I support abortion. But in this case, there was no reason! Other than my mother, maintaining her phony facade. It was so typical of her! Certain behavior suddenly became less inexplicable.
I knew since an early age that my mother was insecure in her marriage. She seemed like a small child always seeking approval from my dad. As if she was trying to say, " See I really am a good wife. You didn't make a mistake!" She used to gush to her friends that she worshiped the ground my father walked on. At the same time I was treated like a rival. Because I had a closeness with Dad she was never able to attain. We had a bond.
My father was loving and supportive to me when I was a child. But years of disappointment, failed businesses, and uncertainty; slowly but drastically changed him. He struck out at those closest to him.
This revelation also explained the tense friction between my mother and paternal grandfather. Often she told me that Poppy never thought she was good enough for Dad. What she failed to mention was that he had a valid reason to feel that way! -- I would not put it past her to have gotten pregnant just to entrap my father. She was the type that would.
My grandfather Poppy, who lived with us until his death, didn't fit the storybook stereotype. He was crusty and could often be verbally cruel. At age 4, when I awoke crying from a nightmare, he ordered me to shut up and go back to sleep or he'd make me spend the night outside! -- But he never hit me! Though he sometimes threatened to.
Poppy cherished my brother who is 11ys older. But I never received that type of adoration from him. My father used to say that by the time I came along, Poppy was too old to enjoy a grandchild. All I seemed to do was get on his nerves.
But never having raised a daughter, I think on some level he viewed me as an extension of my mother, whom he despised. He also thought she was peculiar.
Before her marriage, she had never been inside a restaurant. She was afraid to enter one. (A phobia I sure didn't inherit! ) Her family never patronized them. It was scary, unfamiliar territory to her.
Frequently, she blackmailed her rebellious, younger sister Kiki. Mom was quite skillful at manipulation. I can tell you that from my own experience. Plus her reasoning was distorted.
But an abortion, I was still shaking my head. I wanted to know more.
The next A.M. during breakfast, I confronted my father. I demanded an honest answer. I asked if Mom ever had an abortion. After a long, stunned pause, he said, "Yes." I told him I wanted details. He replied, "It should stay in the past." He abruptly arose and left the kitchen without finishing breakfast. He visibly upset.
My brother was still in a half-way house out west. He was jarred by the information, but not surprised. He always suspected that Mom & Dad had to get married and HE was the cause. (Although I assured him this was not the case.) But I understood his feelings. I received affection from our father that was denied him. A wide gulf always existed between them. As with our mother, he didn't share our karmic bond.
Less than a month later, my father suffered his stroke. I've often wondered whether this revelation was a contributing factor. Because this was knowledge nether I, nor my brother were ever meant to learn. So many dark, mystifying areas have been shattered open as a result. I'm glad it came to light.
Aunt "Kiki" was the beauty of her family. In her younger years, she had modeled. She married a man from a prominent family who adored her and gave her everything she wanted. Unfortunately, she wanted other men and was a habitual cheater.
One of her proudest conquests was an official at the French Embassy. I've always thought she was capable of better. During her 20's and 30's she looked like movie star. She had a figure better than Betty Grable's and a face more beautiful than Lana Turner. My favorite photo is the 1 of her kneeling toward the camera in a tight swimsuit in front of a French flag.
Kiki was in her 80's as we entered the new millennium. Almost broke and often bitter, she now lived in a Nursing Home up north. I had not seen her since age 12, but we had been pen-pals for many decades.
Though an unfaithful wife, she was a wonderful mother to her only son. Often, she reminded him, it didn't matter if someone was richer, better looking, or even more talented. HE WAS STILL THEIR EQUAL and to never forget it! -- I received the opposite from my parents. For this reason, as well as her beauty, I admired her.
Due to age, Kiki began to phone more and write less. She was eager to boast of her new, much younger lover. "He's 40 yrs old," she told me," and married. But he and his wife have grown apart."
"How did you meet?" I was curious to know.
"His son works as an orderly here. He introduced us. The kid would be shocked if he knew his dad was taking me out afternoons to check into a motel!" She giggled. "Joe prefers older women," she added, "He has a teeny little weeny, but he sure knows how to use it!"
"Mom always said you were promiscuous," I scolded. "You should be ashamed."
"Dianne, don't you know that your parents HAD to get married!" She sniffed.
Not until that moment, I didn't. But I've always suspected. My parents seemed an odd match. The only common factor was they were both highly negative individuals. I've been called that, too. But compared to them I'm a cock-eyed optimist! They were the type that not only saw the glass half full, but also cracked and teaming with germs.
"So perhaps that explains why Dad and my brother were never close," I wondered aloud.
"You're wrong!" she stated. "Your mother aborted that baby right after the marriage."
"What!?" This truly was a revelation.
"I was with her," Kiki continued, "We went to this strange woman in a rundown house. She didn't seem all there. I had a bad feeling. Afterward your mother began hemorrhaging. There was blood everywhere! I called our family doctor and we swore him to secrecy."
"But why? Wasn't she married, then? Why an abortion?" I wanted to know.
"She didn't want our parents, and everyone else knowing she'd had sex before marriage. Remember how religious your grandmother was, she wouldn't allow a Christmas tree in the house because she considered it pagan."
"Yes, she was pill."
"And our father was strict, too!"
"But there was nothing they could do to her," I said. "She didn't live under their roof. She had a husband!"
"She couldn't exist under that kind of shame," Kiki replied.
I shook my head in disgust. Yes, I support abortion. But in this case, there was no reason! Other than my mother, maintaining her phony facade. It was so typical of her! Certain behavior suddenly became less inexplicable.
I knew since an early age that my mother was insecure in her marriage. She seemed like a small child always seeking approval from my dad. As if she was trying to say, " See I really am a good wife. You didn't make a mistake!" She used to gush to her friends that she worshiped the ground my father walked on. At the same time I was treated like a rival. Because I had a closeness with Dad she was never able to attain. We had a bond.
My father was loving and supportive to me when I was a child. But years of disappointment, failed businesses, and uncertainty; slowly but drastically changed him. He struck out at those closest to him.
This revelation also explained the tense friction between my mother and paternal grandfather. Often she told me that Poppy never thought she was good enough for Dad. What she failed to mention was that he had a valid reason to feel that way! -- I would not put it past her to have gotten pregnant just to entrap my father. She was the type that would.
My grandfather Poppy, who lived with us until his death, didn't fit the storybook stereotype. He was crusty and could often be verbally cruel. At age 4, when I awoke crying from a nightmare, he ordered me to shut up and go back to sleep or he'd make me spend the night outside! -- But he never hit me! Though he sometimes threatened to.
Poppy cherished my brother who is 11ys older. But I never received that type of adoration from him. My father used to say that by the time I came along, Poppy was too old to enjoy a grandchild. All I seemed to do was get on his nerves.
But never having raised a daughter, I think on some level he viewed me as an extension of my mother, whom he despised. He also thought she was peculiar.
Before her marriage, she had never been inside a restaurant. She was afraid to enter one. (A phobia I sure didn't inherit! ) Her family never patronized them. It was scary, unfamiliar territory to her.
Frequently, she blackmailed her rebellious, younger sister Kiki. Mom was quite skillful at manipulation. I can tell you that from my own experience. Plus her reasoning was distorted.
But an abortion, I was still shaking my head. I wanted to know more.
The next A.M. during breakfast, I confronted my father. I demanded an honest answer. I asked if Mom ever had an abortion. After a long, stunned pause, he said, "Yes." I told him I wanted details. He replied, "It should stay in the past." He abruptly arose and left the kitchen without finishing breakfast. He visibly upset.
My brother was still in a half-way house out west. He was jarred by the information, but not surprised. He always suspected that Mom & Dad had to get married and HE was the cause. (Although I assured him this was not the case.) But I understood his feelings. I received affection from our father that was denied him. A wide gulf always existed between them. As with our mother, he didn't share our karmic bond.
Less than a month later, my father suffered his stroke. I've often wondered whether this revelation was a contributing factor. Because this was knowledge nether I, nor my brother were ever meant to learn. So many dark, mystifying areas have been shattered open as a result. I'm glad it came to light.
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