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.
　

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.
　

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.
　

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.
　

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!

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.

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.