Ten, Maybe a Dozen, Holy Crap! Fifteen signs I'm Becoming Chronologically Enhanced

In my own mind, I’m kinda fabulous and just a lot of fun.  But recently I realized the end of my social day usually coincides with the end of happy hour – about 6PM (I can make it to 7 if I’m at the Dog & Pony, but only because they call it ‘Awesome Hour’). Now while I stop short of calling myself 'mature' I have to admit I am getting older.  This realization prompted me to create this list.  OK, first it prompted me to purchase every age-defying cosmetic in the sale bin at Rite-Aid, but then it prompted me to create this list. Steep yourself a cup of prune tea, and while it cools to lukewarm, read on...

1. I have no idea who most of the nominees on any of the myriad awards show are.  In fact, the only awards recipients I do know are receiving a “lifetime achievement award”.   
2. I know where every public restroom between my house and Boston is located.  And I schedule my beverage intake accordingly.  On a side note, I always have a spare roll of toilet paper in the back of the car.
3. I don’t eat certain foods after 7 at night.  Even if I’m sleeping alone.
4. Every compartment of every purse, and every pocket of every coat contains at least one tissue.  Some unused. 
5. Back when I was a young whippersnapper, after 2 margeritas, and 2 Lemon Drops and a couple Cosmos, and a few of whatever shot had the naughtiest name,  all I wanted to do was go to bed and then go home.  Now, after 2 martinis, and an ice water, all I want to do it go home and go to bed.
6.  I read that doctor’s column up over the crossword puzzle in the Bangor Daily (which I do in pen) and can, at least once a week, find some symptom or issue that I can make apply to me.  
7. If I’ve had a socially active weekend, (which could be anything from a trip to the Farmer’s Market and an afternoon hike to a an overnight escape off the rock) by Sunday night, I have to force myself to stay awake til it gets dark.  
8. AARP emails me on a daily basis.
9. I receive a spam email from the good folks at Hoveround Power Wheelchair and I no longer  think ‘Throw a cupholder on that fat bastard and it’s my courtesy cab.'  Instead I think ‘Oh my stars, I could bedazzle that basket and have quite a sassy ride.'
10. I can answer YES to more than one question on the Hoveround application. 
11. Sometimes the weird sounds that wake me up in the middle of the night are coming from me.
12. I don’t like to text message because it takes too much energy.  
13. My bedtime ritual is actually a ritual. 
14. If I spend more than 10 minutes in the grocery store, I forget where I’ve parked.  If I dally longer than a half hour, I forget what kind of car I drive.
15. I use terms like my stars, whippersnapper, and dally in normal conversation.  

ANOTHER PIECE OF THE PUZZLE

As a little girl I looked forward to Sundays.  That was the day I was most likely to spend on the road with Gummy and Tim.   They were my maternal grandparents, but nobody called them Grammy and Grampy.  It was always Gummy and Tim.

One would assume my grandmother’s nickname Gummy was the result of an adorable attempt by one of her cherubic grandchildren to say Grammy.  One would be wrong.  Like so many things in my family, it revolved around snacks – in this case gum.  Gladys (her given name) always had a variety of snack items tucked away in her cupboards, and the white metal cabinet with the doors that never quite lined up was the holding area for chewing gum – lots of lots of it, mostly Chiclets – the big white peppermint ones and packets of the little multicolored fruity crack-flavored ones.  She also had a easy-to-reach supply of candy in a cut crystal bowl in her living room, but it was usually either hard candies of indeterminate flavor with mucusy centers or spiced gumdrops fused together by the perpetual 95 degree indoor temperature – not kid favorites.  While we all agreed on the reason for the nickname, the originator is still a topic of discussion.  It was probably either my cousin Bruce, whom we kids loved to amuse because his laugh sounded just like the turkey on the Farmer Says See and Say - or it may have been me.  Although I have absolutely no recollection of starting the gumball rolling, I have been known to take credit for it.  It’s good to be responsible for a legend. 

One would also think Tim was short for Timothy.  Once again, one would be wrong.  His real name was Chandler Elmont.  No one has any idea where Tim came from.

One early spring Sunday I hoisted my little six year old pudge into the big back seat of Gummy and Tim’s Chevrolet, I didn’t care where we were going, I just wondered where we were going to eat.  Gummy always picked the best places after asking Tim’s opinion.   He would reply “I don’t care, one place is going to cost me as much as another.” Then he would always grumble about her choice, (grumbling was his forte).  This week it was the Aloha Lunch roadside diner for Fried Maine Clam rolls. Golden Heaven on a toasted hot dog bun washed down with ice cold Coca Cola.  We got back in the car, and Gummy suggested to Tim that we drive to Charleston to see yet another branch of the family tree I had never heard of.  Tim grumbled that it was going to take all goddamned day to get there, and we wouldn’t get home until frigging midnight.  I was up for that.  This was in the days before seatbelts, so when I was tired, I could just lie down across the big back seat, Gummy would cover me up with the blanket that lived on that shelf behind the seat and best of all, a long drive would definitely mean we’d have to stop for dinner.   I liked my food. 

I sat back in the seat, delighting in the good-humored banter up front.  Gummy would make some lighthearted comment about him being a speed demon, or maniac tailgater, or being too close to the center line, and Tim would playfully respond with some equally lighthearted comment about her inability to focus on a goddamned moose in the middle of the road, let alone a yellow line with those damned thick glasses of hers.  After a stop so Gummy and I could pee and buy another bottle of soda, we continued up the road into farm county.  It was beautiful, and green and all very new territory to me.  I asked Gummy who we were going to see.  “Aunt Vina and her family.”

“Have I ever met them?”

“Not yet, dear.”

 Tim chimed in “Buncha goddamned… “A well-timed bark from Gummy stopped him in mid-grumble.

As we turned up a long dirt driveway, bordered by vibrant green trees, Gummy turned to me.  “Now Debbie dear, you should know that Aunt Vina is a wonderful woman.”

“Uh-huh.”  I was already wondering what delightful snacks this bit of Eden might have to offer.

“But a few years ago she was very sad.”

“Uh-huh…” Geez, not too sad to cook, I hope. This might put a damper on my afternoon snack.

“Well, she wasn’t happy with being alive and she tried to…”

“Uh…...huh?”  Yeah, snack time was not looking good.

“Well she just wanted to go to Heaven so she…”  Get to the point, woman.  Did she make a cake before she left?

That’s when Tim decided to take the more direct approach.  “Shot herself. Blew half her goddamned face off.”

Gummy chimed back in. “Try not to stare.” 

“Okie dokey.” Well, snack was a moot point now.  

The farmhouse came into view.  It would have been an enchanting place with its apple trees and gardens and budding flowers, but this new tidbit of information put a damper on things for me.  I was only doing math at a first grade level but it was enough for me to know that if she blew half her goddamned face off, she should have one eyebrow, one eye, one cheek, one nostril, one ear and an undetermined number of  teeth – wasn’t sure how many she would have started with.  What about the hair?  He just said face; he didn’t say head, so maybe she had all her hair.  That would be good if she would just be so kind as to back into the room, and I would never have to see the mangled mess on the other side. Gummy and Tim each took one of my sweaty little hands and led me up the steps to the front door.  While I closed my eyes and whispered silent prayers that the occupants all be gone, I heard the front door open.  It was a man’s voice. And it sounded nice, not the disturbed tone of a man who had to share a house with a one-eyed one-nostriled  gargoyle.  Slowly, I opened my eyes.

 “Well, Gladys, Tim.  What a nice surprise.  Come on in.”

Well, I still had hope that Vina was out of town.  Even as a little girl, my best approach for handling an uncomfortable situation has always been to try to ignore it and hope it goes away on its own.  Although it has never really worked in my favor, the ostrich method is still my preferred approach.

“This must be Debbie,’ the kind man said. ‘ Vina will be thrilled to meet her.”

 The blood rushed to my ears, and I really didn’t hear much after that.  Gummy led me over to the piano bench, where I sat and focused on the rainbow colored plastic bracelets on my wrist, twirling them like I was cracking a safe. 

“Debbie, Debbie, dear.’  It was Gummy—her voice sort of echoed through the pounding in my ears – ‘Would you like to play outside?  They have a lovely yard out back.” 

“No, thank you.”  All demure and courteous on the outside, inside I was yelling ‘There is no goddamned way I am going into that goddamned yard.  My god, there is probably a goddamned eyeball stuck to a goddamned apple tree.’  I was, after all, Tim’s granddaughter.  

           

Once again, my ostrich approach failed me, and the moment I had dreaded arrived.  A small neatly dressed woman entered the living room carrying a plate of freshly baked sugar cookies and a pitcher of lemonade.  She walked over to me; face first (ostrich approach once again failed me) and curiosity being my strong suit,  I allowed myself to look at her.  Did I mention she had cookies?  While her face was by no means normal, it was not the hamburger snangle I had envisioned.  She had done a pretty thorough job on the jaw and cheek, but she retained all her eyebrows, both eyes, both nostrils and the skin over the damaged area was surprisingly smooth.  Relieved, I took a cookie, and even managed a weak little smile and a squeaky thank you when she poured me a glass of lemonade.  

           

Vina was, indeed a very nice woman.  She played the piano, the adults talked; I looked out the window, almost, but not quite, daring to venture into the gardens of the unknown.  After what seemed like days, but was probably a couple of hours, Tim spoke up.  “Well, we better hit the road.  It’s long drive home and Gladys is going to have to stop to piss at least twice.” 

Overall, the experience was not nearly as disturbing as I had anticipated, and that trip to Charleston ranked way above the monthly visits to my great grandmother in the ‘other farm’. Plus, the cookies were way better.  

Living La Vida Loner

The Bungalow Great Room

During my Wonder Bread years I shared a bedroom with my baby sister.  Don’t get me wrong, I adored her (she’s the baby, the princess, the golden child, I was contractually obligated to adore her) and I still do, but sharing a room with a kid 10 years younger cramps your style.  How the heck was I supposed to develop the skills necessary to someday become leader of the Closet Vodka Mother Society with an eight year old rooting through my stuff?  We had no mutual subjects to talk about while nodding off to sleep.  We couldn’t talk about boyfriends.  I mean really, how much advice can a sweet innocent 18 year old give to an 8 year old tart?  After leaving the family nest, I had college roommates, apartment roommates, a live-in boyfriend (my social life did ‘improve’), a live in husband (not at the same time as the live-in boyfriend;  that would be wrong and way too much laundry) and then live-in children.  Point being, I never had a place of my own until I decided in my forties to move out of the marital house and into my own apartment. Although sad the marriage didn’t work out, I would finally  have a space I could claim as my own.  I would have privacy.  I would be able to stroll around my fabulously appointed penthouse (with all appointments I appointed) in my jammies until it’s time to go out in public without someone asking if I’m sick or PMS-ing.  I could crank the heat up to a temperature I like.  I could eat what I want, when I want and WHERE I want.    

Yessirree, living solo has its definite advantages. But during my years of solo living, I have found some downsides.   First and foremost – it costs money.  Every bit of space in the fabulously appointed bungalow (I’ve moved on up from the penthouse) is all mine, but so is the monthly rent payment, and the electric bill.  And then there’s the heat.  I have learned that the temperature I like, and the one I can afford are very many degrees apart.  I have also learned that apparently every mess in the big house was not the boys’ fault.  I am a freaking slob.  Coats not hung up?  They would be mine.  Shoes in the middle of the floor, also mine.  Dirty dishes in the sink?  Again, mine.

But that’s not the worst of it.    There’s a fear I never felt before.  Oh, I’ve learned to deal with the gripping panic that every ax murderer and rapist on the loose is headed for my door.  I just stopped watching the news, and only read the Lifestyle section, horoscope and the comics in the newspaper.  Other than the occasional panic that Mark Trail’s wife’s hairdresser is lurking on my deck waiting to vacu-form my coiffure into a water-retardant helmet, what I worry about now is, ironically, what I used to laugh about.  What if I fall and I can’t get up?  Or what if, while savoring whatever I want to eat, wherever I want to eat it, it gets lodged in my throat?  It happened to Mama Cass.  When I lived at the big house, I was comforted by the knowledge that the kids would eventually get hungy and trip over me on their way to the fridge. But how long before someone misses me when I’m the only one here?  It can be a little lonely living alone. 

Well, here’s how I solved that dilemma.  I surround myself with friends, lots of them.  And with those friends, I make social plans – oodles of them.  Movies, happy hours, dinners, happy hours, shopping excursions, happy…well you get it. 

I have also discovered the wonders of volunteering, because I am a giver, I love the warm feeling I get from helping, and maybe because I am not cheap to maintain.  You see, except for those occasions when I have a date to pick up the check, those movies, happy hours, dinners, happy hours, shopping excursions and happy hours can be  pricey.   I discovered that most functions needing volunteers involve food, so free dinner for me, and good grocery shopping if I remember to bring the Ziplocks and act quickly.  

My thought is that by making lots of plans and commitments, not many nights will go by without someone missing me, in the unlikely event I fall and can’t get up after choking on a ham sandwich while reading a cookbook on the toilet.

So in summary, the trick to being able to enjoy living alone, is to never, ever be alone. 

CHEAT ON THE SATS, CHEAT ON A PREGNANCY TEST, BUT NEVER ON YOUR HAIRDRESSER

A little background is in order – this incident  happened a couple years ago when I lived in the ‘city’.  I had sort of forgotten about it until this weekend whilst visiting my favorite little lakeside village when someone posed  that age-old query (and this never ever ceases to be clever)  ‘Hey Red, do the curtains match the carpet?’   I have a standard reply that  usually shuts ‘em right up and which I will not share here (you are welcome, Chris and Aaron).  Anyhoo, that reminded me of this. If just one other faux redhead can learn from this cautionary tale, then I have made the world a better place.   

It always happens so fast.  One day I’m feeling  all sassy and snappy the  next I’ve got a streak of grey about an inch wide ripping its way down the middle of my head and I feel like Ruth Buzzy –not the funny Laugh-In Buzzy—more the way she looks now.  That’s usually when I do the mad scramble to reconfigure my house-o’-cards budget to conjure up the funds for a quick trip to Tammy, the very talented hairdresser I was lucky enough to find.  Now a smart woman would set aside some cash out of every paycheck so that when the grey rears its ugly head (roots?) the money would be waiting.  I will have you know I am no smart woman, especially when it comes to things of a financial nature. 

Well, one evening after three or more perfectly Horni margueritas (I just love ordering them) at the local tavern, it dawned on me that the grocery store had many different brands of hair color, with easy to follow instructions and little plastic gloves.  It also occurred to me that the same grocery store had Double Stufs.  On sale.  Mighta been the tequila doing the thinking, but that sounded like the basis of a perfect Wednesday night. Did I mention “Fried Green Tomatoes” was on TV.

After a quick trip to the local grocer for Double Stufs, hair color, and several other items that seemed like a much better idea in the checkout line than they did the next day, I returned home, turned on the TV and started the project, following the instructions, as best my tequila-addled brain could.  One stack of Double-Stufs later I blew my hair dry and was temporarily blinded.  Probably should have gone for a shade, for lack of a better word, subdued-er.  Think Ginger from Gilligan’s Island, minus the sequined wardrobe (and the mole, and the teensy waist and the flat tummy, but I digress).  Then I thought about Tammy.  She’d know I hadn’t come to her.  She probably already knew.  What would she do?  Those city girls could be mean. 

The next morning, I wound it around  hot rollers, sprayed the beejeezus out of it, and walked into the office with my head held as high as a head suffering the after-effects of three or more pefectly Horni margeritas could be held. No one mentioned my new hair – which meant that A) It wasn’t as vivid a change as I thought, or B) they are a bunch of snobs who never freaking pay attention to me.  Either way, I felt less conspicuous and slightly more comfortable. 

Shortly thereafter, I noticed the new do was looking a tad shaggy.  If I went a couple days without professionally made cocktails, I could finance a basic cut.  Hey, I might be nuts enough to try covering my own grey, but I have not yet reached the level of crazy where I am gonna wield sharp objects around my own head.   I called Tammy to make an appointment for a sassy cut.  As luck would have it, she had an opening  the next morning.  But she sounded suspicious.  Well, why wouldn’t she, she hadn’t colored my hair for 7 weeks. And then I just call her for a cut.  Suddenly I felt dirty and ashamed.  I shampooed and scrubbed my head like a flock of seagulls had just flown over it on their way from a meeting in the Dunkin Donuts dumpster, but the Ginger Grant glow only seemed to get more nuclear.  I had to think fast.  And fast thinking was right behind sound financial planning on my list of life skills.  

As I walked into Tammy’s shop, the crumpled twenties in my hand were doing nothing to absorb the flop sweat that formed as soon as I felt her scrutiny on my color job.  Oh Gawd, she knows.  She knows.  I stuttered, I mumbled some inane chitchat about my crappy work life and crappier love life, but it was nervous chitchat.  Not my usual witty banter.  I knew she could see right through me.  I tried to figure out the best tactic.

I thought about putting her on the defensive – after all, I am a single woman living paycheck to paycheck.  Does she really think I can afford to shell out $100 plus tip every time I want to be a natural redhead?  Yeah, make her feel guilty – it’s all her fault.  Of course they do say (I have never really been sure who they are) honesty is the best policy.  But I bet this mysterious 'they' have never had a scorned hairdresser with easy access to chemicals and scissors standing over them.  I took a deep breath while she fastened the black plastic cape around my neck – a little too tightly, but I dared not complain. 

“So, haven’t seen you for awhile – is your job keeping you that busy?”  She batted my hair like a cat bats a half-dead mouse.

 “Yeah, it's alot for me to learn, and the pay stinks (good – play the finance card) but the Old Port is such a cool area.  When the office starts to bug me, I just go for a quick stroll down  Fore Street.
 “Yeah, there are some nice shops.  And restaurants.   And ….hairdressers.”  SNIP. SNIP.

I didn’t dare look at the pile of hair on the floor.  OR in the mirror.  I’d just let her work out her anger and frustration while I recalculated my house-of-cards budget to accommodate the purchase of a collection of hats.  I decided to just admit what I’ve done and beg forgiveness. 

“I was overserved.”

“What?”  At least I think she said ‘What’.  The snips were getting louder and closer to my brain area.

“I had been out with friends, we had a few margueritas,  I was feeling really mousy and dumpy.  You have to understand, I was broke.  Anyway, I went into the grocery store, and it was right there.” 

"Oh, something you picked up at the grocery store, I thought you had more class than that.”

“Tammy, I’m sorry.  As soon as I got it home, I knew I’d made a mistake.  But it was too late to stop. I just closed my eyes, did the deed, and got rid of all the evidence.  I swear it’ll never happen again.  I was thinking of you the whole time.”  OK, that might have been a bit much, but that has never stopped me. 

“ I was ashamed to go outside the next day.  I felt like everyone was staring at me. I know now that I need you.”  That was definitely my signal to cease yapping.

Tammy was quiet as she styled my hair.  I wished she’d say something, anything.

“Okay, why don’t we make an appointment now to see if we can fix this.   How long ago did this … happen?”

“Umm, about a week.”

“I wondered why you hadn’t called.  Okay, I’ll see you on the 24th at 5:00 sharp.  And you might want to try to undo some of this damage in the meantime. I’d suggest this deep conditioner, twice a week.  And this polish – it’ll tone down  that Dollar Store tint.  And maybe this sculpting mud to give it some shape.”

I exhaled deeply, tucked the sweaty crumpled twenties away and fished out my debit card, reshuffling the house-o’-cards budget one more time.

YOU CAN PUT A PRICE ON LOVE

Oh dear gawd.  The unopened Christmas credit card bills have barely hit the shredder and here comes Valentine’s Day.  I know, many people anxiously anticipate this frilliest of holidays.  Some because they have stock in Hallmark.  Many, many others are starry-eyed romantic dreamer types with their heads up their, uh, clouds.  Yeah, we’ll go with clouds.  If you haven’t picked up the vibe yet,  I am not in either category.

In an effort to figure out why I have such a nasty attitude about this day of love and Cupid (Rhymes with ‘Stupid’…’nuff said), let’s travel back to grammar school.   Back in my day, Valentine’s Day was one big pink and red lace-trimmed festival.  We spent all morning decorating our little Valentine’s mailboxes – the base could be a shoebox, tissue box or a cereal box  rescued from the trash at home.  In desperation, a certain feminine hygiene product box served just fine, and was not nearly as embarrassing as one would think.  Since grammar school boys don’t mature until—well—ever, it was easy to convince them the products pictured were big thick Odor Eaters.  Armed with a wide array of art supplies, we all set to work decorating our mailboxes.  The boys were done in under a minute.  Doesn’t take long to tape three baseball cards to a shoebox.  We girls took much longer.  Every year, my artistic vision far exceeded both my artistic ability and the array of art supplies.  I pictured a sparkling lace and glitter confection of a treasure chest that would be positively bursting with Valentines, including a breathtaking handcrafted creation from Dougie or Billy or the new kid – whoever I was head over Keds for that week.  I further imagined that after the exchanging of handcrafted proclamations of undying affection, my one true love du jour and I would share chocolate cupcakes decorated with fluffy white frosting and cinnamon hearts.  Then as the sun set in the west, we would walk, hand in hand to Bus #9.   I’ll give you a moment to wipe the tears away.  Now here’s how it usually played out. 

We’ll start with the wide array of art supplies.  The glue, having been left uncapped since the Christmas projects was a cementy clot, the little scissors jammed up at the sight of construction paper, the paper lace doilies, being all fused together, came apart in little shards and the glitter stuck to my face and hands but not any paper surface.  The finished product would have made Picasso proud, but was not appreciated by my classmates, Picasso’s talent not being a big topic of discussion at Connors-Emerson in Bar Harbor in the early ‘60’s. Was the mailbox positively bursting with cards?  A generous estimate would be half full of the generic store bought variety, with no handmade creation from my one true love.  Just another generic store bought card signed by his mother.  As for sharing party fare?  Never, unless you count the year an unknown perpetrator (I knew in my little fourth grade heart it was Dougie or Billy or the new kid flirting with me) stuck a fluffy-frosted cinnamon heart bedecked cupcake on my chair as I sat down.  It goes without saying (which won’t stop me from saying it) that the handholding to the bus was a non-event.

Although Valentine’s Day, for me, is not as portrayed on the Hallmark Channel, I thought I might be able to help make it better for others.  To that end, I offer these shopping suggestions to help the menfolk reading this make their sweetheart’s Valentine’s Day special.  You know who you are.  You are the ones reading this at gunpoint.

1. Kitchen and/or household appliances.  No.  Never.
2. Flowers.  Now we’re talking.  I should caution you that, although it may be a real timesaver to purchase a single rose or a bouquet at the same place you buy your beer, lottery tickets and breakfast pizza, there are businesses right in the area that specialize in flowers and floral arrangements.  They have phone numbers and they deliver.  We like delivered flowers.  Oh sure, we seem to appreciate you handing us flowers at home, but we all secretly prefer to have a large flashy arrangement delivered to our place of work by a team of winged cherubs.  Makes it easier to flaunt in the face of flowerless co-workers.
3. Candy.  Candy is good, if it is GOOD CANDY.  A few basic rules to follow – if the box is decorated for Christmas and has a 75% off sticker, pass it by.  If it is covered with cartoon and/or sports figures, move on.  Look for a simple, elegant box with maybe some gold lettering.  Most importantly, please note that it is bad form to eat the candy yourself while telling your sweety you are doing her a favor because she is looking a little ‘hippy’.
4. Lingerie is risky, but with proper consideration,  can be rewarding for both giver and recipient.  As with flowers, there are shops devoted just to lingerie.  While Wal-Mart carries items that are structurally similar, make the trip to Victoria’s Secret.  When purchasing the gift, please be aware of the recipient’s age, size, shape, agility, ability and mood.  And please also be aware that on the recipient, the black lace babydoll may not appear exactly as pictured.  But you should also be aware George Clooney probably looks better in Carhartt’s than you do. 
5. Jewelry.  Shiny stuff in velvet-y boxes is always welcome.  Go to a store that deals exclusively in shiny stuff in velvet-y boxes.  Make sure the item description does not end with ‘ish’, ‘like’ or ‘tone’.  Most jewelers offer some form of installment plan or indentured servant program to help you afford the bauble she truly deserves.  I will caution you, some of us regard jewelry as an admission of guilt.  Oh, we will wear the 4 carat diamond tennis bracelet, but there will be questions, many questions. 

A couple of final shopping notes, in the event anyone has the urge to buy me a Valentine’s (or any day) gift.  The only thing that Victoria’s Secret sells that consistently fits me is the perfume.  Also, I will happily accept shiny stuff in velvet-y boxes, no questions, asked.

OK, gentlemen, you only have a few shopping days left.  So arm yourselves with several major credit cards and the title to your pickup truck and seek out those specialty stores.  If you’re still in a quandary about how to demonstrate your love, be sincere.  And maybe stick a fluffy frosted cinnamon heart bedecked cupcake in her chair.