I had to call my best friend last night. Nothing for me is quite real until we've discussed it. I needed advice, and as usual, hers was excellent. What I find especially charming is how she refrains from calling me an idiot or saying this is the 89th time I've complained about such and such. I find that to be a noble quality in a friend. Of course, there are times when she is forced to say "Are you out of your everlovin mind?!" But those are wake up calls that must be heard. At that point I know I've strayed far from the path of righteousness or even my own nature. We all lose our bearings, and a navigator other than ourselves is a must. Sometimes my husband fulfills that duty, but really, girlfriends are the best course.
It's girlfriends that tell you, when you are thirteen and looking at fashion magazines that your best and only good feature is your eyebrows. This is harsh, but necessary if you are not going to waste time in painful rollers or green face masks. Later, it is the friend, who tells you the guy you are dating is a jerk and you deserve better, even if he is cute. She pumps you up for a job interview and makes you change your outfit three times. So when you march into that office you know you are lookin good. And when you or your kids is sick, she doesn't say it will be fine, she says this totally sucks, you must be scared. So then you know you are not a whiner, you are merely human, and should cry buckets, it'll make you feel better.
So this friend has seen me be a young mommy, making a wide range of choices, some not so smart. She's been there when I've struggled with a failure, a dream dashed, a betrayal of a friend. She doesn't think I'm wonderful, or bad, she thinks I'm strong. She reminds me I'm strong, and that usually I've been in this place before, or close to it, and the world didn't end, and don't take myself too seriously, because you win some and you lose some, and you're not really in control anyway.
This kind of friend must be treasured. She's the faithful witness to your life. You must in turn do your part to be honest and figure out not what you would do, but what is best for your friend. That takes a lot of years of experience, and it's the best secret of aging I know. You've had these friends for so long, that a phrase can get you back on track, and a joke can be enlightening, and actually, just her voice grounds you. No lightening can strike, because there you are, feet in the earth, and she's making sure you hold steady, no matter what.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 8, 2010
I skipped blogging this weekend. I was accompanying my husband to get rat traps on Saturday (such are our weekend outings these days), and Sunday was, of course, devoted to the Oscars and the Oscar food. Our daughter and her boyfriend came over to watch, and we munched on peanuts, corn puffs and olives, with pizza delivered. It was like the Platonic ideal of the couch potato. I could feel my muscles atrophying minute by minute. We were all pretty satisfied. We like it when Pixar wins (the local guys) and a woman actually won for director. The geezer factor was high, which was satisfying to us old folks. There were Mirren and Streep, looking pretty amazing and representing the highest level of acting, and Bridges is no spring chicken, and hey, there was Streisand, a director herself, who took a lot of flack and in the end, got to hand the Oscar to a woman. Martin and Baldwin, no callow youths themselves, did pretty well, and all and all, the oldies held up well next to the Twilight teens.
Of course, my pick of the nominees, A Serious Man, had no chance. But that was okay, because I wanted Paris to win, and it's a French movie, so it could only have been nominated in the Foreign film category. I adore Michael Hanake, Code Unknown is one of my favorite films of all time, and I adore Cache as well, so I wished The White Ribbon would win, but I haven't even seen the other nominees, so what do I know? At my age, it's amazing what I manage to see, and that I can SEE it.
What I want to know is where do Streep and Mirren find these dresses with sleeves? In the real world, there are no dresses with sleeves, and at my age, the arms are not to be revealed, unless in a horror film. I have to buy these sleeveless dresses, and then find a jacket or sweater that must never, ever, ever be removed. This causes me to sweat a lot. At both of the older kids' weddings, I sweltered in jackets that made me feel like I'd been locked in a closet with a psycho outside the door.
And Mirren and Streep are so radiant! Is it makeup artistry, or surgery or both? Why can't I look like that? At least one night a year. At least under soft lighting. And now that my husband has new glasses, he can probably see me again. This is not good. Maybe I need to have bangs again, and long hair hanging forward over my cheeks (all four of them), and wear turtleneck pjs with a scarf. It's going to be warm, very warm, if I have to sleep with all that hair and clothing. Who am I kidding? He knows what I look like, during flu, after birthing, with a rash, and with a mini me inside my skin. I'll just have to be more sparkly. And maybe get rid of a few light bulbs and lamps.
Of course, my pick of the nominees, A Serious Man, had no chance. But that was okay, because I wanted Paris to win, and it's a French movie, so it could only have been nominated in the Foreign film category. I adore Michael Hanake, Code Unknown is one of my favorite films of all time, and I adore Cache as well, so I wished The White Ribbon would win, but I haven't even seen the other nominees, so what do I know? At my age, it's amazing what I manage to see, and that I can SEE it.
What I want to know is where do Streep and Mirren find these dresses with sleeves? In the real world, there are no dresses with sleeves, and at my age, the arms are not to be revealed, unless in a horror film. I have to buy these sleeveless dresses, and then find a jacket or sweater that must never, ever, ever be removed. This causes me to sweat a lot. At both of the older kids' weddings, I sweltered in jackets that made me feel like I'd been locked in a closet with a psycho outside the door.
And Mirren and Streep are so radiant! Is it makeup artistry, or surgery or both? Why can't I look like that? At least one night a year. At least under soft lighting. And now that my husband has new glasses, he can probably see me again. This is not good. Maybe I need to have bangs again, and long hair hanging forward over my cheeks (all four of them), and wear turtleneck pjs with a scarf. It's going to be warm, very warm, if I have to sleep with all that hair and clothing. Who am I kidding? He knows what I look like, during flu, after birthing, with a rash, and with a mini me inside my skin. I'll just have to be more sparkly. And maybe get rid of a few light bulbs and lamps.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 5,2010
I love this season. Daffodils are my favorite flower, and I can buy armloads at Trader Joe's and the scent is just perfect: rained-on earth. Nothing is cheerier than yellow, but daffodils move and dance with every breath of wind. I love a flower that does the funky chicken. When I was a kid in Virginia they popped up in the yard every spring, along with violets and snowdrops. Sometimes the rain or late snow bent them to the ground, but they always stood back up in a few hours (heavy symbolism here). The bulbs must have been very old, because my mother was no gardener, and we never had anybody to help out. Dad mowed the lawn and weeded. We had three sheep who ate the hillside. The tidewater area of Virginia has a mild winter, but still, the daffodils meant May Day was coming, then a summer of swimming and catching crabs in the river. Yippee!
So the other day, my foster granddaughter, who is four, complimented me on my wreath of daffodils on the front door. They are fake, of course, from Target, but the fakes these days are pretty amazing. I've spent countless minutes feeling fake plants in dentist offices and restaurants. Yes, I am the suspicious type, and my husband is too, because if I'm not feeling up strange plants, he is. When I was a kid, there were hard plastic flowers, mainly on graves, but also in homes, including my parents and relatives. These unnatural creations needed to be dusted and washed occasionally with soap and water. I was a snob. I though plastic flowers were tacky, like plastic covers over sofas and doilies on armchairs. I'd read enough books to know fresh flowers and arrangements were the sign of class, and swore I'd never have fake. Perhaps I believed I'd have the conservatory and large English garden from which to pick my bouquets for my drawing room.
Flash forward a few decades, and I'm fakin' it out, big time. Of course, my dream of changing classes and being considered elegant and cultured - or as my brother would say, suave and dee bone, has not materialized. I'm still my working class parents' working class girl. And I no longer care much about what other people think of my tastes, and have given myself permission to just (great lord almighty!) like what a like. What a concept. So I've got some fresh, real daffodils in a pitcher in my kitchen, a dollar a bunch, and the fake thing at my entrance. That door announces that I'm not too fancy to appreciate a well made fake object. It also says I'm not fake myself. What you see is what you get.
So the other day, my foster granddaughter, who is four, complimented me on my wreath of daffodils on the front door. They are fake, of course, from Target, but the fakes these days are pretty amazing. I've spent countless minutes feeling fake plants in dentist offices and restaurants. Yes, I am the suspicious type, and my husband is too, because if I'm not feeling up strange plants, he is. When I was a kid, there were hard plastic flowers, mainly on graves, but also in homes, including my parents and relatives. These unnatural creations needed to be dusted and washed occasionally with soap and water. I was a snob. I though plastic flowers were tacky, like plastic covers over sofas and doilies on armchairs. I'd read enough books to know fresh flowers and arrangements were the sign of class, and swore I'd never have fake. Perhaps I believed I'd have the conservatory and large English garden from which to pick my bouquets for my drawing room.
Flash forward a few decades, and I'm fakin' it out, big time. Of course, my dream of changing classes and being considered elegant and cultured - or as my brother would say, suave and dee bone, has not materialized. I'm still my working class parents' working class girl. And I no longer care much about what other people think of my tastes, and have given myself permission to just (great lord almighty!) like what a like. What a concept. So I've got some fresh, real daffodils in a pitcher in my kitchen, a dollar a bunch, and the fake thing at my entrance. That door announces that I'm not too fancy to appreciate a well made fake object. It also says I'm not fake myself. What you see is what you get.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 4, 2010
I tried watching the 2012 DVD last night, but I wasn't in the mood for catastrophe, I guess. After Haiti and Chile, it seems just another way for feel anxious, and after all, if I want that feeling I could look at the news or think about my retirement plans. I realized there is no water in the bin in the garage, and anyway I've forgotten how much clorine bleach you're supposed to put in. I have an earthquake bag but it's not complete, and will probably be buried under rubble. For a minute as I was watching, I got fixated on the lack of water bottles in the car. Then I realized there was no John Cusack to drive the car, so probably we'd never be able to weave and bob past falling buildings and overpasses anyway.
The earth's crust seems pretty unstable without the scifi input, and I prefer to live with a certain amount of denial about the uncertainty of our existence and our lifestyle. Yeah, I should be prepared, but no one is ever really prepared for sudden changes. When the 89 earthquake hit, I was without supplies or even the ability to identify the gas meter, and couldn't find my daughter for a couple of panicky minutes. She turned out to be sitting on her dad's motorcycle with her little friend, pretending to be gang members. Miraculously, the bike didn't fall over in the driveway, pinning them to the ground. Since I couldn't even imagine them sneaking out of the house, and riding the bike, which was forbidden, I had not placed padding in the driveway, nor installed bolt locks to keep them from leaving the back deck, and by the time I found them, my son (who had been watching TV upstairs) and the cats, it was too late to stand in the doorway. Did we have a plan to reach each other? Of course not, so it took me a while to reach our older daughter, my husband, and then hours to hear from our son at the epicenter.
All were well, but only because we were lucky. I had maybe better be buying stock in four leaf clovers. In my old age, I feel there is just too much coordinating to be done to be on top of catastrophes. It's exhausting just thinking about it. Besides, if I was all stocked up, the looters would probably take it from me in a nanosecond, and I absolutely refuse to carry weapons or defend my supplies. I'd have locked myself in the bathroom yelling "take what you want". I feel an absolute certainty that I am a coward. I'll cling to that truth. It's reassuring, because it tells me the effort on preparedness is wasted on the old.
These days the only dependents we are responsible for are the dogs. They don't need stockpiled dog food. They are labs, so they eat socks, rocks, acorns, green persimmons, paper from the wastebasket and other delicacies. They're survivors. I think we'll just wander the streets aimlessly, with the rest of our neighbors. They're all about our age, and the last disaster planning meeting was canceled and they never get the email notice to my right address, so I haven't a lot of confidence in them either. If you see a herd of elderly people with cats and dogs wandering in your area, don't worry, we're not out of Night of the Living Dead. We're just still trying to get our cell phones to work, and waiting for someone to come and get us organized.
The earth's crust seems pretty unstable without the scifi input, and I prefer to live with a certain amount of denial about the uncertainty of our existence and our lifestyle. Yeah, I should be prepared, but no one is ever really prepared for sudden changes. When the 89 earthquake hit, I was without supplies or even the ability to identify the gas meter, and couldn't find my daughter for a couple of panicky minutes. She turned out to be sitting on her dad's motorcycle with her little friend, pretending to be gang members. Miraculously, the bike didn't fall over in the driveway, pinning them to the ground. Since I couldn't even imagine them sneaking out of the house, and riding the bike, which was forbidden, I had not placed padding in the driveway, nor installed bolt locks to keep them from leaving the back deck, and by the time I found them, my son (who had been watching TV upstairs) and the cats, it was too late to stand in the doorway. Did we have a plan to reach each other? Of course not, so it took me a while to reach our older daughter, my husband, and then hours to hear from our son at the epicenter.
All were well, but only because we were lucky. I had maybe better be buying stock in four leaf clovers. In my old age, I feel there is just too much coordinating to be done to be on top of catastrophes. It's exhausting just thinking about it. Besides, if I was all stocked up, the looters would probably take it from me in a nanosecond, and I absolutely refuse to carry weapons or defend my supplies. I'd have locked myself in the bathroom yelling "take what you want". I feel an absolute certainty that I am a coward. I'll cling to that truth. It's reassuring, because it tells me the effort on preparedness is wasted on the old.
These days the only dependents we are responsible for are the dogs. They don't need stockpiled dog food. They are labs, so they eat socks, rocks, acorns, green persimmons, paper from the wastebasket and other delicacies. They're survivors. I think we'll just wander the streets aimlessly, with the rest of our neighbors. They're all about our age, and the last disaster planning meeting was canceled and they never get the email notice to my right address, so I haven't a lot of confidence in them either. If you see a herd of elderly people with cats and dogs wandering in your area, don't worry, we're not out of Night of the Living Dead. We're just still trying to get our cell phones to work, and waiting for someone to come and get us organized.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 3,2010
Ironically, the skills I rejected as a child are the skills I most appreciate now. My mother, having worked in a factory from the age of fifteen, and having no education (she left school at third grade), was glad to be a stay at home wife and mother. She sewed our clothes, including hats and coats, upholstered furniture, knitted us sweaters, made the curtains. I didn't appreciate any of it. I longed for store bought clothes. I can still see my parents, my brother and I shopping in a department store (must have been for shoes) and both parents looking inside garments at the seams, disgusted by the shabby quality. My mother taught me to knit, crochet, embroider, sew a zipper in a skirt.
I wanted to be like my Dad, who had the power, got to travel, gave speeches, and felt comfortable pontificating on all subjects. And I carry within me the ability to speak publicly, a gift for storytelling and a powerful judging voice (which I'm working on eradicating).
But what sustains me in my elder years is remembering the way, every day, my mother's invisible skills made each day more beautiful. Work made beauty, and she wasn't afraid to tackle anything in the arts arena. She painted in oils, did crewel work pictures, worked elaborate smocking into a robe for me. She made amazing dresses out of sari material, and arranged every room so that it was balanced and tranquil and beautiful. She created our home, which was filled with hand crafted quilts, painted bookshelves, and bedspreads with fringe.
Long before she died I had unconsciously taken up her traditions. Making Christmas ornaments, embroidering jeans jackets for my kids, making play clothes out of Mickey Mouse fabric, sewing pillows, curtains, quilting baby blankets. Did I thank her? No. She died when I was forty, and I hadn't quite grown up enough yet to appreciate her. I still didn't value what she did. I felt trivial when I spent my time on painting or collaging. I felt I should be reading or tackling work from my job.
But now I make a beeline for the textiles in a museum, have copied quilt designs from the Gee's Bend exhibit, will stand alone admiring painted teacups. Women's work, it seems to me now, is the heart work that keeps loving others from dying out, and her lack of employment is revealed for what it is: the constant, steady, sometimes back breaking work of women creating when and where they can out of what materials are available. If you look closely enough, a wealth of story is in those objects. For the rest of my life I intend to bear witness to these ordinary, extraordinary creators of functional beauty. Beauty that greets us in the morning, keeps us warm at night.
I wanted to be like my Dad, who had the power, got to travel, gave speeches, and felt comfortable pontificating on all subjects. And I carry within me the ability to speak publicly, a gift for storytelling and a powerful judging voice (which I'm working on eradicating).
But what sustains me in my elder years is remembering the way, every day, my mother's invisible skills made each day more beautiful. Work made beauty, and she wasn't afraid to tackle anything in the arts arena. She painted in oils, did crewel work pictures, worked elaborate smocking into a robe for me. She made amazing dresses out of sari material, and arranged every room so that it was balanced and tranquil and beautiful. She created our home, which was filled with hand crafted quilts, painted bookshelves, and bedspreads with fringe.
Long before she died I had unconsciously taken up her traditions. Making Christmas ornaments, embroidering jeans jackets for my kids, making play clothes out of Mickey Mouse fabric, sewing pillows, curtains, quilting baby blankets. Did I thank her? No. She died when I was forty, and I hadn't quite grown up enough yet to appreciate her. I still didn't value what she did. I felt trivial when I spent my time on painting or collaging. I felt I should be reading or tackling work from my job.
But now I make a beeline for the textiles in a museum, have copied quilt designs from the Gee's Bend exhibit, will stand alone admiring painted teacups. Women's work, it seems to me now, is the heart work that keeps loving others from dying out, and her lack of employment is revealed for what it is: the constant, steady, sometimes back breaking work of women creating when and where they can out of what materials are available. If you look closely enough, a wealth of story is in those objects. For the rest of my life I intend to bear witness to these ordinary, extraordinary creators of functional beauty. Beauty that greets us in the morning, keeps us warm at night.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 2, 2010
I have to go to the metaphysical bookstore today. It's urgent. No I don't have any premonition of eminent death, but I need to find a book for my next study group, and the Buddhist bookstore is defunct, and lots of my friends (the independent bookstores) have closed their eyes. Borders and Barnes are not deeply concerned with spirituality, unless it is a cult member renouncing his past or ten ways to become compassionate in ten minutes. Yes, I will probably have to order the book, but first I will try my dusty, dark and dingy local place. I am so old I actually like to linger over tables of books, and read the backflaps and listen to recommendations from the owners. I like to BE IN bookstores. As a child and young person, I lived in places where there were no bookstores and no libraries except for the school's, and it is not a pretty picture. I lived for two years in another country where there were zero bookstores, and the one library was stuffed with British colonial glorifications and a few gems. That was when I read the complete works of Dickens and Henry James as well as, I'm afraid, Ian Fleming and Nevil Shute.
So I consider bookstores like art museums. And by the way, I never miss the bookstore in an art museum. Wouldn't think of it. Luckily, a couple of our local indies are doing quite well, and I try to buy all the books I can at those places. But my kids wouldn't. And their kids will be reading kindles. So a bookstore tells me I am old, and it's up to me to treasure such a dying artifactal tomb. I love the old, out of print tables and the sections where I am in the dark about what to seek, and just have to feel the book to see if it's telling me anything.
I have a great bookstore seven houses from me, a mystery/scifi/fantasy place where you can barely squeeze in the front door, and books litter the floor, and the narrow isle with side pockets keeps going back and back and back. I half expect to see a black shrouded figure slipping behind a shelf. At the end there is a stairs to the loft, stuffed with more epistles and a delightful selection of children's books. I've been known to go in and forget to come out. I have my authors I seek, but love most the front section, where new paperbacks and some hardbacks are easily perused without stumbling, and I can risk it all to try a new author. And on a weeknight once a month, you can come to a mystery reading group and have complete strangers recommend something you'd never otherwise know about. Yes, some of the chains have book groups, but they are reading what the publishers have placed in the store, not what is glorious and strange and magical. Yes, eventually Murakami became mainstream, but not Natalie Nocomb. So much will be lost. Or maybe not. I sound gruzzly.
Next time you're in an independent bookstore, notice us geezers, we are legion, and we don't want our sanctuaries exterminated.
So I consider bookstores like art museums. And by the way, I never miss the bookstore in an art museum. Wouldn't think of it. Luckily, a couple of our local indies are doing quite well, and I try to buy all the books I can at those places. But my kids wouldn't. And their kids will be reading kindles. So a bookstore tells me I am old, and it's up to me to treasure such a dying artifactal tomb. I love the old, out of print tables and the sections where I am in the dark about what to seek, and just have to feel the book to see if it's telling me anything.
I have a great bookstore seven houses from me, a mystery/scifi/fantasy place where you can barely squeeze in the front door, and books litter the floor, and the narrow isle with side pockets keeps going back and back and back. I half expect to see a black shrouded figure slipping behind a shelf. At the end there is a stairs to the loft, stuffed with more epistles and a delightful selection of children's books. I've been known to go in and forget to come out. I have my authors I seek, but love most the front section, where new paperbacks and some hardbacks are easily perused without stumbling, and I can risk it all to try a new author. And on a weeknight once a month, you can come to a mystery reading group and have complete strangers recommend something you'd never otherwise know about. Yes, some of the chains have book groups, but they are reading what the publishers have placed in the store, not what is glorious and strange and magical. Yes, eventually Murakami became mainstream, but not Natalie Nocomb. So much will be lost. Or maybe not. I sound gruzzly.
Next time you're in an independent bookstore, notice us geezers, we are legion, and we don't want our sanctuaries exterminated.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Old Age Day by Day March 1, 2010
So last night I got carded! I'm 64, so I can only assume that the darkness (this was a club) and my shortness and my glasses (the pink ones with tortoise shell) disguised my advanced state of decay. My younger daughter had gotten us tickets to see a preview of a new indie documentary about Stephen Merritt and Magnetic Fields. Thus I found myself with a herd of callow youth, and loving every minute. My older daughter discovered Magnetic Fields and she passed it on to my younger son, and a few years ago he said, "Mom, I think you'd like them" and helped me pick out 69 Love Songs. It was love at first listen. I don't care how old I am, you're never too old to have crushes and fall in love with bands and songs. It's too much fun. The film was terrific, and two of my favorite songs were part of the film - Papa Was a Rodeo and The Book of Love. I know all the words to these two songs and a few more, and try to harmonize while I listen at home. I use my bass voice as Merritt's voice is so low. Merritt's take on love is ironic and deadpan. But it's really wise, as well. He's a sharp lyricist, and since I admire words, the music really delights.
This irresponsible behavior in me began long ago. As a preteen I was part of a local Elvis Presley fan club, and we made up cheers about him. I screamed standing on my seat to Chuck Berry and the Elverly Brothers in a Richmond, Virginia auditorium when I was in my early teens. I mourned Buddy Holly. I read fan magazines and wrote letters. My life was a one blank after another between sock hops. A few years ago my best friend from those years sent me a note she'd found in a trunk. One of those notes that got me poor citizenship marks on my report card. It made me realize I was one silly, trivial girl, and I waited to see if she was going to threaten blackmail, but I guess she thought it hopeless at this late date. I did have some deep thoughts, but sparingly, between gossiping and mooning over boys. Given the huge rollers my hair was pinned in at night, it's amazing my brain could do any activity. It must have been yelling in pain continuously.
Music makes the world bearable, and the surest way to a hit of joy is to turn on a song you love (the volume must be quite high) and sing along. I don't intend to ever give this practice up.
This irresponsible behavior in me began long ago. As a preteen I was part of a local Elvis Presley fan club, and we made up cheers about him. I screamed standing on my seat to Chuck Berry and the Elverly Brothers in a Richmond, Virginia auditorium when I was in my early teens. I mourned Buddy Holly. I read fan magazines and wrote letters. My life was a one blank after another between sock hops. A few years ago my best friend from those years sent me a note she'd found in a trunk. One of those notes that got me poor citizenship marks on my report card. It made me realize I was one silly, trivial girl, and I waited to see if she was going to threaten blackmail, but I guess she thought it hopeless at this late date. I did have some deep thoughts, but sparingly, between gossiping and mooning over boys. Given the huge rollers my hair was pinned in at night, it's amazing my brain could do any activity. It must have been yelling in pain continuously.
Music makes the world bearable, and the surest way to a hit of joy is to turn on a song you love (the volume must be quite high) and sing along. I don't intend to ever give this practice up.
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