Guest post: "I'll get you, my pretty...."

I am happy to share the following, oh-so-pertinent guest post from Deb (see also "Life is a highway," May 3):

I looked in the mirror and I realized my face was ‘melting.' The skin was sagging at the jaw line, pooling at the base of my throat, and slipping determinedly south. Like a candle stored in an over warm room, my ‘wax’ is redistributing itself.

A 50-something cannot say “I’m melting” without flashing to the crone crumpled at the feet of Youth in red shoes and blue gingham. The witch eventually disappears, leaving a pile of loose fitting clothes and a bad hat.

I confess that sometimes I feel like I really am melting. Having shed considerable light and warmth over the years, I feel smaller. As I move within society, I move without expectation or recognition. I’m a small flicker in a halogen world. Those are the bad days, and most days are good.

The more I thought about it, the more I realize that I am not melting as much as I am breaking a mold. I no longer require the constructs that served me well in my 30’s and 40’s. I am re-forming into someone who is well rounded and softer. Sure, I have bumps and drips where I was once smooth and tapered. But now my form is unique, a result of the forces that have acted upon it. What I have given off defines me, and my new shape reflects that.

I am not ready to disappear. Perhaps my brightest days are ahead of me. I can still be the candle that keeps someone from stumbling in the darkness. I can’t always light up a room. But let’s face it; everything looks beautiful in candle light.

Old dog

HECK! said the rebel

I miss Allan Sherman. "Seltzer Boy" was always my favorite, but today Xingu and I listened to "The Rebel" several times.

HECK! said the President.

From M.D. to sex kitten

What happened to Chistiane Northrup, M.D., to make her think she had to cut herself, dye and straighten her hair, and tart herself up to try to look 20 years younger? Wasn't this the smart doctor who wrote in her first book about the "toxic" nature of western medicine and all those nasty toxic messages we receive as American women? Yet by the time she wrote The Wisdom of Menopause, she can say with a straight [heh] face:

It seems to me that it is almost impossible to go through the normal process of facial aging in this culture and not wish that something could be done about certain parts of your face, especially the eyelids and jawline. If you're one of the lucky ones who really aren't at all bothered by sagging eyelids or jowls, bless you [you dumb shit]. If, however, you want an appearance-enhancing face-lift, eyelid surgery, skin peel, liposuction, laser surgery, or other cosmetic polishing of your exterior, then bless you, too. Through the years I've referred many patients for various plastic surgery or dermatological procedures. Just about 100 percent of them have been thrilled with the results.

And there you have it. I guess she thought nobody would buy her products (Team Northrup, anyone?) if she looked old. That's real wisdom.

A Mary Lou kind of day

I cooked three meals on my new panini press. I went to church long enough to sing the choir anthem and play the tambourine, and then I left. On my way home I stopped at Linder's Garden Center, which was giving 15% of my purchase to Xingu's school so I could of course crookedly justify spending more than I should have. I came home, saw Xingu off with a friend and Krang off to some bicycle-related errands, and then I spent hours in the sun -- working on my front border and pruning the bejesus out of my failing forsythia.

Some differences from Mary Lou: (1) I was alone. Mom always had a couple of kids around when she was outside, which was damn near all the time. (2) I was wearing sunscreen. My mother never, ever wore sun protection apart from the occasional goofy hat, and after spending two-thirds of her life in Arizona she was spectacularly wrinkled. Sixty years of smoking helped on that score as well. (3) I was listening to my iPod (The Yeomen of the Guard, Bach B-minor mass, Tommy Quasthoff's jazz album, my Stafford Dean play list).

It was sunny, clear and cool today -- the sort of day we almost never had in Arizona. Our old dog Gromit was near me, always in the sun, while I was out. I dug dandelions, trimmed grass with hand trimmers, uprooted tiny trees, planted a new variety of heat-tolerant (there's one born every minute, isn't there) lobelia, fretted over the tiny red insects that have already started in on the salvia. Nothing in the border is blooming; shall I use the poison? shall I?

The lilacs are post-peak but still fragrant. Mom visited several years at Mother's Day, and usually the lilacs were just opening when she was here. It makes me sad that she never met Krang and never knew Xingu; she would have adored both of them.

In 2000, at age 40, with my mother newly dead and divorce proceedings underway, I had to face the likelihood that I would not, after all, get to be a mother. And yet I was not ready to accept it, and I looked for loopholes, strategies and signs. I told myself that if the forsythia bloomed that year, it would be a sign from my mother -- whose favorite color was yellow -- that I would, indeed, have a child.

And it did, and I did, and tonight I'm raising a glass of prosecco (okay, maybe four or five; it's not bourbon, so that's another departure from Mary Lou style) to my mother, and to Krang's mother, and to Momo -- the recently departed mother of my sister in law -- and to the generations of women in these our families who have dug in the dirt and gotten too much sun and told the same stories over and over again and loved their children beyond all measure.

Mother's Day appliance

My mom didn't believe in Mother's Day. Her children always observed it in some way, but she claimed she didn't care if we did or not because it was an entirely bogus holiday. She used the word "bogus" often, in a big voice with well-supported tone, before it became as popular as it is today. Another of her favorites along these lines was a contemptuous, "It is to laugh."

I understand her feelings, now that I'm a mother. The first Mother's Day I qualified to be feted, seven years ago, I worked it for all I was worth. It had been a rough few months after all, I was trying to nurse a tiny infant who would rather sleep, I was up in the wee hours mooing at a breast pump -- is there any less dignfied thing to do to oneself? -- and so on Mother's Day 2003 I stayed in bed and enjoyed the novelty of it. Me, 43 years old, a mother.

After that, though, it's been downhill all the way. I felt and feel much as my own mother did about this guilt-inducing, ludicrous excuse to go to Target and support the local florist. I have instructed Krang and Xingu to leave off, already. I want to be treated like a queen every damn day of the year, and I don't need any bogus displays of affection or appreciation on that particular Sunday.

What I need is a panini press. A Cuisinart GR-4, to be exact, with interchangeable non-stick plates and an integrated drip cup. I had a vast array of delicious sandwiches in Venetian bars earlier this year (when I wasn't eating squid), many washed down with a sparkling prosecco, and I want to recreate un po' of that magic in my own hovel. So I started asking for the panini press about Valentine's Day, after I had tried out the one my friends Bonnie and Phil own.



I researched the best deal. I emailed Krang all the information, and he went on Amazon and ordered it using my account and credit card number. Which was invalid. So I went back on Amazon and gave them a new credit card number. "My" order shipped, and a big box addressed to me arrived the very next day. I will wait until Sunday to see what kind of show the boys make, but I'll tell you this: it will be my most meaningful Mother's Day since 2003.

Happy birthday to my big brother

His name is Gary. He's half Dutch, although it looks a little closer to 100% in this piece, entitled "Self Portrait With 100-Thread-Count Hat."

Guest post: Life is a highway

I am delighted to share this sweet essay by my friend Deb (who is also 50):

Shortly before I turned 50, my son turned 16. The irony was not lost on me. As I sit at a crossroads, contemplating the roads taken and not taken, my son plans his exodus into the wide world. As I yearn for the back roads and byways, he seeks the route that will jettison him quickly to the next destination point. As I move increasingly toward the slow lane, he is merging into the express lane.

We’ve logged a lot of miles together. The mile markers, the detours, the bumps in the road were part of a larger journey where I was the driver and he was the (mostly) willing passenger. When he was small, we sang Disney tunes and shared fruit snacks.

As he got older, we discussed current events (his), life lessons (mine), and traded thoughts on religion and philosophy in the relative safety of the car. Increasingly, his preferences dictated our background music. The soft rock station was replaced by Miles Davis, the Who, and Beethoven—sometimes all in the same trip.

My required stops were eclipsed by a whirlwind of practices and social obligations completely unrelated to me. Currently, we work driving practice into an already packed schedule. I went from driver to chauffer to instructor. One day I realized that quite literally, I was becoming the passenger in my son’s life. Soon he will be on his own.

As I slide into the passenger seat, I have to come to terms with a few things. My son has good reflexes. He has good judgment. He will gain experience and confidence as he gains seat time. There will be worries and sleepless nights. Is he safe enough? Can he anticipate the dangers as he travels down life’s highway?

Mostly, I will miss the time we spent together in the car. I hope he will report back on his adventures—what he has seen and where he has traveled. I know too, that someday the tables will turn. I will be the one being driven to my appointments and obligations. Perhaps we will sing a few Disney tunes. The Who would be okay too.