Mr. Lucky came in from walking the dogs and said we had a New Neighbor, a chatty woman moving into a house down the street. He didn’t even have to inquire, “Is there a Mr. New Neighbor?” She eagerly volunteered the fact that she was divorced, and he was bewildered by her alacrity in doing so.
I had a ready explanation for that. “She’s letting you know she’s available. Remember what happened the last time some woman told you she was available? It was only twenty-one years, three kids, and two mortgages ago.” He, for his part, never got around to telling Ms. New Neighbor he was already leg-shackled; he’s not one to offer his CV to every stranger he meets.
I explained how she must have assumed he’s a lonely bachelor with no one for love and companionship except two beagles. He never wears his wedding ring because he keeps losing it, so there’s no telltale tan line on his finger. The ring is safe in my jewelry box, and lest any of you scandalmongers out there think he keeps losing it because of some subconscious desire to be a bachelor again, remind me to blog someday about Mr. Lucky’s penchant for losing (or “misplacing” as he likes to sugarcoat it) anything of value. He doesn’t even own a watch for this very reason, but I digress. Ms. New Neighbor will learn the ghastly truth soon enough.
But I confess I’m just as perplexed, and even alarmed by women—like my own mother—who volunteer such personal information to strangers.
My parents divorced when I was sixteen. About a week after the divorce was final, the water heater sprang a leak, and my mother called a repairman who’d never been to the house before. This stranger had barely reached the bottom of the basement stairs when Mother—a notorious extrovert—told him she was recently divorced.
Now what in the name of Marvin Mitchelson did that have to do with the leaky water heater? I couldn’t have been more shocked than if she’d turned to me and my siblings and said, “Kids, say hello to your new stepdaddy!” (Which, thank heavens, never happened.) Even more baffling, over the previous year our parents’ divorce was The Big Secret: We weren’t allowed to say a peep about it to anyone, not even the grandparents—who I remain convinced to this day were the last people on the planet to know. And now here she was singing the whole opera to some strange man in our basement!
During that same time period, I’d just received my driver’s license and was very interested in buying a car. Scanning the classified ads, I noticed many of those placed by women included the word divorce. They had to sell the cars because they were going through a divorce. I didn’t understand—and still don’t—why any woman would include that information, unless she was also on the prowl for a new guy. Ads were sold by the word, so mentioning a divorce had to cost extra money. Maybe trumpeting her new availability while hawking the used car saved money on buying a separate ad under the personals. Still, there must be a better, safer way to meet a new Prince Charming.
Call me paranoid (it won’t be the first time), but there are lots of wackos out there, and for all Ms. New Neighbor or even my mother knew, Mr. Lucky and the water heater repairman could have been Exhibits A and B.
To his credit, Mr. Lucky didn’t come away from this encounter with the smug feeling he’s “still got it.” He said she was about my age, but he thinks I look younger and better.
Sounds like someone wants cake and ice cream for dessert!
Friday, February 27, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
I Got My Chocolate, So What More Do I Want?
Every year, around the first of February, Mr. Lucky points out that Valentine’s Day is coming up. “What do you want?” he always asks.
And my response is always, “A big heart-shaped box of chocolate—that I can have all to myself!”
I have to add those last seven words, or he’ll break into the box before I do and devour two-thirds of the contents before leaving the rest for me. Usually he’ll buy an extra box for himself.
Then last Thursday, Mr. Lucky and I got into a terrible, screaming argument, so awful that we didn’t speak to each other for nearly a week. Depending on whose side you’re on, the fight was either about my total lack of patience or his failure to show up at the time I specified.
Suffice it to say I’m a stickler for punctuality, while outside of work he basks in his very own time zone. This has been a never ending source of conflict during twenty-one years of marriage, more than the sex, money, or dirty socks touted by the women’s magazines. I doubt we will ever find common ground on this issue. It wasn’t the first skirmish in this volatile territory, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
But the timing of this particular fight—only two days before Valentine’s Day—left me with the cold, sickening realization that I’d probably just screwed myself out of any goodies the following Saturday.
O me of little faith! After he left for work early Saturday morning, I got out of bed and went into the kitchen to find a heart-shaped box of chocolates sitting on the counter. It was very plain, with no lace or bows or plastic roses. At least it wasn’t the one I’d seen at Walgreens earlier in the week, that boasted a sepia picture of a scowling old grouch with the snarling inscription, “Here are your chocolates—what more do you want?”
Mr. Lucky left no note with the chocolates. No mushy card. No teddy bear. No flowers. No balloons. No jewelry. No faux Faberge eggs. No fishing tackle, golf clubs, or the Bowflex Ultimate X-Treme Deluxe Digital Family Gym for Home, Office, or Still in Its Original Box Under the Bed. (“Fine, Karen. If you don’t want them, then I can always find a use for them.”) And—thank heavens—no weird lingerie for me to string and lace and hook around my body. It’s not that I have anything against sexy lingerie. I just happen to know other, more dignified ways to make him fall to the floor laughing.
One of my TARA sisters, upon hearing the gorier details of this sordid tale, said I should have told him where to put the chocolates.
Good advice and very tempting, but in the end (ahem) I couldn’t do it. For one thing, if I didn’t eat them—HE would have! And he wouldn’t have felt the least bit guilty about it, either. Why, he would have considered himself the victor then and there. For all I know, he was even hoping I would reject the chocolates, just so he could have them all to himself.
And for another thing, I can’t possibly turn my back on chocolate. Not on any principle or for any cause. Besides, I’d earned them. So I ate them.
The important thing is we’re speaking again—oh, and that I still got the chocolate.
And my response is always, “A big heart-shaped box of chocolate—that I can have all to myself!”
I have to add those last seven words, or he’ll break into the box before I do and devour two-thirds of the contents before leaving the rest for me. Usually he’ll buy an extra box for himself.
Then last Thursday, Mr. Lucky and I got into a terrible, screaming argument, so awful that we didn’t speak to each other for nearly a week. Depending on whose side you’re on, the fight was either about my total lack of patience or his failure to show up at the time I specified.
Suffice it to say I’m a stickler for punctuality, while outside of work he basks in his very own time zone. This has been a never ending source of conflict during twenty-one years of marriage, more than the sex, money, or dirty socks touted by the women’s magazines. I doubt we will ever find common ground on this issue. It wasn’t the first skirmish in this volatile territory, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
But the timing of this particular fight—only two days before Valentine’s Day—left me with the cold, sickening realization that I’d probably just screwed myself out of any goodies the following Saturday.
O me of little faith! After he left for work early Saturday morning, I got out of bed and went into the kitchen to find a heart-shaped box of chocolates sitting on the counter. It was very plain, with no lace or bows or plastic roses. At least it wasn’t the one I’d seen at Walgreens earlier in the week, that boasted a sepia picture of a scowling old grouch with the snarling inscription, “Here are your chocolates—what more do you want?”
Mr. Lucky left no note with the chocolates. No mushy card. No teddy bear. No flowers. No balloons. No jewelry. No faux Faberge eggs. No fishing tackle, golf clubs, or the Bowflex Ultimate X-Treme Deluxe Digital Family Gym for Home, Office, or Still in Its Original Box Under the Bed. (“Fine, Karen. If you don’t want them, then I can always find a use for them.”) And—thank heavens—no weird lingerie for me to string and lace and hook around my body. It’s not that I have anything against sexy lingerie. I just happen to know other, more dignified ways to make him fall to the floor laughing.
One of my TARA sisters, upon hearing the gorier details of this sordid tale, said I should have told him where to put the chocolates.
Good advice and very tempting, but in the end (ahem) I couldn’t do it. For one thing, if I didn’t eat them—HE would have! And he wouldn’t have felt the least bit guilty about it, either. Why, he would have considered himself the victor then and there. For all I know, he was even hoping I would reject the chocolates, just so he could have them all to himself.
And for another thing, I can’t possibly turn my back on chocolate. Not on any principle or for any cause. Besides, I’d earned them. So I ate them.
The important thing is we’re speaking again—oh, and that I still got the chocolate.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
What My Candy Heart Says
Your Candy Heart Says "Hug Me" |
 A total sweetheart, you always have a lot of love to give out. Your heart is open to where ever love takes you! Your ideal Valentine's Day date: a surprise romantic evening that you've planned out Your flirting style: lots of listening and talking What turns you off: fighting and conflict Why you're hot: you're fearless about falling in love |
Friday, February 6, 2009
When Dogs Attack Window Blinds
When Mr. Lucky and I came home from shopping yesterday, this was what we saw in our front window:
This was obviously the work of our beagles, who attack the blinds in this way only when a stranger comes to the door.
We don't know how many times the stranger rang the bell, but it wasn't the postman, as no packages were left behind, nor did we find any notices in the mailbox.
It wasn't one of those people who hang advertisements on the doorknob, because nothing hung there, nor did anything hang from the neighbors' doorknobs.
Most likely it was one of those pesky salespeople who thought the better of leaving his or her card for fear I'd track them down and make them pay for new blinds. Especially since I probably won't be kindly disposed toward buying their vacuum cleaner with 64 attachments, all of which will end up at the bottom of Baby Bear's toybox.
It may even have been that red-headed woman from some carpet cleaning company who shows up every few months, asking which room of our house gets the most traffic. I keep telling her "the whole house" but she insists I pick a room and she'll clean it for free--after which I should be so amazed by the results that I simply can't let her leave the premises until I sign a contract agreeing to let her do the rest of the house for as much as we're paying on the mortgage.
I took both these photos. The first one is crooked because--well, sheesh! YOU try finding a picture in that LCD screen when the sun is glaring directly behind you! Mr. Lucky might have done better with it, since he's a photographer by profession, but alas, he tends to take after the cobbler with the barefoot children.
By the same token, I didn't think the interior shot was much better. He told me afterward that I should have used a flash (I thought I did); still, the artistic side of him said he liked this shot because of what he called the play of light (call me an Impressionist photographer) spilling through the blinds:
Mind you, we used to keep these blinds raised above the six bottom panes for the sole purpose of allowing the dogs to bark at passers-by and callers without destroying them (the blinds, not the callers). But recently the cord broke and we could no longer raise them.
The dogs left these in such a tangled mess of destruction that Mr. Lucky took scissors and cut off the bottom half of the blinds.
"But now I can't lower the blinds when it gets dark out," I told him. "And I won't be able to sit in my reading chair in the evenings, unless you don't mind people looking through the window at my legs."
"Put on those fishnet stockings I gave you for your birthday, and wear a lampshade," he suggested.
In his dreams and my nightmares. My plan is to replace the sheer curtains--which are more decorative than functional--with more opaque ones.
The same goes for those fishnet stockings.
This was obviously the work of our beagles, who attack the blinds in this way only when a stranger comes to the door. We don't know how many times the stranger rang the bell, but it wasn't the postman, as no packages were left behind, nor did we find any notices in the mailbox.
It wasn't one of those people who hang advertisements on the doorknob, because nothing hung there, nor did anything hang from the neighbors' doorknobs.
Most likely it was one of those pesky salespeople who thought the better of leaving his or her card for fear I'd track them down and make them pay for new blinds. Especially since I probably won't be kindly disposed toward buying their vacuum cleaner with 64 attachments, all of which will end up at the bottom of Baby Bear's toybox.
It may even have been that red-headed woman from some carpet cleaning company who shows up every few months, asking which room of our house gets the most traffic. I keep telling her "the whole house" but she insists I pick a room and she'll clean it for free--after which I should be so amazed by the results that I simply can't let her leave the premises until I sign a contract agreeing to let her do the rest of the house for as much as we're paying on the mortgage.
I took both these photos. The first one is crooked because--well, sheesh! YOU try finding a picture in that LCD screen when the sun is glaring directly behind you! Mr. Lucky might have done better with it, since he's a photographer by profession, but alas, he tends to take after the cobbler with the barefoot children.
By the same token, I didn't think the interior shot was much better. He told me afterward that I should have used a flash (I thought I did); still, the artistic side of him said he liked this shot because of what he called the play of light (call me an Impressionist photographer) spilling through the blinds:
Mind you, we used to keep these blinds raised above the six bottom panes for the sole purpose of allowing the dogs to bark at passers-by and callers without destroying them (the blinds, not the callers). But recently the cord broke and we could no longer raise them.
The dogs left these in such a tangled mess of destruction that Mr. Lucky took scissors and cut off the bottom half of the blinds.
"But now I can't lower the blinds when it gets dark out," I told him. "And I won't be able to sit in my reading chair in the evenings, unless you don't mind people looking through the window at my legs."
"Put on those fishnet stockings I gave you for your birthday, and wear a lampshade," he suggested.
In his dreams and my nightmares. My plan is to replace the sheer curtains--which are more decorative than functional--with more opaque ones.
The same goes for those fishnet stockings.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
I Don't Mind the Snow, Except . . .
Georgiana usually liked the snow.
She liked how the snowflakes fluttered like bits of lace torn from the gowns of angels amid an odd hush, as if the snow were a thick white blanket muffling the world’s noises.
She liked the way the snow shone through the windows at midday, lighting up the room brighter than any chandelier. And she especially liked it when the sun came out and set the snow all aglitter, sparkling like a frosty fairyland of diamonds.
The above is an excerpt from one of my unpublished Regency historicals. Like Georgiana, those are things I like about the snow. And I like it as long as I don’t have to be in a car, whether as driver or passenger. I also like it as long as the power doesn’t go out. That’s where my heroine and I part company. Georgiana didn’t have electricity, but she still liked the snow—usually.
When I turn on the news in the evening and see what the snow is doing to other parts of the country, I’m glad to live in Florida. I’m glad I don’t have to bundle up Baby Bear like Mrs. Parker did to Randy in A Christmas Story, then worry that he’s going to take everything off once he’s outside. And I’m glad I don’t have to nag Mr. Lucky to shovel the front walk or get the snow tires put on before the first flurries fly.
I have a hang-up about the latter. I grew up in Washington State, where my father owned a service station in my hometown—this was back in the days before they morphed into self-service pumps and convenience stores. At the first flutter of a snowflake, everyone in town would mob my father’s business, wanting their snow tires put on that very day.
I learned from that. After I grew up and was on my own, I never wanted to be caught in the snow without the snow tires on and the engine winterized. When I was in the Air Force stationed at Fairchild Air Force Base in Spokane, WA, I took my Chevy in to be winterized the first weekend of November, even though there was still no sign of snow, because I wanted to avoid the rush. Indeed, the manager told me that on the first snowfall the previous winter, they were so swamped with customers wanting their snow tires mounted that same day, that the employees didn’t even realize there were local news cameras present, making a story out of the chaos. They didn't know till they went home that night and saw themselves on TV.
I was reminiscing about this the other day when Mr. Lucky looked at me funny and said, “Snow tires?”
Except for the three years he spent in Germany while in the Air Force, my husband has never lived anywhere above 40 degrees latitude north. Apparently he knows about chains, but not snow tires. And that’s not all: I learned the first winter of our marriage (in Germany) that he knew next to nothing about scraping ice off a windshield.
I've made up a lot of stuff about Georgiana, but I swear to you, I am not making this up about Mr. Lucky.
He didn’t scrape--he chipped, one flake of frost at a time. Maybe he thought the scraper would scratch the windshield. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and had never been so annoyed with him before. “For crying out loud, it’s not an ice chipper,” I told him. “It’s an ice scraper. GIMME THAT!” I could scrape the ice off every window of the car in less than three minutes; he was going to take three hours just for the driver’s side of the windshield. But he wouldn’t let me have the scraper. He insisted on doing it in his own way, and ordered me to sit in the car and wait. And sit. And wait. And seethe. And—I popped out of the car again and tackled him. “Give that to me and let me do it!”
Honestly. The way he was doing it, why even bother? Why didn’t we just wait for spring to come and melt everything away? I finally managed to wrest the ice scraper away from him, and I showed him the Northern way of doing it. (I may also have told him this was another reason the South lost, because you can't scrape an icy windshield with cotton and a lot of arrogance--just ask Rhett Butler.)
Mr. Lucky's explanation today for not wanting to let me have the scraper? “It’s a man thing.”
And like my heroine, there’s one last thing I don’t like about the snow:
But Georgiana didn’t like it when it kept people from venturing out of doors. Especially when three days went by before Anthony came calling again. The snow that had fallen upon his first visit had turned into lumpy, grayish-brown slush that reminded her of a bad batch of mashed turnips.
I don’t miss the slush, either.
She liked how the snowflakes fluttered like bits of lace torn from the gowns of angels amid an odd hush, as if the snow were a thick white blanket muffling the world’s noises.
She liked the way the snow shone through the windows at midday, lighting up the room brighter than any chandelier. And she especially liked it when the sun came out and set the snow all aglitter, sparkling like a frosty fairyland of diamonds.
The above is an excerpt from one of my unpublished Regency historicals. Like Georgiana, those are things I like about the snow. And I like it as long as I don’t have to be in a car, whether as driver or passenger. I also like it as long as the power doesn’t go out. That’s where my heroine and I part company. Georgiana didn’t have electricity, but she still liked the snow—usually.
When I turn on the news in the evening and see what the snow is doing to other parts of the country, I’m glad to live in Florida. I’m glad I don’t have to bundle up Baby Bear like Mrs. Parker did to Randy in A Christmas Story, then worry that he’s going to take everything off once he’s outside. And I’m glad I don’t have to nag Mr. Lucky to shovel the front walk or get the snow tires put on before the first flurries fly.
I have a hang-up about the latter. I grew up in Washington State, where my father owned a service station in my hometown—this was back in the days before they morphed into self-service pumps and convenience stores. At the first flutter of a snowflake, everyone in town would mob my father’s business, wanting their snow tires put on that very day.
I learned from that. After I grew up and was on my own, I never wanted to be caught in the snow without the snow tires on and the engine winterized. When I was in the Air Force stationed at Fairchild Air Force Base in Spokane, WA, I took my Chevy in to be winterized the first weekend of November, even though there was still no sign of snow, because I wanted to avoid the rush. Indeed, the manager told me that on the first snowfall the previous winter, they were so swamped with customers wanting their snow tires mounted that same day, that the employees didn’t even realize there were local news cameras present, making a story out of the chaos. They didn't know till they went home that night and saw themselves on TV.
I was reminiscing about this the other day when Mr. Lucky looked at me funny and said, “Snow tires?”
Except for the three years he spent in Germany while in the Air Force, my husband has never lived anywhere above 40 degrees latitude north. Apparently he knows about chains, but not snow tires. And that’s not all: I learned the first winter of our marriage (in Germany) that he knew next to nothing about scraping ice off a windshield.
I've made up a lot of stuff about Georgiana, but I swear to you, I am not making this up about Mr. Lucky.
He didn’t scrape--he chipped, one flake of frost at a time. Maybe he thought the scraper would scratch the windshield. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and had never been so annoyed with him before. “For crying out loud, it’s not an ice chipper,” I told him. “It’s an ice scraper. GIMME THAT!” I could scrape the ice off every window of the car in less than three minutes; he was going to take three hours just for the driver’s side of the windshield. But he wouldn’t let me have the scraper. He insisted on doing it in his own way, and ordered me to sit in the car and wait. And sit. And wait. And seethe. And—I popped out of the car again and tackled him. “Give that to me and let me do it!”
Honestly. The way he was doing it, why even bother? Why didn’t we just wait for spring to come and melt everything away? I finally managed to wrest the ice scraper away from him, and I showed him the Northern way of doing it. (I may also have told him this was another reason the South lost, because you can't scrape an icy windshield with cotton and a lot of arrogance--just ask Rhett Butler.)
Mr. Lucky's explanation today for not wanting to let me have the scraper? “It’s a man thing.”
And like my heroine, there’s one last thing I don’t like about the snow:
But Georgiana didn’t like it when it kept people from venturing out of doors. Especially when three days went by before Anthony came calling again. The snow that had fallen upon his first visit had turned into lumpy, grayish-brown slush that reminded her of a bad batch of mashed turnips.
I don’t miss the slush, either.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Look Up and You'll See Ursa Major--In My Kitchen
I was standing in the kitchen with eleven-year-old Baby Bear the other day, when Mr. Lucky, sitting in the family room, looked our way and said, “Karen. That kid is as tall as you. Maybe taller.”
No way. I glanced at Baby Bear in disbelief. Darned if his eyes weren’t level with mine.
No way. I glanced at Baby Bear in disbelief. Darned if his eyes weren’t level with mine.
There was only one way to make myself feel better about this colossal development. “If he’s as tall as me,” I said to Mr. Lucky, “then he’s also as tall as you.”
“No!” he bellowed.
“Oh yes,” I assured him. “In fact, to quote you . . . maybe taller.”
“NO-OH!”
My husband and I—and now our youngest son—are all 5 feet, 11 inches tall. Our firstborn was only about 5’7” at this age, and today, at age 20, he’s 6’5”. Who knows what heights the Bear will hit. Yes, we are scared yet.
I don’t seem to realize day to day how tall Baby Bear is, even when I see him next to his father. On the other hand, when we attended the holiday program at his school last month and spotted him among a large group of people (who am I kidding, it was hard to miss him), I found myself amazed by how huge he was. Not only was he the tallest student, but he towered over many of the adults.
But once we got home, I couldn’t see the goliath, even though his height matched mine. All I saw was my Baby Bear, who still snuggles up to me, but can no longer sit on my lap.
My Ursa Minor has been promoted to a Major. Maybe I should start calling him the Big Dipper. (You should see him plunge his hand into a bowl to scoop out a fistful of popcorn.)
He no longer looks up at me. It won’t be long before I’ll have to look up at him.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Um . . . This IS Florida, Isn't It?
I live in Florida, where this morning it was 32 degrees . . . Fahrenheit. And I don't believe that even took into account the wind chill factor.
Last night we had our first freeze warning of the season, so I tried to cover our hibiscus plants. We have one hibiscus tree next to the front walk that blooms ruffled, multi-colored blossoms, and two bushes at the corner of the house with huge, red and yellow flowers. A year ago I used old twin sized sheets with cartoon characters from Baby Bear’s bed to cover these plants, but no matter what I did to secure them, the wind blew them off. Fortunately the bushes came through with those flying colors of red and yellow, but the tree has struggled since last year’s freeze, and Mr. Lucky talks of replacing it with something else, though he hasn’t decided what.
The bushes, in fact, have grown and thrived so well in the past year, that last night I had to pull out the floral print king-sized sheets in hopes of covering them. But that blasted, biting wind blew the sheets off even as I tried to drape them over the hibiscus.
Mr. Lucky told me to forget about it. No doubt he wants to replace those bushes, too, just on general principle. He loves changing and replacing things just on general principle. Heaven help me if he ever thinks of replacing me.
(On the other hand, heaven help the replacement who thinks she can deal with him and Baby Bear!)
The hibiscus bushes survived the night again, none the worse for wear, but what about tonight? The weather guy said something about a “hard freeze” warning, as opposed to the mere freeze warning we had last night.
In the meantime, on MLK day, we took Baby Bear to Apollo Beach, along Tampa Bay. We were all bundled up in long pants and zipped up jackets, and I found myself wishing for one of my old knitted, hooded scarves I wore two decades ago in Germany, to wrap around my head, but they’re buried in a trunk somewhere out in the garage.
There was neither a Speedo nor a thong in sight on that beach. Aliens landing their spacecraft on one of the dunes wouldn’t have guessed it was the balmy Sunshine State, and surmised there was something screwy with their navigational system. I was reminded of the old Bugs Bunny cartoon where he burrows out of the ground in his swimsuit shrieking, “Miami Beach at last!” only to realize moments later he’s above the Arctic Circle, and probably should’ve taken that left turn at Albuquerque. Indeed, everyone at this beach was bundled up as if on a polar expedition.
And they weren’t all locals, either. One lady stood at the water’s edge repeatedly proclaiming to her husband, “That must be St. Petersburg over there. St. Petersburg is the one with the dome. Tampa doesn’t have a dome.”
Definitely from out of town; in fact, I would wager from out of state.
Yes, it was a clear day and sweeping our gaze from right to left, we could see the skyscrapers of Tampa; MacDill Air Force Base where Mr. Lucky served his final years in the military; the city of St. Petersburg with the distinctive dome of Tropicana Field; and farther on the horizon, the Sunshine Skyway Bridge.
Baby Bear loved running the length of the beach. Fortunately, he showed no interest in plunging headlong into the water, which was a concern of mine when Mr. Lucky suggested we visit the beach.
Perhaps even our Bear knows when it’s too cold.
Last night we had our first freeze warning of the season, so I tried to cover our hibiscus plants. We have one hibiscus tree next to the front walk that blooms ruffled, multi-colored blossoms, and two bushes at the corner of the house with huge, red and yellow flowers. A year ago I used old twin sized sheets with cartoon characters from Baby Bear’s bed to cover these plants, but no matter what I did to secure them, the wind blew them off. Fortunately the bushes came through with those flying colors of red and yellow, but the tree has struggled since last year’s freeze, and Mr. Lucky talks of replacing it with something else, though he hasn’t decided what.
The bushes, in fact, have grown and thrived so well in the past year, that last night I had to pull out the floral print king-sized sheets in hopes of covering them. But that blasted, biting wind blew the sheets off even as I tried to drape them over the hibiscus.
Mr. Lucky told me to forget about it. No doubt he wants to replace those bushes, too, just on general principle. He loves changing and replacing things just on general principle. Heaven help me if he ever thinks of replacing me.
(On the other hand, heaven help the replacement who thinks she can deal with him and Baby Bear!)
The hibiscus bushes survived the night again, none the worse for wear, but what about tonight? The weather guy said something about a “hard freeze” warning, as opposed to the mere freeze warning we had last night.
In the meantime, on MLK day, we took Baby Bear to Apollo Beach, along Tampa Bay. We were all bundled up in long pants and zipped up jackets, and I found myself wishing for one of my old knitted, hooded scarves I wore two decades ago in Germany, to wrap around my head, but they’re buried in a trunk somewhere out in the garage.
There was neither a Speedo nor a thong in sight on that beach. Aliens landing their spacecraft on one of the dunes wouldn’t have guessed it was the balmy Sunshine State, and surmised there was something screwy with their navigational system. I was reminded of the old Bugs Bunny cartoon where he burrows out of the ground in his swimsuit shrieking, “Miami Beach at last!” only to realize moments later he’s above the Arctic Circle, and probably should’ve taken that left turn at Albuquerque. Indeed, everyone at this beach was bundled up as if on a polar expedition.
And they weren’t all locals, either. One lady stood at the water’s edge repeatedly proclaiming to her husband, “That must be St. Petersburg over there. St. Petersburg is the one with the dome. Tampa doesn’t have a dome.”
Definitely from out of town; in fact, I would wager from out of state.
Yes, it was a clear day and sweeping our gaze from right to left, we could see the skyscrapers of Tampa; MacDill Air Force Base where Mr. Lucky served his final years in the military; the city of St. Petersburg with the distinctive dome of Tropicana Field; and farther on the horizon, the Sunshine Skyway Bridge.
Baby Bear loved running the length of the beach. Fortunately, he showed no interest in plunging headlong into the water, which was a concern of mine when Mr. Lucky suggested we visit the beach.
Perhaps even our Bear knows when it’s too cold.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Saga of My Bad Hair Life Continues
Fellow writer Vicki Lane recently blogged about her adventures in hair coloring here and continuing here. I could certainly identify and empathize with her, having blogged about similar mishaps of my own here, just over a year ago.
The hair stylist in that blog entry was so determined to see my hair highlighted, that for the rest of 2008, I didn’t dare go near that particular salon for fear I wouldn’t get out alive—or at least with my hair un-highlighted.
Yes, it sounds like a subplot from a Seinfeld episode. Yes, I’m still too easily intimidated by people and need to work some more on asserting myself. And yes, I’m being ridiculous.
Especially when a couple of months ago, I went to another hair salon to get my bangs trimmed. I like my bangs straight and the rest of my hair one length. All that feathering and layering doesn’t work for me. I have absolutely no aptitude for fixing up my hair, so the simpler the style, the better. As I write this, my hairstyle is very much the same as it is in my official portrait here.
Not everyone likes my "Anne Baxter as Nefretiri in The Ten Commandments" look. Fine. But I like it, and Mr. Lucky (almost as bald as Yul Brynner, who played Rameses in the same movie) likes it.
Getting back to that other hair salon two months ago. Without asking if it was all right with me, the stylist trimmed those bangs in half a dozen (maybe more) different lengths “to get you away from that schoolgirl look.”
I didn’t have the guts to say, “But I like that schoolgirl look. Why can’t I have my bangs the way I want them?” Better yet, WHY COULDN’T I TELL THE STYLIST EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED? I would’ve done so had she not launched her pre-emptive strike by belittling the look I already had. Did it not occur to her that I had that look for a reason—because I liked it? For that matter, did it ever occur to me that she wasn’t a mind reader, but a human steamroller to my asphalt?
No, because that day I was an ass—and it was my fault.
When I walked out of there, my bangs didn’t look as if they’d been trimmed at all.
By the holidays, they were not only hanging in my eyes again, but because of the varied lengths they were even hanging over my nose, so last week I went back to the same salon I visited last January. Surely that same stylist wasn’t there anymore?
She was.
All right. Surely she’d be busy with another client?
She wasn’t. In fact, she was the only stylist available.
Very well. Maybe she wouldn’t remember me from last year, and hold me hostage to highlights.
Alas, she did remember me, and she did indeed ply me with all their current specials on highlights. On the plus side, she did trim my bangs the way I wanted them, so I’m back to my Nefretiri/schoolgirl look and all is right with the world.
She thinks “caramel” highlights would look great on me. I was able to put her off with truthful pleas about a tight budget, which Mr. Lucky appreciated. Resourceful soul that he is, he’s offered to buy a bag of caramel candies, then melt them down and put them in my hair.
I think I’ll wait for the economy to improve. So let it be written . . .
The hair stylist in that blog entry was so determined to see my hair highlighted, that for the rest of 2008, I didn’t dare go near that particular salon for fear I wouldn’t get out alive—or at least with my hair un-highlighted.
Yes, it sounds like a subplot from a Seinfeld episode. Yes, I’m still too easily intimidated by people and need to work some more on asserting myself. And yes, I’m being ridiculous.
Especially when a couple of months ago, I went to another hair salon to get my bangs trimmed. I like my bangs straight and the rest of my hair one length. All that feathering and layering doesn’t work for me. I have absolutely no aptitude for fixing up my hair, so the simpler the style, the better. As I write this, my hairstyle is very much the same as it is in my official portrait here.
Not everyone likes my "Anne Baxter as Nefretiri in The Ten Commandments" look. Fine. But I like it, and Mr. Lucky (almost as bald as Yul Brynner, who played Rameses in the same movie) likes it.
Getting back to that other hair salon two months ago. Without asking if it was all right with me, the stylist trimmed those bangs in half a dozen (maybe more) different lengths “to get you away from that schoolgirl look.”
I didn’t have the guts to say, “But I like that schoolgirl look. Why can’t I have my bangs the way I want them?” Better yet, WHY COULDN’T I TELL THE STYLIST EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED? I would’ve done so had she not launched her pre-emptive strike by belittling the look I already had. Did it not occur to her that I had that look for a reason—because I liked it? For that matter, did it ever occur to me that she wasn’t a mind reader, but a human steamroller to my asphalt?
No, because that day I was an ass—and it was my fault.
When I walked out of there, my bangs didn’t look as if they’d been trimmed at all.
By the holidays, they were not only hanging in my eyes again, but because of the varied lengths they were even hanging over my nose, so last week I went back to the same salon I visited last January. Surely that same stylist wasn’t there anymore?
She was.
All right. Surely she’d be busy with another client?
She wasn’t. In fact, she was the only stylist available.
Very well. Maybe she wouldn’t remember me from last year, and hold me hostage to highlights.
Alas, she did remember me, and she did indeed ply me with all their current specials on highlights. On the plus side, she did trim my bangs the way I wanted them, so I’m back to my Nefretiri/schoolgirl look and all is right with the world.
She thinks “caramel” highlights would look great on me. I was able to put her off with truthful pleas about a tight budget, which Mr. Lucky appreciated. Resourceful soul that he is, he’s offered to buy a bag of caramel candies, then melt them down and put them in my hair.
I think I’ll wait for the economy to improve. So let it be written . . .
Monday, January 5, 2009
There's a Scream in My Breakfast Cereal!
After pouring cereal into a bowl for Baby Bear this morning, I noticed one of the pieces silently screaming at me in gaping terror:
"No! No! Not the milk! It's LOW FAT!"
After shooting the above photo, I wanted to get a closeup of our freaky little Edvard Munch. But just as I was about to click, Baby Bear--he of the non-existent patience, voracious appetite, and deadly impeccable timing--dipped his paw into the bowl and scooped up a handful of cereal, cramming The Scream into his mouth.
Fortunately, Mr. Lucky was able to fool around with the one photo and get the desired closeup:
Make that one more reason to stay married to him.
"No! No! Not the milk! It's LOW FAT!" After shooting the above photo, I wanted to get a closeup of our freaky little Edvard Munch. But just as I was about to click, Baby Bear--he of the non-existent patience, voracious appetite, and deadly impeccable timing--dipped his paw into the bowl and scooped up a handful of cereal, cramming The Scream into his mouth.
Fortunately, Mr. Lucky was able to fool around with the one photo and get the desired closeup:
Make that one more reason to stay married to him.
Friday, January 2, 2009
New Year's Resolutions
January is the time of year when Mr. Lucky goes out to walk the dogs as usual, only to find he barely has room to maneuver because of all the hordes of humanity out there jogging, walking, cycling and rollerblading.
Then he goes to the gym for his daily workout, only to discover membership has suddenly quadrupled, and now he has to wait in line to use any of the equipment.
But he remains patient, for he knows by the end of January, those crowds will have thinned out and come February, everything will be back to normal. The streets will be desolate and the gym so deserted, he can go there and dance in his underwear, lip-syncing to Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll” while using one of the barbells as a pretend microphone, and no one will ever know.
When will people learn what he and I have long since figured out—that it takes more than hanging up a brand new calendar and opening one’s annual greetings from the IRS to keep resolutions?
For my part, I need rewards, threats, and blackmail.
Like the time a few years ago when I had trouble getting started on a new book. Julie Leto said if I didn’t write the first three chapters by a certain date, that I would have to apply for a job at Wal-Mart. I wrote those chapters by the specified deadline, and to this day I remain off Mr. Walton’s payroll.
On the other hand, when I was in my twenties I smoked, and every January I made the same futile resolution to quit, but to no avail. Only after Mr. Lucky, an avowed non-smoker, indicated an interest in marrying me, did I finally have the needed impetus to quit. And I didn’t need patches or Chantix or twelve-step programs, or to be strapped into a chair and my eyelids forced open like Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange while I was subjected to a slideshow of blackened, cancer-ravaged lungs.
All I needed was the promise of True Love and Happily Ever After.
New Year’s Resolutions? Ppfft! If I relied only on that new calendar and greetings from the IRS, then I’d still be single, smoking, and working at Wal-Mart.
And I would still be just as snarky as I am here, if only because it would take more than a mere resolution to cure me of that.
Then he goes to the gym for his daily workout, only to discover membership has suddenly quadrupled, and now he has to wait in line to use any of the equipment.
But he remains patient, for he knows by the end of January, those crowds will have thinned out and come February, everything will be back to normal. The streets will be desolate and the gym so deserted, he can go there and dance in his underwear, lip-syncing to Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll” while using one of the barbells as a pretend microphone, and no one will ever know.
When will people learn what he and I have long since figured out—that it takes more than hanging up a brand new calendar and opening one’s annual greetings from the IRS to keep resolutions?
For my part, I need rewards, threats, and blackmail.
Like the time a few years ago when I had trouble getting started on a new book. Julie Leto said if I didn’t write the first three chapters by a certain date, that I would have to apply for a job at Wal-Mart. I wrote those chapters by the specified deadline, and to this day I remain off Mr. Walton’s payroll.
On the other hand, when I was in my twenties I smoked, and every January I made the same futile resolution to quit, but to no avail. Only after Mr. Lucky, an avowed non-smoker, indicated an interest in marrying me, did I finally have the needed impetus to quit. And I didn’t need patches or Chantix or twelve-step programs, or to be strapped into a chair and my eyelids forced open like Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange while I was subjected to a slideshow of blackened, cancer-ravaged lungs.
All I needed was the promise of True Love and Happily Ever After.
New Year’s Resolutions? Ppfft! If I relied only on that new calendar and greetings from the IRS, then I’d still be single, smoking, and working at Wal-Mart.
And I would still be just as snarky as I am here, if only because it would take more than a mere resolution to cure me of that.
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