Today is my mother's birthday. She lives in a different state (I won't even touch that one) - I mean State, so I plan very thoroughly to get her birthday gift and card to her on the right day. I was feeling pretty proud of myself this morning knowing her card was on time. I dialed their number and when my mother answered, I cheerfully chirped "Happy Birthday, Mum". To which she responded "Today isn't my birthday". I quickly looked at my calendar, my birthday book and today's date and all the stars lined up - it was her birthday. But, I was a bit puzzled and wanted to hear her explanation, so I responded "What do you mean, today isn't your birthday. This has always been your birthday. I always remember because your birthday is the day before April Fool's Day."
As if talking to a small child who doesn't understand long sentences, she emphasized "Today is not my birthday. My birthday was yesterday". I could feel myself starting to use the "argument tone" but stopped and quietly said "really? When did that happen"? Now, my mother is in her 80's and I've never had to erase her birthday date in all of those years. I mean, I was pretty confident I could write it in ink in my birthday book. Now, I'm questioning myself. My mother continued "My birthday has always been on the 30th. It's on my birth certificate. The doctor or my mother made a mistake when they filled out the birth certificate. I was born on the 31st but they wrote the 30th on the certificate." OK, I'm thinking, her birthday is on the 31st but I decided to hear her out. "So, why have we always celebrated on the 31st - until now?". "Oh, what's a day difference make"? (It now makes me a day late in calling her to wish her a happy birthday, that's what a day's difference makes!)
My mother went on to say that when she applied for Social Security (almost 20 years ago) they wouldn't pay any of her bills until she said she was born on the 30th, which is the date on her birth certificate. I'm still confused because I have talked to my mother a few times over the past 20 years and I would have thought that this would have come up in the conversation - but no, not once.
I continued small talking with her while I rummaged through my desk looking for the white out when she hit me with another zinger. "And your sister's birthday isn't the 15th, it's the 16th. " (what in the heck??) "There was a mistake on the date on her birth certificate, too. She was born on the 15th, but they wrote the 16th and I never changed it". "So, does my sister know this"? I wondered aloud. I think my mother responded "ah huh" so I'm assuming she did.
What is with my family? If they had gotten their horoscopes done they would have been making all of the wrong decisions all of their lives. And when am I supposed to call to wish them a happy birthday? Should I call 2 days in a row so I hit the right one? Why did it take so long for me to find this out? I believe I'm in the only family that has been celebrating 2 people's birthdays on the wrong day for their whole lives.
I need to find my birth certificate!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
What's With Women's Shoe Designers?
I think I've hit my limit for shoes - at least for the next 6 months or so. I know it's not just me who has an excess of shoes and I know it's not all my fault. I regularly watch "House Hunters" on TV where people are looking to buy a new house and inevitably the real estate agent says "is this closet big enough" and the snarly response by the husband is "maybe for her shoes!". How funny can that line be - when it's said in just about every show? You can tell that this is one reality show that isn't scripted or if it is, the writers have severe memory problems. ("I've got a good idea, after you close your wife in the closet, mention that the closet might just hold her shoes. I'll bet you'll get a good chuckle over that line".)
But the show has educated me in the ways of most women - and shoes. And I don't think we are to blame for our shoe problems. Think about it. Most men have no more than 4 pairs of shoes; dress shoes, casual shoes, sneakers and sandals. Why is that? Because their shoes don't change from decade to decade. I've been with men when their shoes finally wore out and they couldn't re-sole or re-heel them anymore. They go to the shoe store and ask for the same style of shoe - and they still have it! How interesting it is to buy more shoes that look just like the rest in your closet?
Womens shoes are a different matter. Designers tweak the styles constantly. We buy a nice pair of black, low-heeled shoes and the next week we see a nice pair of black, low-heeled shoes with cool patent leather piping running across the toe. Then we find some lower heeled black shoes to wear with our slacks. Just as we're leaving the shoe store, we see some very stylish black high-heeled shoes with a peek-a-boo toe and an ankle strap. This continues with our brown shoes, tan shoes, red shoes, navy shoes, etc. When summer comes, the array of sandals takes up half of the shoe department and none look alike. We can't just have one pair of sandals.
OK, so I don't necessarily fall into the "stylish" shoe category. I can have just as many shoes as the next woman but mine fall into the description of funky and comfortable. If I can get funky and comfortable in the same shoe, I'm in heaven. Unfortunately, I have a closet full of funky - not comfortable shoes, and comfortable - not funky shoes.
Why are there so many celebrities designing womens shoes and not mens shoes? My guess is that most men don't think about their feet once they are in a shoe. You don't see men say to other men "Hey, I like your shoes. They are like mine, but in brown. I think I might get another pair. Cool". Their whole shoe budget - for their life is probably $200 and they get change back. There's no money to make in men's shoes.
I think that women are being pushed into buying more shoes not just by designers but by other women. You know that when you're out in public, women look you up and down - and especially check out your shoes. It's a competition as to who has the best shoes. I still haven't figured out why most women do this but it's a fact.
I once had the heel on my shoe break at the airport and I didn't have another pair with me. I was on my way to give a presentation in Oklahoma. Quickly looking around the airport, I found 2 pairs of shoes in my size that I could buy. One was a pair of the University of Texas basketball shoes and one was a pair of Crocs. I was wearing a black suit and had no choice but to go with the Crocs - the blue Crocs. I felt there was a spotlight on my feet the rest of the day. This is when I noticed that women look at other women's shoes. I saw more women almost snap their necks in a vertical whip lash when they casually looked from my suit to my shoes and then abruptly flicked their neck up to look at my face. You could see how shocking my lack of shoe-outfit coordination was to them. I think they had to see if I was hunched over and drooling because that would be the only explanation for my lack of style.
I wish that some day I could be vindicated by having Posh Spice or Katie Holmes photographed in yellow Crocs and a business suit. Comfort and style - what a concept. Maybe if they made women's shoes with that in mind, we wouldn't have to buy so many different pairs - or maybe not.
But the show has educated me in the ways of most women - and shoes. And I don't think we are to blame for our shoe problems. Think about it. Most men have no more than 4 pairs of shoes; dress shoes, casual shoes, sneakers and sandals. Why is that? Because their shoes don't change from decade to decade. I've been with men when their shoes finally wore out and they couldn't re-sole or re-heel them anymore. They go to the shoe store and ask for the same style of shoe - and they still have it! How interesting it is to buy more shoes that look just like the rest in your closet?
Womens shoes are a different matter. Designers tweak the styles constantly. We buy a nice pair of black, low-heeled shoes and the next week we see a nice pair of black, low-heeled shoes with cool patent leather piping running across the toe. Then we find some lower heeled black shoes to wear with our slacks. Just as we're leaving the shoe store, we see some very stylish black high-heeled shoes with a peek-a-boo toe and an ankle strap. This continues with our brown shoes, tan shoes, red shoes, navy shoes, etc. When summer comes, the array of sandals takes up half of the shoe department and none look alike. We can't just have one pair of sandals.
OK, so I don't necessarily fall into the "stylish" shoe category. I can have just as many shoes as the next woman but mine fall into the description of funky and comfortable. If I can get funky and comfortable in the same shoe, I'm in heaven. Unfortunately, I have a closet full of funky - not comfortable shoes, and comfortable - not funky shoes.
Why are there so many celebrities designing womens shoes and not mens shoes? My guess is that most men don't think about their feet once they are in a shoe. You don't see men say to other men "Hey, I like your shoes. They are like mine, but in brown. I think I might get another pair. Cool". Their whole shoe budget - for their life is probably $200 and they get change back. There's no money to make in men's shoes.
I think that women are being pushed into buying more shoes not just by designers but by other women. You know that when you're out in public, women look you up and down - and especially check out your shoes. It's a competition as to who has the best shoes. I still haven't figured out why most women do this but it's a fact.
I once had the heel on my shoe break at the airport and I didn't have another pair with me. I was on my way to give a presentation in Oklahoma. Quickly looking around the airport, I found 2 pairs of shoes in my size that I could buy. One was a pair of the University of Texas basketball shoes and one was a pair of Crocs. I was wearing a black suit and had no choice but to go with the Crocs - the blue Crocs. I felt there was a spotlight on my feet the rest of the day. This is when I noticed that women look at other women's shoes. I saw more women almost snap their necks in a vertical whip lash when they casually looked from my suit to my shoes and then abruptly flicked their neck up to look at my face. You could see how shocking my lack of shoe-outfit coordination was to them. I think they had to see if I was hunched over and drooling because that would be the only explanation for my lack of style.
I wish that some day I could be vindicated by having Posh Spice or Katie Holmes photographed in yellow Crocs and a business suit. Comfort and style - what a concept. Maybe if they made women's shoes with that in mind, we wouldn't have to buy so many different pairs - or maybe not.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Never Sleep in a Turtleneck
I love that I live in a town where people are comfortable going to the gas station or grocery store in their pajamas. You can tell that they are pj's because usually the pants have little clouds or piggies on them. Sometimes they are even shuffling around in their slippers (or house shoes as some people call them). I give them a lot of credit for being so uninhibited.
I like to think of myself as a free spirit but have to admit that I still have some inhibitions that I need to work on. I want one day to walk my dog in my pajamas. I'm not saying that I don't go out in clothes that I've slept in. I'm just saying that the clothes I've slept in aren't regular sleepwear.
It started many years ago when I was in my early teens. I used to love to go to Easter Sunrise Service at the big dome-shaped center in Pittsburgh. There was nothing like being in that dome as they rolled the roof back and people were singing the Hallelujah chorus to the rising sun. I went ever year throughout my teens. But, being a teen this gig started early in the morning - before sunrise obviously. The center was about 45 minutes from my house so you can start to figure out that I had to get up way too early to get there on time. After my first year of setting the alarm by 4 am, getting dressed, schlepping my way to the trolley to meet my friend and walking about a mile from the trolley stop to the center, I was not looking, or feeling very festive.
The next year I decided that I needed a little more sleep so the best way to shave time off of my trip was to get dressed the night before and sleep in my clothes. That way I could sleep an extra 30 minutes. I tried very hard not to roll over too much in my Easter dress but I always woke up a little wrinkled. That was a small price to pay for extra sleep. I decided I was on to something.
Since then I have found that there are occasions where sleep is more important than wrinkled clothes. I can roll out of bed, brush my teeth and start my morning activities before most people have found a clean shirt to put on . For example, it takes me 5 minutes - tops - to get out of bed and out of the house to walk my dog. If I need to go to the grocery store, I just slip on my shoes, brush my teeth (if I think I might be in close proximity to anyone I know at the store) and jump in my car. Sometimes if I'm feeling like I want to be more "put together", I'll run a brush through my hair. Other times, a quick finger-comb on the way out of the door is all I need. I know that there are times when I look like I should be pushing a shopping cart filled with aluminum cans instead of holding my dog's leash (who by the way, is dressed in a cute t-shirt that says "what happens in the dog park, stays in the dog park" that he also slept in), but at least we're getting our exercise.
The thing is, I don't do these things in my pajamas. I'm still too inhibited to do that. Instead
I shop for comfortable clothes that can be used for dual-purpose sleeping and day wear. I some times work at home so it's easy to just get up in the morning - in my sleep /work clothes and get busy. Easy is the name of the game. I know I'm lacking that "dress-up" gene that some women have. They won't leave their houses without full make-up and clean clothes. What's with that??
I recently realized that I have limits when it comes to sleeping in my clothes. (Just so that my friends aren't appalled reading this new information about me and decide they need to bring Lysol and a breath mint when we meet for breakfast, remember I said "occasionally"). Anyway, when I travel for work, I often don't get back to my house until 1 or 2 am in the morning. Being exhausted (this is my excuse), I will sometimes take off my pants or jeans and just sleep in my shirt. One morning, after one of these late nights, I woke up and my heart was pounding from the scary dream I remembered. I was being kidnapped, dragged by my neck out of my house, chocked, and I was having trouble breathing. I couldn't figure out why I had such a terrifying dream. I did a mental checklist of reasons this might have happened. I hadn't recently seen any scary movies, read any horror stories in the newspaper, driven in rush hour traffic or found a hair in my food. After a moment, it finally came to me. I got out my list of "do's and don'ts" and added "at least once, walk the dog in your pajamas" and "never sleep in a turtleneck". See, I do have my limits.
I like to think of myself as a free spirit but have to admit that I still have some inhibitions that I need to work on. I want one day to walk my dog in my pajamas. I'm not saying that I don't go out in clothes that I've slept in. I'm just saying that the clothes I've slept in aren't regular sleepwear.
It started many years ago when I was in my early teens. I used to love to go to Easter Sunrise Service at the big dome-shaped center in Pittsburgh. There was nothing like being in that dome as they rolled the roof back and people were singing the Hallelujah chorus to the rising sun. I went ever year throughout my teens. But, being a teen this gig started early in the morning - before sunrise obviously. The center was about 45 minutes from my house so you can start to figure out that I had to get up way too early to get there on time. After my first year of setting the alarm by 4 am, getting dressed, schlepping my way to the trolley to meet my friend and walking about a mile from the trolley stop to the center, I was not looking, or feeling very festive.
The next year I decided that I needed a little more sleep so the best way to shave time off of my trip was to get dressed the night before and sleep in my clothes. That way I could sleep an extra 30 minutes. I tried very hard not to roll over too much in my Easter dress but I always woke up a little wrinkled. That was a small price to pay for extra sleep. I decided I was on to something.
Since then I have found that there are occasions where sleep is more important than wrinkled clothes. I can roll out of bed, brush my teeth and start my morning activities before most people have found a clean shirt to put on . For example, it takes me 5 minutes - tops - to get out of bed and out of the house to walk my dog. If I need to go to the grocery store, I just slip on my shoes, brush my teeth (if I think I might be in close proximity to anyone I know at the store) and jump in my car. Sometimes if I'm feeling like I want to be more "put together", I'll run a brush through my hair. Other times, a quick finger-comb on the way out of the door is all I need. I know that there are times when I look like I should be pushing a shopping cart filled with aluminum cans instead of holding my dog's leash (who by the way, is dressed in a cute t-shirt that says "what happens in the dog park, stays in the dog park" that he also slept in), but at least we're getting our exercise.
The thing is, I don't do these things in my pajamas. I'm still too inhibited to do that. Instead
I shop for comfortable clothes that can be used for dual-purpose sleeping and day wear. I some times work at home so it's easy to just get up in the morning - in my sleep /work clothes and get busy. Easy is the name of the game. I know I'm lacking that "dress-up" gene that some women have. They won't leave their houses without full make-up and clean clothes. What's with that??
I recently realized that I have limits when it comes to sleeping in my clothes. (Just so that my friends aren't appalled reading this new information about me and decide they need to bring Lysol and a breath mint when we meet for breakfast, remember I said "occasionally"). Anyway, when I travel for work, I often don't get back to my house until 1 or 2 am in the morning. Being exhausted (this is my excuse), I will sometimes take off my pants or jeans and just sleep in my shirt. One morning, after one of these late nights, I woke up and my heart was pounding from the scary dream I remembered. I was being kidnapped, dragged by my neck out of my house, chocked, and I was having trouble breathing. I couldn't figure out why I had such a terrifying dream. I did a mental checklist of reasons this might have happened. I hadn't recently seen any scary movies, read any horror stories in the newspaper, driven in rush hour traffic or found a hair in my food. After a moment, it finally came to me. I got out my list of "do's and don'ts" and added "at least once, walk the dog in your pajamas" and "never sleep in a turtleneck". See, I do have my limits.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
When in Doubt, Speak English
I love to visit non-English speaking countries. The people seem to be saying more important things than I hear in English. I want to know what they're saying. So I prepare to learn the language. My trips usually go like this:
1. Pick a country.
2. Buy books or CDs on how to speak that country's language.
3. Spend most of my prep time - not learning the language.
4. Bring my CDs or electronic translator on the plane to learn as much as I can on the trip to that county.
5. Mostly watch movies on the plane.
6. Listen to language CD's on the plane when I am sleepy because they say you learn more through your subconscious.
7. Arrive in the county wide-eyed and confused. I have no idea what the signs say or what the people are saying.
8. Get used to not knowing what is going on around me 75% of the time. The rest of the time, people are speaking English to me.
9. Get back on the plane vowing to learn the language.
10. Come home and rave about the county and that I'm going to go back the next year knowing the language.
11. Buy better language learning tools.
12. Put them on my shelf.
13. Go to a different county the next year (repeat steps 2 through 13)
I now have learning tools for Spanish, French and Italian. I do try to learn the languages - especially while driving in my car. I have basic Italian and Spanish CDs in my car right now - yet I still know limited words.
When I was in Costa Rica a few years ago doing some volunteer work, I had a small electronic translator with me. Unfortunately, my work included digging rocks out from along a road, building a wall around a cemetery and painting a kitchen. I found little on the translator that I could use. I did the usual "Ola'", "necessito cafe", and "bueno". After almost a week, I decided to expand my conversations and practiced a new phrase. When one of the Costa Ricans asked me how I was doing, I replied " Yo caliente" since it was very hot there. There was usually no response but that didn't stop me. The rest of the week when the workers were all sitting around pouring water on themselves because of the heat, I would walk up to them and say "Yo caliente", and again they would just look at me. Finally, the day before we were going home, one of the bi-lingual women came over to me and whispered, "did you know that you are telling them that you are horny"? Everyone was so polite there that for days no one told me that I was going around to all of the men making an inappropriate sexual come-on. I was glad to be going home before someone decided that if I was that horny they should help me out!
I do want to go back to Costa Rica and this time, I want to speak the language. (see numbers 2 through 13 above).
1. Pick a country.
2. Buy books or CDs on how to speak that country's language.
3. Spend most of my prep time - not learning the language.
4. Bring my CDs or electronic translator on the plane to learn as much as I can on the trip to that county.
5. Mostly watch movies on the plane.
6. Listen to language CD's on the plane when I am sleepy because they say you learn more through your subconscious.
7. Arrive in the county wide-eyed and confused. I have no idea what the signs say or what the people are saying.
8. Get used to not knowing what is going on around me 75% of the time. The rest of the time, people are speaking English to me.
9. Get back on the plane vowing to learn the language.
10. Come home and rave about the county and that I'm going to go back the next year knowing the language.
11. Buy better language learning tools.
12. Put them on my shelf.
13. Go to a different county the next year (repeat steps 2 through 13)
I now have learning tools for Spanish, French and Italian. I do try to learn the languages - especially while driving in my car. I have basic Italian and Spanish CDs in my car right now - yet I still know limited words.
When I was in Costa Rica a few years ago doing some volunteer work, I had a small electronic translator with me. Unfortunately, my work included digging rocks out from along a road, building a wall around a cemetery and painting a kitchen. I found little on the translator that I could use. I did the usual "Ola'", "necessito cafe", and "bueno". After almost a week, I decided to expand my conversations and practiced a new phrase. When one of the Costa Ricans asked me how I was doing, I replied " Yo caliente" since it was very hot there. There was usually no response but that didn't stop me. The rest of the week when the workers were all sitting around pouring water on themselves because of the heat, I would walk up to them and say "Yo caliente", and again they would just look at me. Finally, the day before we were going home, one of the bi-lingual women came over to me and whispered, "did you know that you are telling them that you are horny"? Everyone was so polite there that for days no one told me that I was going around to all of the men making an inappropriate sexual come-on. I was glad to be going home before someone decided that if I was that horny they should help me out!
I do want to go back to Costa Rica and this time, I want to speak the language. (see numbers 2 through 13 above).
Thursday, March 19, 2009
A Good Haircut is Hard to Find
Why is it that we (me) seem to inherit all of the bad traits of our parents? I have my mother to thank for my hair- thin, wispy and I hate to even think about the current natural color under my many coats of brown hues. The last hair dresser I visited said that she understood why I colored my hair because her mother's hair was like mine - she hardly had any either. (This is someone who obviously doesn't consider her tip when she talks) She didn't do a bad job on my hair but I did come out looking like I should be on the show Dallas. My hair was so big that I automatically ducked when I went out the door.
Most of my hair cutting and styling experiences go the same way. They ask how I would like my hair cut and of course I have no idea so I tell them to decide. One look at my fly-away thin hair and they quickly cut, blow dry and mound "product" on my head and send me out the door. They all but give me a hat to wear home. I think there is a picture of me by their cash register with a line through my head.
I once spent a lot of money (for me) on a stylist that advertised his cut would be wash and wear - easy, breezy and stylish. That is just what I was hoping for. I sat in the chair watching my hair being snipped away at a quick, confident pace. Then he slowed down and started tweak-cutting all around my head. Finally he stopped and said "you'll just need to put a few curlers in it"? What happened to easy, breezy and stylish? I'm sure he would have given me a babushka if he had one - instead I went home - through the back door, with bobby pins holding my hair in place.
Impossible hair made me finally decide that I was better off cutting my own than seeing the "I give up" look in the eyes of the so-called professional stylists. I usually gave myself the basic bowl cut but when I was feeling inventive, I'd try to go for the Liza Minnelli look - those jagged bangs were cool - on her. I looked liked my head had been cut with the dull razor I just used to shave my legs.
Eventually, I would always give up and try to find another beauty shop I'd never been in. I was running out of new places to go that were within a 50 mile radius of my house. I would have to expand my search. The worst part about going for a haircut after you had butchered it was when they would invariably ask "who cut your hair last". With only a slight twinge of guilt I'd always say "my neighbor". It made me feel better when the "tsks" and head shakes were due to my neighbor's poor skills. I really should move.
The interesting thing is that I have had a couple of good hair cuts. There were both spur of the moment and both in Europe. The first occurred when I was traveling in France with friends. I had not had a haircut in awhile and it was windy there. We were touring a place where they took spontaneous pictures that you could purchase. When I saw my picture, my head looked like "the flying nun" but I didn't need the habit to give me the wide wings- they were all mine and attached to my head! I was surprised that the wind hadn't lifted me off of the ground. (Well, maybe not surprised in that it would have had to be a pretty hefty wind)
We all had a good laugh - and I wouldn't let my friends buy the picture. The next day we were getting ready to do a church tour but my friend needed to stop in a camera shop first. As I was waiting, I noticed that above the camera shop was something that looked like a beauty salon - or beauty school - it didn't matter to me. I walked in and pointed to my head (luckily it was a beauty salon and not a psychiatrist's office). They spoke no English and I spoke no French but they got the idea. By the time my friends found me, I had a light, breezy and stylish "do"- a very expensive light, breezy and stylish "do". For almost the first time, I liked my hair.
My second - and last - good haircut was obtained the same way. This time I was in Venice Italy and found a salon. Again, we didn't speak the same language but the male stylist knew what I wanted. He began to massage my head, cut and stroke my hair over and over until he abruptly said "finit" and walked away. I have to say that I almost needed a cigarette after that experience - and I don't smoke. His assistant took over and dried and styled my hair. I loved it. I felt like running outside singing opera and twirling around. The haircut was fantastic - as was his "chair-side manner". I was happy as were all of the people in Venice that day - since I didn't know any opera to sing.
I've come to the conclusion that I must have come from a European heritage and most stylists in the USA don't understand pedigree - or maybe more women are going bald in Europe. I prefer to believe the former.
Most of my hair cutting and styling experiences go the same way. They ask how I would like my hair cut and of course I have no idea so I tell them to decide. One look at my fly-away thin hair and they quickly cut, blow dry and mound "product" on my head and send me out the door. They all but give me a hat to wear home. I think there is a picture of me by their cash register with a line through my head.
I once spent a lot of money (for me) on a stylist that advertised his cut would be wash and wear - easy, breezy and stylish. That is just what I was hoping for. I sat in the chair watching my hair being snipped away at a quick, confident pace. Then he slowed down and started tweak-cutting all around my head. Finally he stopped and said "you'll just need to put a few curlers in it"? What happened to easy, breezy and stylish? I'm sure he would have given me a babushka if he had one - instead I went home - through the back door, with bobby pins holding my hair in place.
Impossible hair made me finally decide that I was better off cutting my own than seeing the "I give up" look in the eyes of the so-called professional stylists. I usually gave myself the basic bowl cut but when I was feeling inventive, I'd try to go for the Liza Minnelli look - those jagged bangs were cool - on her. I looked liked my head had been cut with the dull razor I just used to shave my legs.
Eventually, I would always give up and try to find another beauty shop I'd never been in. I was running out of new places to go that were within a 50 mile radius of my house. I would have to expand my search. The worst part about going for a haircut after you had butchered it was when they would invariably ask "who cut your hair last". With only a slight twinge of guilt I'd always say "my neighbor". It made me feel better when the "tsks" and head shakes were due to my neighbor's poor skills. I really should move.
The interesting thing is that I have had a couple of good hair cuts. There were both spur of the moment and both in Europe. The first occurred when I was traveling in France with friends. I had not had a haircut in awhile and it was windy there. We were touring a place where they took spontaneous pictures that you could purchase. When I saw my picture, my head looked like "the flying nun" but I didn't need the habit to give me the wide wings- they were all mine and attached to my head! I was surprised that the wind hadn't lifted me off of the ground. (Well, maybe not surprised in that it would have had to be a pretty hefty wind)
We all had a good laugh - and I wouldn't let my friends buy the picture. The next day we were getting ready to do a church tour but my friend needed to stop in a camera shop first. As I was waiting, I noticed that above the camera shop was something that looked like a beauty salon - or beauty school - it didn't matter to me. I walked in and pointed to my head (luckily it was a beauty salon and not a psychiatrist's office). They spoke no English and I spoke no French but they got the idea. By the time my friends found me, I had a light, breezy and stylish "do"- a very expensive light, breezy and stylish "do". For almost the first time, I liked my hair.
My second - and last - good haircut was obtained the same way. This time I was in Venice Italy and found a salon. Again, we didn't speak the same language but the male stylist knew what I wanted. He began to massage my head, cut and stroke my hair over and over until he abruptly said "finit" and walked away. I have to say that I almost needed a cigarette after that experience - and I don't smoke. His assistant took over and dried and styled my hair. I loved it. I felt like running outside singing opera and twirling around. The haircut was fantastic - as was his "chair-side manner". I was happy as were all of the people in Venice that day - since I didn't know any opera to sing.
I've come to the conclusion that I must have come from a European heritage and most stylists in the USA don't understand pedigree - or maybe more women are going bald in Europe. I prefer to believe the former.
Monday, March 16, 2009
No Dogs Allowed!
I have spent time in different parts of Europe and the thing I like most (beside the train system, being able to walk everywhere, the old buildings, the food, etc.) is how they allowed dogs in all shops. I took a picture of a dog in a meat market (and he wasn't in the display case) so I could show people back home that dog-friendly travel is possible. I got my hair cut in France (another story for later that some of my friends are still shaking their heads over) and there were 2 large dogs roaming the salon. I liked that.
The USA has such an aversion to dogs in public places that one would think dogs all had contagious diseases. I know I'm not the only one who has done this, but sometimes I have no choice but to sneak my dog (7 pound brute that he is) into establishments that don't cater to animals (unless they are cooked medium well).
I drove across country, Texas to the east coast, with my chihuahua-mix Seymour and all I can say is that if I had invested in companies that make "no dogs allowed" signs, I'd be wealthy. There has been no downturn in that industry.
Even most state-run rest stops take up more space with their "no dog" signs than they put aside for the place dogs could walk. In one state, I was literally directed to walk my dog along the freeway! And what does one do when it is 105 degrees out and a person(me) needs to use the rest room - but no dogs are allowed? I have tried to park close to the rest room, crack the car windows, race like I was going to a 10 minute shoe sale, will myself to quickly do what I need to do (and wash my hands of course) and hope to get back to the car before my dog turned red with heat exhaustion. That wasn't very fun and it didn't make my digestive system very happy.
I finally decided to buy a large purse-like doggie carrier. I stealthily would place him in the carrier and zip his head down into the bowels of the plastic bottom. ThenI would hold the bag close on the side of my body furthest from people and hope that no one noticed the mesh opening on the side of the bag where Seymour's nose was plastered against it. Usually it works ok. I have been asked to leave some places when they notice my purse moving on it's own (and barking). It's a little embarrassing when someone comes up to me (always in front of other customers) and says tersely "I have to ask you to leave". I know that other customers don't know what awful thing I did to be escorted out of a store. I can just imagine what they are thinking-theft, distruction? I mark those businesses off of my list and won't even go back if I don't have an animal stashed somewhere on my body.
I admit that I do sneak my dog into some fast food restaurants. Most of the time I just order food to go, but on one occasion I decided to eat on site. I was with my daughter and grandson and we were all needing to take a break from driving. It was a warm day and I didn't want to leave Seymour in the car so into the carrier he went and into the restaurant we all went. We managed to order our food and get to our table without detection. I had purchased an extra cheeseburger for Seymour and periodically during our meal, I would tear off a piece of meat and drop it into my purse. Everything was going as planned. We were all relaxed and happy. As I was dropping the last piece of meat into Seymour's hiding place, his head suddenly shot up so hard that the top of the purse partially unzipped. The next thing I saw was Seymour's head sticking out with a look of indignation on his face.
For some reason he wasn't happy. I looked around to see if anyone saw us and either we got lucky or people were intentionally ignoring us. I tried to push his head back into the carrier but he wanted no part of it. I knew that it wouldn't be long before I was asked to leave - again, so I grabbed the first thing I could find which was my grandson's blanket. I threw it over Seymour's head and bolted toward the door. Of course we were nowhere near the exit so I was weaving between people with a blanket that was now making my purse look like it was glad to see me!
I was out of breath by the time I got back to the car and a little frustrated with my normally calm dog. When I took him out of the carrier, I noticed that the bottom was filled with little pieces of hamburger. He hadn't eaten any of it. It was like he finally got so disgusted with being hammered on the head with gross "food-like" stuff that he finally decided "enough is enough". If he could talk I'm sure he would have said "it's one thing to be hidden away in a plastic purse so that no one can admire me and pet me but it's a totally different thing to be pelleted with little brown disgusting things while I'm locked in that hell hole you call a "doggie carrier".
I guess it was kind of like making a big bowl of food and then sitting him it in - not too appetizing! Lesson learned. But as long as there are "no dog allowed" signs, I will be toting Seymour in his doggie carrier-minus the unwanted"in purse" buffet.
The USA has such an aversion to dogs in public places that one would think dogs all had contagious diseases. I know I'm not the only one who has done this, but sometimes I have no choice but to sneak my dog (7 pound brute that he is) into establishments that don't cater to animals (unless they are cooked medium well).
I drove across country, Texas to the east coast, with my chihuahua-mix Seymour and all I can say is that if I had invested in companies that make "no dogs allowed" signs, I'd be wealthy. There has been no downturn in that industry.
Even most state-run rest stops take up more space with their "no dog" signs than they put aside for the place dogs could walk. In one state, I was literally directed to walk my dog along the freeway! And what does one do when it is 105 degrees out and a person(me) needs to use the rest room - but no dogs are allowed? I have tried to park close to the rest room, crack the car windows, race like I was going to a 10 minute shoe sale, will myself to quickly do what I need to do (and wash my hands of course) and hope to get back to the car before my dog turned red with heat exhaustion. That wasn't very fun and it didn't make my digestive system very happy.
I finally decided to buy a large purse-like doggie carrier. I stealthily would place him in the carrier and zip his head down into the bowels of the plastic bottom. ThenI would hold the bag close on the side of my body furthest from people and hope that no one noticed the mesh opening on the side of the bag where Seymour's nose was plastered against it. Usually it works ok. I have been asked to leave some places when they notice my purse moving on it's own (and barking). It's a little embarrassing when someone comes up to me (always in front of other customers) and says tersely "I have to ask you to leave". I know that other customers don't know what awful thing I did to be escorted out of a store. I can just imagine what they are thinking-theft, distruction? I mark those businesses off of my list and won't even go back if I don't have an animal stashed somewhere on my body.
I admit that I do sneak my dog into some fast food restaurants. Most of the time I just order food to go, but on one occasion I decided to eat on site. I was with my daughter and grandson and we were all needing to take a break from driving. It was a warm day and I didn't want to leave Seymour in the car so into the carrier he went and into the restaurant we all went. We managed to order our food and get to our table without detection. I had purchased an extra cheeseburger for Seymour and periodically during our meal, I would tear off a piece of meat and drop it into my purse. Everything was going as planned. We were all relaxed and happy. As I was dropping the last piece of meat into Seymour's hiding place, his head suddenly shot up so hard that the top of the purse partially unzipped. The next thing I saw was Seymour's head sticking out with a look of indignation on his face.
For some reason he wasn't happy. I looked around to see if anyone saw us and either we got lucky or people were intentionally ignoring us. I tried to push his head back into the carrier but he wanted no part of it. I knew that it wouldn't be long before I was asked to leave - again, so I grabbed the first thing I could find which was my grandson's blanket. I threw it over Seymour's head and bolted toward the door. Of course we were nowhere near the exit so I was weaving between people with a blanket that was now making my purse look like it was glad to see me!
I was out of breath by the time I got back to the car and a little frustrated with my normally calm dog. When I took him out of the carrier, I noticed that the bottom was filled with little pieces of hamburger. He hadn't eaten any of it. It was like he finally got so disgusted with being hammered on the head with gross "food-like" stuff that he finally decided "enough is enough". If he could talk I'm sure he would have said "it's one thing to be hidden away in a plastic purse so that no one can admire me and pet me but it's a totally different thing to be pelleted with little brown disgusting things while I'm locked in that hell hole you call a "doggie carrier".
I guess it was kind of like making a big bowl of food and then sitting him it in - not too appetizing! Lesson learned. But as long as there are "no dog allowed" signs, I will be toting Seymour in his doggie carrier-minus the unwanted"in purse" buffet.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Driving While Directionally Impaired
I'm just glad that there is not a big warning stamped across our driver's licenses that state "directionally challenged". It's bad enough that people who know me or even see me driving find that out pretty quickly. I really try hard to appear normal.
Confession time - I am a well-grown woman who still has to look down at her wrists (to see which arm holds my watch) to double check a left or right turn. My watch is always on my left hand so I can look down quickly and confidently turn the right way. Unfortunately, when I don't know where I'm going I constantly guess wrong when I come to a T in the road. Since I recognize that I always choose the wrong direction, I try to psych myself out and say, "OK my first choice was right but I know I'm always wrong, so I'm going to save myself from another U-turn and turn left". And of course, that is wrong. I can feel my head tightening or my brain swelling because I'm making it work so hard to make that decision - left or right?
I can deal with left and right when people give me directions. What I can't deal with are people who say "turn west, then go north" - what does that mean? How am I supposed to know "west". Or the ones I want to strangle who say "go to the east entrance of the building". Of course, most building don't have "east" or "west" written above the door so I just circle the building (usually the wrong, long way around) until I find an unlocked door. I would have so much time left in my day if I didn't have this impairment. My house would be clean, I'd finally learn Spanish, I'd finish my first novel - but I can't do any of those things due to my impairment.
Long before GPS', when I took my kids out in the car, I would just tell them that we're going on an "adventure" since often I didn't know where we would end up. I knew where we were supposed to end up but that didn't always happen. They would happily go along with the adventure bit until they got tall enough to see my facial gyrations in the mirror, hear me mutter bad words and start to get a crick in their neck from all of the U-turns. They finally learned the truth about their mother's directional problem. We did what most families do - we all pretended everything was all right and didn't talk about it.
I felt sorry for people who would drive up to me while I was walking and ask for directions. When someone asks for something I like to try to help so, with authority I would give them directions - and hope I could get home before they could find me again. I didn't try to give bad directions, but I really had no other choice. Those are the only kind that I knew.
I thought my directional life would finally get better after I purchased my GPS. What a great idea! It was relatively easy to learn. I put the address into the machine and then I waited - and waited - and waited. First it had trouble finding the satellites, then it found the satellites but wouldn't tell me anything. "So, which way do I go, come on, give me a word - left or right?" I said to the air. Nothing. I finally gave up and turned the way I thought I was supposed to go - and the first thing that prissy female voice said to me was "make the first legal U-turn". Eeeeggghhhhh! I've had two different GPS' and neither will give me that first important direction - left or right. To make matters worse, the company that makes the GPS gives the lady a sarcastic, belittling voice when she slowly drips "re-calculating". You're waiting for her to add "dummy" and I think she does it under her breath. I already feel bad and am trying hard to make the most of my life with this impairment. I don't need a computer lady's mean-spirited reprimand to add to my insecurities. Why don't they program her to say "Oh my, your sweet person, you accidentally turned the wrong way. Just turn around when you get a chance". I feel better about myself just writing that.
It feels good to finally admit to my deficit. Maybe someday I'll let you in on my "cooking impairment".
Confession time - I am a well-grown woman who still has to look down at her wrists (to see which arm holds my watch) to double check a left or right turn. My watch is always on my left hand so I can look down quickly and confidently turn the right way. Unfortunately, when I don't know where I'm going I constantly guess wrong when I come to a T in the road. Since I recognize that I always choose the wrong direction, I try to psych myself out and say, "OK my first choice was right but I know I'm always wrong, so I'm going to save myself from another U-turn and turn left". And of course, that is wrong. I can feel my head tightening or my brain swelling because I'm making it work so hard to make that decision - left or right?
I can deal with left and right when people give me directions. What I can't deal with are people who say "turn west, then go north" - what does that mean? How am I supposed to know "west". Or the ones I want to strangle who say "go to the east entrance of the building". Of course, most building don't have "east" or "west" written above the door so I just circle the building (usually the wrong, long way around) until I find an unlocked door. I would have so much time left in my day if I didn't have this impairment. My house would be clean, I'd finally learn Spanish, I'd finish my first novel - but I can't do any of those things due to my impairment.
Long before GPS', when I took my kids out in the car, I would just tell them that we're going on an "adventure" since often I didn't know where we would end up. I knew where we were supposed to end up but that didn't always happen. They would happily go along with the adventure bit until they got tall enough to see my facial gyrations in the mirror, hear me mutter bad words and start to get a crick in their neck from all of the U-turns. They finally learned the truth about their mother's directional problem. We did what most families do - we all pretended everything was all right and didn't talk about it.
I felt sorry for people who would drive up to me while I was walking and ask for directions. When someone asks for something I like to try to help so, with authority I would give them directions - and hope I could get home before they could find me again. I didn't try to give bad directions, but I really had no other choice. Those are the only kind that I knew.
I thought my directional life would finally get better after I purchased my GPS. What a great idea! It was relatively easy to learn. I put the address into the machine and then I waited - and waited - and waited. First it had trouble finding the satellites, then it found the satellites but wouldn't tell me anything. "So, which way do I go, come on, give me a word - left or right?" I said to the air. Nothing. I finally gave up and turned the way I thought I was supposed to go - and the first thing that prissy female voice said to me was "make the first legal U-turn". Eeeeggghhhhh! I've had two different GPS' and neither will give me that first important direction - left or right. To make matters worse, the company that makes the GPS gives the lady a sarcastic, belittling voice when she slowly drips "re-calculating". You're waiting for her to add "dummy" and I think she does it under her breath. I already feel bad and am trying hard to make the most of my life with this impairment. I don't need a computer lady's mean-spirited reprimand to add to my insecurities. Why don't they program her to say "Oh my, your sweet person, you accidentally turned the wrong way. Just turn around when you get a chance". I feel better about myself just writing that.
It feels good to finally admit to my deficit. Maybe someday I'll let you in on my "cooking impairment".
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