The DIY Blues

Four years ago we painted our hallway.  I should say that I painted the hallway using a cool gray chosen by my resident architect.  I was skeptical about the color but he said, “Trust me.  It’ll look great.”  The applied paint took on a decidedly violet hue under the hallway’s fluorescent lights.  It did not look “great” and we both knew it right away. But because I am cheap and he is stubborn, I refused to buy more paint and he wouldn’t admit it was purple.  Now that enough time and daily wear-and-tear have elapsed to allow him to save face and me to part with the cash, he has repainted the hallway. He used the beige-ish color that matches the rest of the house and this time I agreed that it did look “great.” But alas, the baseboards were still purple. 

Since I am officially jobless, it is reasonable that I volunteer to repaint the baseboards the antique-white I should have used during our unfortunate blue period.  But if the baseboards are clean and fresh, won’t that make the hallway doors look dingy?  It just won’t do to have it done halfway, right?  But, unlike baseboards, doors are (mostly) at eye level, and my skill level with the brush doesn’t guarantee a smooth, drip-free surface. Not that guests wobbling to the bathroom after a few glasses of wine would be inclined to examine the door, but you know, details matter.

Negotiations commenced with each other and a professional painter.  We all settled on a reduced daily rate if I would do the prep work and all the real painter had to do was the fun stuff.  So for a week leading up to painting day I sanded baseboards, doors, and frames.  Now you’ve all seen those Do-It-Yourself shows on HGTV--the ones where Paige or whatever her name is paints and nails and installs vinyl flooring while wearing heels and dangly earrings?  I wish.

Sanding paint makes dust.  Lots of fine, fine dust.  The dust gets in your eyes, covers your clothes, and coats those little hairs in your nose until you look like some crazy abominable snowman.  You don’t wear cute shoes or earrings or makeup and maybe you don’t even shower first. It is very unattractive work. Vacuuming doesn’t get all the dust, and forget the Swiffer, which just sends it flying into the air.  And once you start sanding, where do you stop?  The hallway has a door leading into the foyer, where there are stairs, and a banister, and another door into the dining room where the window sill has dog scratches, and painting that area will make the living room look bad which leads to the sunroom and the kitchen and finally back to the hallway.  It’s like that kids’ book If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.  It just never ends, and we are only talking about the downstairs.  If I were an even more compulsive person than I am, I might calculate the quantity of linear feet of board involved in this process, but right now I’m too tired for that.

All of this is before even one drop of paint has touched the wood.  On day one our hired professional spends half of it prepping my prep work.  I’ve left too much dust everywhere, and all the door handles are still on.  He brings in drop cloths and masking tape.  When he finally starts painting, the work is beautiful but awfully slow to my meter-is-running mind.  By evening, all he has finished are the hallway doors, and it is clear that accomplishing this task will either take a full week of (paid) painting or I’m going to have to pick up a brush.  I mentally run the tab and go in search of painting clothes.

With a worried look, the painter fills up my plastic paint bucket and I go to work. I am not good at this, and I end up with dribbles of paint on the floor tile because I didn’t stick the blue masking tape close enough to the wood.  I get some Q-tips and the oderless mineral spirits, which is not odorless by the way, and try to clean up the spills.  It doesn’t really work but breathing the mineral spirits makes me feel a little better and I move on to the next area.   I keep going until my plastic bucket is empty, by which time I have almost as much paint on me as I’ve applied to the wood.  One particularly telling mark is the door-frame-shaped stripe running diagonally across my butt.

By day two I’ve abandoned all expectation of pristine results.  No more Q-tips and mineral spirits--I’ve got to move ahead here.   A little dirt in the corner?  The paint will cover that up, and who’s going to look down there anyway?  A drip on the tile?  It’s behind the sofa.  You know how when your first kid drops the pacifier you scald it before putting it back in his mouth, but by the time the second kid comes along you sort of look at the dropped pacifier to make sure there aren’t any bugs on it, then wipe it on your jeans and plug it back in?  Same thing here.  

Day three, and our real-painter budget is exhausted, so anything else that gets whitewashed is up to me.  My back and knees are killing me and Ted tells me not to paint anymore until the weekend, when he can help.  "Just write today," he says.  Good idea.  And since all this painting has given me man hands, I’ll get a manicure.  A professional one, at the salon where you get to pick from all those colors on the shelf.  A cool blue sounds perfect.  Trust me, it’ll look great.

Exercise Dropout

Is there such thing as Remedial Exercise?   I may have graduated with all A’s from SMU, but when it comes to workouts, I’m completely at the bottom of the class.  I wasn’t behind the door when coordination and stamina were handed out; I had stumbled into it and knocked myself out.

I’m not sure if my klutziness is due to nature or nurture, but even as a kid I was hopeless.  In those days Little League teams were off limits to girls unless, like my friend Alicia, you were really good and your parents threatened to sue somebody.  The only “sport” generally available to East Texas girls at that time was baton twirling, and neither my parents’ budget nor priorities included a spot for me at Miss Tammy’s School of Tap and Twirling. It’s a loss I live with every day, and I suppose it’s pointless to speculate how differently I might have turned out if I had been allowed to train with a true baton professional.  But the library was free, so I took what was available to me and became a reader instead of a majorette.  I spent evenings and weekends sprawled across my bed, exercising my brain instead of my body.

In my early twenties, I tried to “go for the burn” in aerobics class but flamed out after only a few months.   In 1990 Ted and I visited Yosemite and went for what we thought was an easy morning walk.  The guidebook failed to mention that over the one-mile distance, the trail rose one thousand feet vertically.  Though I was newly pregnant, I managed the mountain without requiring an airlift. But that hike lasted me nearly twenty years.  Another time I tried to show Sophie how to do a cartwheel.  She was five and I was thirty-five, and this was a big mistake.  My legs got over alright, but I felt like the two ends of my body were coming apart somewhere in the middle.  I spent a week on the heating pad.  To add insult to injury, Sophie later told Ted, “Mommy shouldn’t do cartwheels.  She doesn’t even know how to ride a bike.”  I did too know how.  I had a blue bike with a flowered banana seat when I was five and I didn’t use training wheels, so there.   Just because she had never seen me ride didn’t mean I didn’t know how.  I think she believed me, but I’m not sure I’ve ever actually proved it to her.

A little over two years ago I had a life-changing moment.  We were on a family vacation, and Ted grabbed a pair of jeans out of the hotel room dresser.  He put them on, then looked puzzled.  “These jeans are too big,” he said.  I took a closer look and realized he had picked up my jeans by mistake.  I came home and joined a gym. 

 The first time I went in the club, I was worried it would be full of young hotties working out in spandex and full makeup. I was relieved to note that I was younger than most of the patrons and no fatter than others.  I thought, “How hard can this be?”

I started with a Pilates class so I wouldn’t sweat.  I could barely touch my toes and certainly couldn’t do a push-up, but I congratulated myself because, technically, I was exercising.  The class was apparently so easy for the other members that few attended and it was soon cancelled.  I moved on to Yoga, again with the not-sweating in mind, but felt like a fool when I fell over during Warrior pose and banged my knees and elbows on the floor going from Down Dog to Cobra.  And people say yoga is relaxing.  Step class was worse, and I found myself slinking out before it was over.  That wasn’t exercise.  It was choreography.

Finally, I tried a Bodysculpting class. The instructor at first told me it wasn’t a cardio workout, but looked at me and reconsidered. “For you, it might be,” she said.  I started out using three pound hand weights and couldn’t isolate a single muscle in my body.  Everything hurt, so I wasn’t even sure what part was supposed to be sore.   My only goals were to keep moving and not faint.  By the end of the hour I was drenched in sweat and could barely stagger out the door. 

Every week I watched the clock during class, thinking to myself, “Why am I here?  I hate to exercise.  I’m a book person, not an athlete.  Smart people don’t really need this, do we? ”  Then one day I heard the impossibly thin woman with thirty pounds on her bar compliment the very pregnant woman next to her, “I’m an Obstetrician and I’m so glad to see you here working out.”  I went to get heavier weights.

The shame of quitting class early while all the old ladies and pregnant women were still moving and holding 10 pounds in each hand was enough to keep me there for the full hour most days.  Eventually, things got easier.  I was still a pitiful specimen by anyone’s standards, but I stayed on until my exercise pants got so loose I risked a wardrobe malfunction with every rep. 

Fitness has been a long time coming, but now I’ve lost forty-seven pounds and have been exercising more or less consistently for over two years.  I’ve worked up to fifteen pounds on the barbell (with the bar and clamps it’s close to twenty, so give me a break…)  And although some days I have to talk myself into going to class instead of sitting home reading, I think I have turned a corner.  A couple of weeks ago I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and instead of eating a carton of Bluebell, I found myself at the gym burning off steam.  Then I ate the ice cream.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a total klutz and many of the grannies still out-lift me. But I can do ten push-ups in a row now.  We won’t talk about that part on the back of my arms that still jiggles, but  I’m getting sort of buff in my biceps and shoulders and sometimes I even wear a tank top just to show off a little.  So I don’t forget how far I’ve come, I keep a snapshot from that fateful vacation on my refrigerator door.  It’s fine with me if my husband wears the pants in our family; I just don’t want them to be mine.

The Royal WE

Last weekend my husband installed stone veneer over our brick fireplace.  It was an ambitious project, but he’s good at that sort of thing, so it turned out well and adds color and texture to the living room.  When friends visited later, I showed them the new fireplace “we” installed.  Ted looked at me and said, “What’s this WE, Kimosabe?”

Well, I did help.  I held the tape measure and I brought him the drill and I made lunch while he worked. I made sure he used the hand-truck to carry the stone so he didn’t hurt his back and I vacuumed up the dust even though there wasn’t supposed to be any dust.  I may have just been the gopher, but I was also the cheerleader during the process and the bragger when it was done.  So I should count as WE, right?

This WE business goes both ways.  When it’s his mother’s birthday WE always remember to send flowers.  WE make donations and write thank-you cards, and WE buy all the Christmas gifts for  the extended family.  When Mom calls to say how much she likes the bouquet, he tells her we’re glad she likes it as I say, “What’s this WE…” with a smirk.

But really, I don’t mind being a WE.  I’m happy that we can do handy home projects and, oh yeah, have a good job.   And he tells me he appreciates that we have birthdays and Christmas and doctor appointments and school conferences covered so he can focus on the things he needs to do.  And then there’s that having-someone-to-love part, and a standing date for New Year’s Eve.

It seems a bit old-fashioned on the surface, but over the years we’ve arrived at a division of roles that works for us.  Not everything tracks along traditional gender lines—I handle our finances because that’s what I’m good at and because I’m a miser and he does a lot of cooking because that’s what he’s good at and I’m always on a diet.  I can’t handle rodents; he can’t handle puke.  So it’s a good partnership.  We’ve got each other’s backs.

The scene of the proposal, 20 years later. 
It's still a body shop, on Melrose Avenue in L.A.

This week marks the 23^rd anniversary of our engagement, and I credit this WE thinking for helping us make it this long when so many couples we know haven’t.  We count the years from our engagement, not just the wedding, because that’s when the WE really started.  From the day he bought my engagement ring on Zale’s deferred billing and proposed on the sidewalk in front of an auto-body shop, we’ve been in this thing together. The WE didn’t displace the ME overnight, but somewhere between the second cross-country move and the dog, the mind-meld happened and now we’re stuck.  There are things we know about each other that we’ve never told another soul, and the scariest thing either of us can imagine is internet dating.

All this is not to say that we always think alike, or even agree.  More often than I’d like to admit, we resemble a Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde monster that doesn’t know what it wants.  He turns on the light while I’m still sleeping and watches too much mindless TV.  I overreact to petty slights and don’t buy everything on the grocery list and then he has to go back out to the store before dinner.  We butt heads daily over little things and one of us always ends up giving in, though not always with a glad heart.  And I’ll bet we will probably even disagree about this story.  Sometimes it takes us a while to get from ME to WE, but so far, so good.  We may not be speaking, but we’re never far apart.

Bus Stop

     Just like in that 60’s song, Ted and I met at the bus stop. We didn’t have an umbrella, but a gust of hot wind scattered his papers across the sidewalk and we chatted after chasing them down. We discovered we were both waiting for the shuttle to Allen House, an apartment complex near downtown Houston that catered to young professionals. The shuttle was a major amenity for the residents, not only because we could save on downtown parking, but also because it provided a venue to meet others in the days before online dating; as such, we called it “The Love Bus.”

     Our offices were on opposite blocks of the same street, and we crossed paths that July day only because I had worked a bit later than usual, while Ted had skipped out a little early. The next day we followed the same routine; I hung around the office for an extra half-hour, while he watched out the window and bolted from his drafting table when he saw me at the corner. We both tried to make it look coincidental.

     After several days of this charade, things seemed to be going in the right direction until he told me he was moving to a new place and wouldn’t be on the bus after the end of the week. That Friday, a crisis kept me at the office even past my new departure time, and the bus whizzed by as I hurried along the street toward the stop. I wanted to cry when I saw the bus. There it went, with Ted aboard for the last time, and we hadn’t exchanged numbers. That’s it, I thought, I’ll never see him again.

     I walked on, kicking myself for not paying attention to the time. Then, I looked toward the bus stop and there he was, sitting on the bench, watching me. I couldn’t believe it… it was just like a scene in a movie. I swear, music even swelled in my head. I hurried toward him and said, “The bus just went by… I thought you were gone!”

     He just smiled and said, “I waited for you.”

     Twenty-four years later, I still have the slip of paper he gave me that afternoon with his name and phone number written on it. I had to ask him how to pronounce Kollaja; little did I know then how well I would learn it myself. I keep the note pinned in a glass shadow box between Alex’s Boy Scout ribbon and a beaded bracelet reading ‘Mom’s Girl’ that Sophie made for me when she was five. I see the paper, and the mementos of our life together, every day and am glad, so glad, he didn’t get on that bus without me.

Audiobook Review-Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

Audiobook Review-Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver

Click on Elaine's Reading Review Link at Right

Book Review- The Piano Teacher

Here's an experiment-I'm always talking with friends about books I've read, so I've added a link to a separate blog (http://www.scratchpaperbooks.blogspot.com/) for reviews of books, stories, or other interesting material I've read.  I hope you will leave your own comments about the books, and suggest other interesting reading for the rest of us.

The Piano Teacher  by Janice Y.K. Lee

     I read this debut novel straight through in a couple of days, trying to finish it before the author’s lecture at the DMA yesterday afternoon. The novel tells the story of Will Truesdale and the two women who are in love with him; one in 1941 as the Japanese invade Hong Kong and the other 11 years later as the city rebuilds. Though there are a few gaps in the plot which require the reader to fill in the blanks, it is a well-written historical novel with interesting characters and unique cultural insights about a time and place which hasn’t previously gotten much print attention.

     The author is a young Korean-American woman living in Hong Kong with her husband and four kids (including twins born two days after she sent the final manuscript to her publisher!) I was truly inspired by her account of the writing process and was impressed by her poise in dealing with questions from the audience, including one from a nitwit who basically gave away the primary plot twist of the book! Not everyone in the auditorium had read (or finished) the book at that point, and an audible gasp went up from the crowd when the proverbial beans were spilled. Instead of calling the woman a clueless moron, which is what I probably would have done in the same situation, Ms. Lee just said “Well, for those of you who haven’t read the book yet—just forget you heard that” and moved on to a more discreet questioner.

     Ms. Lee signed books after the lecture and graciously thanked each person for being there. I was watching, and imagining how it might feel to sit at a book-signing table myself someday.

     I’d recommend this book as a good weekend or book-club read, although probably more women than men will enjoy it (sorry, guys.)

The Christmas Newsletter of the Decade

     December 2009—It’s that time of year when the ubiquitous Christmas Newsletter makes its welcome, and sometimes not-so-welcome, appearance in mailboxes and inboxes. Face it, some of us just don’t have that much interesting to say from year to year, or at least nothing that’s interesting to anyone but ourselves and our mothers. But now I find myself at the end of a decade, and realize that maybe, if I comb ten years’ accumulated living, I can find something worth sharing.

     So much has happened since December 1999 that I hardly know where to begin. I distinctly remember where I was then—where I worked, what car I drove, where I lived; and I can easily recount those same details today, though almost every answer has changed in a way that would have been incomprehensible to me at that time. But the really big question is not where I am now, but rather: How did I make it from being an accountant whose baby was in kindergarten, with a new puppy, and driving carpool in a minivan to writing this letter as a graying grad student with one kid (sort of) out of the house, one really old dog, and still no red convertible? About the only thing that’s the same as in ’99 is Ted. Well, he’s mostly the same, just a little grayer like me, and thank goodness he’s still here. We were married in 1989, so I guess that means 2010 will start our third decade together. That alone is pretty amazing to think about.

     So what has happened during the last ten years? It’s tough, but all I can do is try to list ten of the most memorable happenings—events that have had a lasting impact on our family life. They’re listed chronologically, and because I’m getting old, the dates are mostly approximate. The list is purely subjective and purely my own—if you asked anyone else around my house, I’m sure they would tell a completely different story.

1. Summer 1999 - Patch. Though technically outside the time parameters of this list, not much has made a bigger difference in our family’s life than adopting this neurotic dog, so I must include him. Alternately lovable and maddening, he has made us laugh, cry, and argue with each other and our neighbors. At 10+, he’s finally mellowed a bit and is definitely passing through the twilight of his life. I know he won’t be around for the next decade’s newsletter, and though I hate to say it, I know I’m going to miss him when he’s gone.

2. Jan 2000 - My only (paying) job this century—AIA Dallas. Too many stories to include here, but AIA colored nearly everything we did for over nine years. Along the way, I took a turn at almost every task in the office, and Ted volunteered for just about every leadership position available. The kids even helped in the office and at events. For better and worse, AIA was always there.

3. Aug 2003 - Both Alex and Sophie changed campuses to participate in RISD’s Magnet Program. This was possibly the change that has had the biggest effect on us all. Both kids blossomed in their new schools and discovered friends and interests that I am sure will be beneficial to them for the rest of their lives. Sophie began to actively develop the artistic and creative skills that make her the unique and talented person she is today, and Alex found a meaningful outlet for his interest in all things scientific, mathematical, and mechanical.

4. Sept 2003 - Ted and his friend Paul left their old firm to become entrepreneurs. In business for only 10 (count ‘em, 10!) days, they sent the computers back to Dell and both went to work for Gensler Dallas. In hindsight, it was probably the best thing for all concerned, considering health insurance and all, but I sure didn’t see it that way at the time…. In the words of Forrest Gump, “That’s all I have to say about that.”

5. Spring 2004 - With the kids in new schools and Ted’s new job, we packed up and moved north of I-635. After nine years in Lake Highlands it was a big step, and we even changed churches. Many of our friends were not happy, and some have never forgiven us. The neighbors mentioned in Item 1 of this list were not, however, sorry to see us, and Patch, go.

6. Fall 2004 - Attended the dinner party that changed my life, where I chatted with a woman who suggested I might enjoy a non-credit literature class at SMU. She said there was no homework, and the cost was reasonable. That is SMU’s plan: draw you in with an easy, inexpensive class,  offer to let you audit a real class at a big discount, and then  reel you in like a fish. In 2006 I signed on for the Master of Liberal Arts degree, which, at one class per semester would take about six years to complete and then likely wouldn’t even qualify me for a new job. Insane, I know. But I told Ted that this counted as my official midlife crisis and was definitely cheaper than a Corvette. To his credit, he went along with my madness, and he and the kids have been my unfailing cheerleaders through countless classes, papers, and projects. Graduation is on the horizon in May 2010.

7. Spring 2007 - Sensing, we now know correctly, that the North Dallas housing market was just about to boil over, we listed and sold the Glenhurst Drive house in 12 days, and then had to find a place to move. Not surprisingly, chaos ensued. Family harmony cost, among other things, one new flat-screen TV for Ted and laptops for each of the kids, but the natives were at last temporarily calmed. Not quite three years later, Ted and I are already thinking about the next (empty-nester) house. What is wrong with us?

8. June 2008 - Oh my God, what a month. On June 3, my dad had emergency quintuple bypass surgery. Very serious, but he survived, and is thankfully doing well now. On June 11, my nephew Lonnie, aged 17 and born the same day as Alex, died unexpectedly. And on June 18, our dear friend Gerri lost her battle with cancer. May we, and all our family and friends, never have another month like that one.

9. Spring 2009 - Alex achieved the perfect “trifecta” and made his old Mom and Dad the proudest we’ve ever been, which is saying a great deal indeed! With Alex as co-captain and driver, his robotics team won a (repeat) national title at the Battlebots competition--it was like he was the star quarterback at the Super Bowl as far as we were concerned; he graduated in the Top 10 of his high school class and got a full scholarship to go with it; and…he stood on stage, alone, in front of hundreds of people and performed a beautiful solo during his final school choir concert. All fantastic accomplishments, but the solo was the one that made me cry the most. I’ll never forget it.

10. Summer 2009 - Freshly unemployed (by choice), I enrolled in a writing class as part of my SMU program. Going in, I wondered if I even had a story to tell, but the experience has been like stepping through a door and into a world I never even knew existed. Since then I’ve started a blog, gotten published in the Dallas Morning News, and even begun a novel. Now if I could just get someone to pay me to write…

 

So there you have it—ten big things that have shaped the lives of the Kollaja family over the past decade. There were obviously many more, but I had to choose from what I can still remember. Really, I know that not many people care how smart and talented and good-looking my kids are except me and Ted (and maybe their grandparents) or where we went on our family vacations. Those things are interesting, and fun (or maybe not so fun), and they have a time and a place to be shared. But looking back, those aren’t the really important things. It’s the decisions we make and the way we live day-in-and-day-out, that tell who we really are. I’m thinking about what I want the list I’ll make in December 2019 to look like, and I hope it’s as satisfying to me as this one. I am sure there will be new things to report that I can’t even imagine today. Who knows, I might be a famous author or have a Ph.D. by then, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll have that red convertible too.

Wishing you and yours a happy, healthy 2010 and beyond!

It's All About The Outfit

     Some day, hopefully in about ten years give or take, my only daughter will decide to marry a wonderful, kind (maybe even rich!) man. I will be thrilled and will cry at the thought of my little girl walking down the aisle. It’s too bad I won’t be there to see it, because I know she will be a beautiful bride. No, I don’t have some dread disease that will take me away before the blissful day; it’s just that I plan to offer her a substantial sum of money to run away and tie the knot in some exotic locale, far from my prying eyes. I’m sure that it will be worth every penny and will add years to our loving relationship.

     Every fall we repeat the same routine. As soon as Sophie’s birthday festivities are completed mid- September, she starts planning her costume for Halloween. When she was little, things were easy; we just went to Toys-R-Us and bought a glittery costume, which was worn in dress-up play around the house until the big day. No tears, no second-guessing. Lately, no such luck.

     For teenagers, Halloween costumes must be original and they must be unique; but never, never, should the costume require others to guess your creative intentions or for that matter, encourage them to even look at you. The costume must be instantly recognizable, yet completely different from anything that anyone else in the neighborhood might be wearing. If it’s a duplicate, that's bad; but if it makes anyone actually notice you, that is infinitely worse. The dichotomy of these two lines of reasoning (?) makes me want to scream.

     Two weeks ago, Sophie decided to attend a Halloween party as singer Amy Winehouse, with her friend and sidekick as Britney Spears. Think of it as North-South White Trash night. It sounded like a funny idea which wouldn’t cost much and could be accomplished with a few clothing items already on hand, plus a can of Red Bull for Amy and some big curlers for Brit’s hair. But that idea was abandoned for some mysterious reason, and others were bandied about. Finally, at T-minus-7 days, the decision was made to go as either Galinda (from the musical Wicked), or Barbie. Either one would require some class of sparkly, pink outfit. Little girls never really grow up, do they?

     In pursuit of the perfect, inexpensive, Galinda/Barbie dress, we drove to the Goodwill store. This is a sad, sad place, and proves that the slow economy has taken its toll on the poor in our land. Sophie reported that previous excursions to Goodwill for theater costumes had proved quite rewarding, with full racks of sequined gowns and ghastly bridesmaid castoffs. Today, nothing; only a few tired dresses hung on the racks. No ruby slippers or pink handbags were available at all.

     So on to similar situations at the Salvation Army and the Genesis Thrift stores. Our last hope, three hours and forty-seven miles later, was Buffalo Exchange. There we found the perfect pink satin bubble dress and sparkly pink stiletto heels to turn a leggy blond into a life-sized Barbie. All she needed to complete the illusion was a spray tan and a guy to dress up as plastic-haired Ken.

     I was ready and eager with my credit card. For $19.50 we could justify the afternoon of driving and searching and hang a “Mission Accomplished” banner across the back of the Honda. But no. At the last minute, Sophie decided that the Barbie concept was flawed and no one would understand. I stood helpless at the checkout; all I could do was offer money and support. The choice was hers.

     We left the store empty handed and silent. It was a long ride home, and I’m not sure who was more upset. All I wanted was for her to be happy, but in hindsight maybe it’s just not that easy. With choice comes responsibility, and that’s a tough thing to accept, whether you’re 15 or 45.

     Ted says I enabled her, and should have called off the chase at the second store. Maybe so, but I find it ironic that he has since agreed to help her find a cowboy hat and chaps for her most recent costume idea. We’ll see if he drags into the house later this afternoon looking frantically for the wine bottle. On second thought, maybe I won’t have to miss her wedding after all. I’ll just let Dad take her to pick out a dress.

Unlawful Restraint

     God is going to smite me. This afternoon I stopped by a local consignment store, where I browsed for an outfit to wear to an upcoming formal party. As most of my friends know, I’m slowly succeeding in my weight loss effort, which makes the resale store a great option for something I might only wear once. But my recent dieting victories sometime make me overly optimistic about what size clothing I can actually fit into; this, I believe, was the root of today’s problem.

     I found a lovely chiffon blouse which perfectly complemented a black skirt I already own. It still carried the original tags, so I could tell it had been quite expensive. But it must have been on the rack for some time, because even the second-hand price had been discounted. My bargain-loving genes perked up, and I decided to try it on. It was a size Medium.

     The blouse had a zipper running down the center two-thirds of one side seam—a common feature of ladies’ eveningwear. Any woman who has worn a garment of this type knows very well that the zipper placement makes it much easier to put on than to take off, and that extracting oneself may require significant bodily contortions. This is true even if the piece in question fits you. Even then, it is advisable to have a good friend or husband nearby, just in case.

     I stepped into the shop’s tiny dressing room and wiggled into the blouse. It was a little snug. I stepped out to look in the three-way mirror and, ever the optimist, determined that if I could lose another five pounds before the party, it might be a go.

     Back in the fitting room, I tried to lift the blouse over my head. No luck. The top was too tight, and the room was so small that I couldn’t maneuver my arms sufficiently upward to work myself free. I tried tugging and twisting, and can only imagine the noises I made in the process. Still nothing. I was trapped.

     The only other people in the shop were a teenage cashier and the male shop owner. I considered calling out for the girl to come help me, but ruled the idea out on the grounds that 1) she might possibly know one of my kids, and 2) she would be even more embarrassed than me if she had to help rescue me from the blouse. The man was totally out of the question. I was wearing a hot-pink bra.

     Now sometimes good people have to make tough choices, and at that moment I honestly felt I had few options. I could have walked up to the cashier wearing the blouse, paid for it, and cut it off when I got home, but I just couldn’t bear the shame. So I grabbed the fabric and ripped it open at both ends of the zipper. It tore pretty easily, but that was probably my adrenaline at work. I’ve heard of people performing all manner of amazing feats in traumatic situations such as this.

     Too mortified to admit my shameful secret, I replaced the blouse on the hanger with the torn seam carefully camouflaged and smuggled it back onto the rack between the other items I had brought into the dressing room. I quietly ducked out the door as another customer was coming in. The phrase “banned for life” flitted through my mind.

     When I sheepishly shared this tale with Ted after dinner, his only response was, “Do you make this stuff up?” Sadly, no. I only wish I had that much imagination.

**************************************************************************************

Epilogue: After an evening of soul-searching, I returned the next day and purchased the ruined blouse, paying in cash. I did not confess my crime.

Searching for Poe-Now That’s Scary

     Today is the 160th anniversary of the death of author Edgar Allan Poe. I’m sure you’re asking yourself why I know, or even care, about such obscure trivia, but hey, I’ve always had a thing for interesting but otherwise useless information. The real truth is that I learned about the milestone this past weekend while visiting the Baltimore/DC area. Poe lived, worked, and died in Baltimore, so the city’s tourist literature makes a big deal about him. Sophie complains that we drag her to every art museum in every city we visit, so as a compromise we decided to do a literary tour instead. But like a Poe tale, not everything we encountered on our journey that day was quite what we were expecting.

     One weekend too early for the re-enactment of Poe’s funeral and other “official” events, we set off on a self-guided tour, with info gleaned from the internet and guided by the schizophrenic GPS unit in our rental car. First stop was the Annabel Lee Tavern (named for the sorrowful, last poem Poe wrote before his death at age 40) where we planned to have lunch. When we arrived, we discovered it was more of a bar than a restaurant and didn’t open till evening. The proprietor was washing down the sidewalk with bleach-not an auspicious sign. Sophie was too miffed to even let us take her picture out front.

     We moved on to the Poe Museum, located in the actual house where Poe lived with his aunt and wife (he married his 13 year old cousin--more weirdness). As we approached the house, the neighborhood became increasingly ominous, and not in a gothic way. Madame GPS kept changing her mind mid-street, as if she weren’t sure we really needed to go there at all. To our chagrin, we found ourselves in The Projects--the Baltimore, Murder-Capital-of-the-US Projects—and locked the car’s doors. Sophie asked why Poe had lived in such a bad part of town.

     Across from Poe’s tiny, shuttered row house, a security guard sat barricaded in his truck. As we slowly passed, he motioned for us to roll down the window. He called out,“Looking for the Poe house?” I can’t imagine how he guessed. We didn’t want to leave the car, and all our luggage, unattended even long enough to go see if the place was open.

     Finally, we tried to find the Poe gravesite. The address was even deeper in the ‘hood than the Museum, so we (wisely, I believe) abandoned our plan for the macabre photo op next to Poe’s tombstone. We feared that even if we didn’t lose our lives in that cemetery, we might likely lose our wallets and cellphones, or worse, the car.

     Four hours after we began the Poe pilgrimage, we ended up at the place we didn’t even intend to go that day: The Baltimore Museum of Art. Among the Matisses and Picassos, we were relieved to find a temporary exhibit of Poe illustrations by famous artists. It wasn’t the tour we had expected, but at that point, it had to do. Sophie didn’t protest. One word sums up my intentions regarding future plans for a Poe tour, and Baltimore in general: Nevermore.