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.

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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.

Revenge of the Yearbook

     From my earliest school days, I recall my teacher’s threat whenever any infraction of rules, large or small, was committed: “This will go in your PERMANENT RECORD!” As a young child, I was cowed by the ominous pronouncement, but as I got older and wiser, I began to dismiss the idea of an all-encompassing history as a mere dusty file hidden in the school’s basement, forgotten and harmless.

     But now I understand all too well that I should have paid more attention to the somber prophecy of Mrs. Geisen—who terrified me with her size 12 orthopedic shoes and Far Side hair bun. I am sure even she could not have realized the true portent of her threat and the culmination of the “Permanent Record” scenario. It’s Facebook.

     Early this morning, among the usual updates in my in-box, I found an unnerving post: a horrifying pseudo-professional portrait of myself at age 16, pre-orthodontics, with a then-boyfriend sporting Napoleon Dynamite hair. My own long-forgotten copy of this image was destroyed eons ago, and I don’t even recall the circumstance of its origin. I was mortified to find this reminder of my ugly-duckling, bad-judgment-in-romance self haunting me from the screen of my laptop.

     The first order of business was to get the ghastly likeness off my Facebook page before anyone else could see it. I spent precious minutes Googling the correct incantation to rid myself of the terrible thing, all the while panic-stricken that someone I know now (read: my own children) might stumble upon it and ridicule me mercilessly.

     The source of this embarrassing surprise was a former classmate, whom I had recently befriended on Facebook, after our mothers had visited together in our hometown. I was reluctant to re-establish contact with him, as I’ve spent nearly 30 years distancing myself from the crushing humiliation of high school. Like a victim in the witness protection program, I’ve been hiding behind my married name in a series of populous cities for most of my adult life. But nostalgia got the better of me, and I opened the door to my old life just a crack.

     I soon realized that resurfacing may not have been my best idea. Several other classmates saw my name on his list and sent me friend requests. Most I just ignored. But some had been close enough to require a positive response, though their status updates proved we now share few, if any, common views. So I just hid their posts. Out of sight, out of mind.

     Then these friends began to tag me in old yearbook pictures. Aside from the laughable 80’s hair and fashion, I wasn’t embarrassed enough to protest. At least I was thin in those days. But now that an unwelcome old boyfriend has started digitizing his ancient photo album and sharing it indiscriminately, I’ve had enough. It’s disconcerting to think that someone would even keep a memento like that for so many years, much less feel the need to display it publicly.

     So now I’m back on the lam from my past, and my “Permanent Record”, having “un-friended” the whole lot from the class of ’82. My daughter tells me that they won’t be notified that I’ve cut them off, so I’ve got a good head start. But if you’re reading this and happen to have incriminating photos of me in disco clothes and big hair, please contact me first before you post them for the world, and my teenagers, to see. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.

Mother of the Homecoming Date

     My girl has a date for the Homecoming dance. She is ecstatic. I am petrified. She may be old enough for this, but what about me? And what, exactly, is the proper role for the Mother-of-the-Homecoming-Date in today’s exaggerated high-school social scene? I’ve checked, and Emily Post provides no guidance whatsoever on this momentous rite of passage. Too bad, because I could really use some help. To do too little will make me seem as though I don’t care, and to do too much will make me seem like a helicopter mom living vicariously through her child’s social engagement. Like so many other parenting challenges, it’s a tricky balancing act.
     The first question on my mind is The Mum. Who buys it, and how extravagant should it be? Mums are a very important part of the Homecoming scene, and big business for our school’s PTA. Mum Moms have been toiling for months cutting ribbon and assembling the elaborate corsages that both girls (and boys!) wear to the big game. Friends who grew up in other areas of the country seem perplexed by the hugely beribboned mum; I take it from their attitudes that our custom is a peculiarly Texan affair. I wasn’t previously aware of the cultural disparity, and thought all high school girls everywhere spent Homecoming day wearing corsages that make them resemble a Kentucky Derby winner. But what I personally find unusual is the trend in large armband corsages, complete with ribbons and teddy bears, for the guys. When I was in high school, a young man would rather have been boiled in oil than alight from his pickup truck sporting such an accessory. Obviously, times have changed.

     Then, there’s The Homecoming Dress. Fortunately for me, this particular detail was settled before I even knew it was an issue; I was thus saved much wailing and gnashing of teeth during hours of fruitless shopping at Northpark. My daughter found the “perfect” dress and shoes during the summer and bought them with an optimistic eye toward the future. When she announced that the outfit was for Homecoming, I was skeptical. “Do Freshmen go to the Homecoming dance? “ I asked. She accused me of doubting her ability to land a date. But truly, I never doubted her success for a minute (her dating prospects are what keep me awake nights) and attributed my confusion to a distant memory, from the dark ages of my own high school years, that only Juniors and Seniors attend the dance. Many, many things seem to start earlier now, and I clearly still have some distance to travel in catching up with the times.

     Finally, there’s The Pre-Dance Photo Op. Previously, I’ve seen caravans of cars lined up at neighbors’ homes around this time of year and asked myself, “Who died?” Nobody, fortunately. The traffic jam was just the dance attendees, along with their parents, gathering at one photogenic house to snap dozens of pictures in finery they’ll never wear again, with dates they may not even be talking to next week. This year, by some mysterious lottery, we have been designated as photo hosts. While I’m flattered that my home has been deemed worthy of the honor, I’m also a bit nervous. Of course I’ll have to clean the house, and perhaps even paint the front hall. But should I serve snacks to the other parents? Cocktails? Maybe I’ll have one now.

     The only saving grace in this whole affair is that my daughter’s date can’t drive yet, so there’s no worry about her riding off alone with a boy who has borrowed his mom’s nice car for the big night. At this point, unsupervised car travel might actually put me over the edge. Instead, I assume we parents will be pressed into chauffer service for the game and dinner (another detail to work out), to the dance, and back home afterward. At least I hope that’s what everyone has in mind. I really, really don’t want to have to pitch in for a limo. Not yet. We all need to save something for the kids’ weddings, or at least for the Senior Prom.

Beware of The Lost Symbol

      Literature lovers of the world, unite! There’s a threat forming on the horizon, and it’s coming our way this Tuesday, September 15th. Together we can defeat this menace! Yes, I’m talking about the new Dan Brown novel, The Lost Symbol.
     Last week Amazon.com posted a banner ad on its home page promising to deliver my copy of the new book before breakfast on release day. The ad touted the manuscript as so secret that it was under lock and key at the publisher’s location and required “two separate people” to access the supply. Pray tell, what is the alternative to “two separate people?” Would it be two conjoined people or simply a staffer with a dual personality? Maybe Mr. Brown wrote the copy for the advertisement, too.

     I know, I’m just a neophyte writer who can barely give away 500 words to the local paper, and Dan Brown is a bestselling jillionaire with movie deals and everything. But come on, his books (and the movies too, with Tom Hanks and his bouffant hair) are laughable. Very profitably laughable for Mr. Brown, to be sure, but that doesn’t make them any better for the rest of us.

       Back in the dark ages of 2003 I began hearing buzz about a new book called The Da Vinci Code. A pretty cool title, I admit, it jiggles the imagination of art lovers and mystery lovers alike. Critics were raving and friends were reading it while waiting in the carpool line, so lemming-like, I got a copy. At first, I was willing to go along with the wild yarn about the Knights of Templar and their secret antics. But then Mr. Brown veered down the path of Jesus’ supposed dalliance with Mary Magdalene and the whole "royal bloodline" business. At that point I began to feel the same way about The Da Vinci Code as I had felt about The Celestine Prophecy back in the 90’s. Both books seem just real enough to get people all riled up, debating whether the claptrap could actually be true. But in the end it’s all just pure hooey. I finished the book but had completely lost interest by then--I saw that red-haired brother coming a mile away.

     As if I didn’t hate the book enough already, another nail was driven into the coffin when I visited Paris in 2006. According to our Parisian tour guide, Mr. Brown apparently didn’t even consult a map of the city while writing. In addition to offering educational tours of real French historical sites, Isabella also led tourist groups on The Da Vinci Code walks in which they tried, unsuccessfully, to retrace Robert Langdon’s path through Paris on the fateful night described in the story. The main problem with the attempted tour was that Brown’s geographical references are so disjointed that it is impossible to follow the alleged route. My own knowledge of Paris is limited, but from Isabella I understood the problem to be something like saying Langdon went from downtown Dallas to Oak Cliff via Plano. You just can’t get there from here.

     Then came Angels & Demons, written first but (rightly in my opinion) not deemed publishable until The Da Vinci Code became such a hot item. Where do I start? Ludicrous does not even begin to describe this ‘prequel’ to Langdon’s Paris adventure. The story is so outrageous that after I read it I yearned for a good Danielle Steel classic to rid myself of the bad taste. I don’t remember the exact point at which I began to gnash my teeth in response to the dopey tale, but it may have been when Mr. Brown reveals the bad priest to be the love child of The Pope and a nun, conceived via artificial insemination. The love child part is not so bad--even celibates can fall in love--but artificial insemination? Give me a break. It all came apart for me though, when Robert Langdon falls out of the helicopter and into the river, not too worse for the wear and ready to go jump Vittoria’s bones. At that point I just wanted to toss the book into the trash, but had to restrain myself because it was a borrowed copy. As my grandmother used to say, that book just got “worser and worser.”

     I’ll probably read Mr. Brown’s new offering, if only to give myself justification for complaint. I wouldn’t actually want a The Lost Symbol on my bookshelf where others might see it, so I’ll probably have to wait a while and sneak a library copy into the house. I’m sure that even then it will still be on the New York Times best-seller list. If this all sounds like sour grapes, maybe I’m guilty. But another part is just morbid fascination with bad pop-culture writing. Maybe if I read another amazingly awful tale, and get a big bottle of whisky to wash it down, I’ll start getting some ideas for my own outrageous pseudo-historical novel. Like the saying goes, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” But if I do write something so crazy, I’ll definitely need a pen name. Suggestions, anyone?

Full Moon Over Spring Creek

     It began as a typical Saturday morning errand to the dry cleaners. Before it was over, a possible crime had been committed and more than one person, including me, would end up looking mighty foolish.
     A dry cleaning run is never complete without a visit to the adjacent donut shop, so my daughter waited in the car with her breakfast while I took the week’s laundry inside. It was morning rush hour and several people were in line ahead of me. While I waited my turn, a thirty-something guy came in and stood at the back of the line. He was tall, and was wearing gray gym shorts and a baseball cap. As I left the shop, I noticed his girlfriend waiting in a white sedan parked directly in front of the store’s windows.

     Because of the donut stop, I had parked several spaces away from the cleaner’s door, so the tall man probably didn’t notice me, or my daughter, sitting in the car. I hadn’t driven away yet because I was trying unsuccessfully to bum an apple fritter from her. And that’s when I saw the crime.

     The perpetrator was now alone in the shop, as the clerk had stepped to the back to retrieve his order. It all happened so fast, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The guy started to remove his shorts. My first thought was, “Why is he taking off his pants in the middle of the shop? He should have put them in the bag before he left home.” I’m pretty slow sometimes. But then I realized he wasn’t removing his pants to have them cleaned, but to share a little view of his, ahem, assets, with his watching girlfriend.

     From my vantage point all I could see was a hairy white butt, and not a great one at that. But from the degree to which he lowered those shorts and the hip-wiggling moves he aimed at the window, I’m pretty sure the girlfriend, with her more direct sight-line, saw more. A great deal more.

     I gasped aloud…and then, quite naturally I think, I pointed. My daughter, until this time interested only in the pastries, looked up. Her gaze followed my outstretched hand. Now we both had a view of the guy which I am certain he never intended.

     If I had been alone, I might have just shaken my head and driven away. But with a teenager along, I felt I had to express the appropriate indignation at this affront upon our collective female dignity. So I honked the horn. The guy’s head snapped around and he saw me. Immediately a look of panic covered his face. He jerked up the shorts.

     And then, God knows why, I got out of the car and stormed back into the shop. As I threw open the door, I practically screamed, “What do you think you’re doing? I’ve got a thirteen-year-old girl in the car!” By this time the clerk, and the store manager, had re-appeared with the clothes. They regarded me as if I were a lunatic, bursting into their store and shouting at another customer. At that point, I almost felt sorry for the guy. He turned red back to his ears and kept stammering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

     We all stared at each other for a long, uneasy second, until I beat a hasty retreat, as I’m sure the fellow did too. I still go to the same cleaners weekly, and neither the clerk nor the manager has ever mentioned the incident.

     But I’ve never seen Mr. Pants there again. He probably drives all the way to Plano to have his shirts done now. Afterward, I felt a bit silly reacting so strongly, but justified my behavior as a mother’s right to protect her child. All the wind went out of my sails, though, when I got back into the car and my daughter said, “Cool, Mom. I never would have looked if you hadn’t screamed and pointed.”

Going Green To Save Some Green

    


     It all started with a $753 electricity bill last January. Like many other people, I’m concerned a about global climate change and understand it to be a real scientific phenomenon rather than just a scare tactic dreamed up by Al Gore. Time will tell. But good intentions for the earth weren’t really what got me into energy-saving mode--basically, I’m a tightwad, and as such I hate to spend money I don’t have to. So I decided to put my household on an energy diet.

     The morning after receiving my paperless statement from Reliant Energy’s 100% Wind Plan, and still reeling from the shocking news it contained, I turned OFF both central air units when the family left for school and work instead of letting the programmable thermostat do its own timed routine. Yes, it was a little chilly when we got home that evening, but the house warmed up quickly enough. The kids got used to turning off the upstairs unit each morning, and at the end of the month I saw about 10% savings over our same-month-last-year cost. An easy $75, which emboldened me to expand my energy crusade.


     Now, turning off the heater each morning is a relatively simple and painless procedure, but the next phase threatened to affect others in my household more directly. I began looking with a critical eye at other energy-guzzling conveniences: the old dishwasher, the electric clothes dryer, and that 2nd refrigerator in the garage that only holds beer and soda. Right away, I emptied the outside fridge, put the drinks on the garage shelf, and turned the unit OFF. After all, it was like an icebox in the garage anyway so the cans still stayed pretty cold without benefit of Freon and electricity. Some re-education was required, but kids and husband adapted rapidly.


     On to the dryer. I cajoled my husband into stringing a clothesline across the narrowest end of our yard, between the house and fence, and out of view from the living area windows. We compromised on a single line, with a hook to allow its removal in the event of a party where our city friends might see it and laugh at the sight of such a countrified implement. In appreciation of my teenagers’ social sensibilities, I also agreed that there would be no drawers flapping in the breeze—only “safe” laundry. The clothesline has been a great success. I am not so compulsive to have calculated the exact cost of drying a load of sodden pool towels in the machine, but over time it’s got to make a difference. And sheets dried on the line are crisp and smooth without ironing. The biggest problem I’ve had is our dog’s tendency to “use” the area directly beneath the clothesline. I have to step carefully while putting out the wash and once had to redo a batch of towels when the overloaded line collapsed into the landmine zone.


     The dishwasher has been the trickiest of the three to abandon. I bought a nice stainless dish drainer, and a fancy dishsoap-fillable scrubber wand. I emptied the last load from the machine and advised my family that henceforth, unless we had a dinner party, we all would wash our own dishes by hand and put them in the drainer. No outright protests have been voiced, but I still have to be vigilant in the plan’s enforcement. The kids have perfected the stealthy plate- and- fork drop before running away upstairs under the guise of impending homework. Several times I’ve even found dishes secreted inside the dormant washer. No one will confess to this trickery--maybe the dog did it. As with the clothes dryer, I haven’t figured out exactly how many pennies this saves per day, but eliminating a two-hour wash cycle five times a week has to count for something.


     My earth-and-money saving zeal hasn’t stopped with the assault on the electricity bill. Since spring I’ve dreamed up other plans to annoy my beleaguered family: a hot-water recirculation pump, low-flow shower heads, and even a brick in the toilet tank. (I had to abandon that idea when the water began turning pink.) I gave the kids a timer for their showers, but quickly realized the folly of that strategy and took to banging on the bathroom door every five minutes instead. We dug a small garden which ultimately only fed the neighborhood’s wild rabbits, but did get a handful of tomatoes and cucumbers from potted plants stationed on the patio. Next year’s crop ought to be better though, because now I’ve installed a compost bin where I can make fertilizer out of the science experiments lurking in my remaining refrigerator. Too bad I can’t compost the dog poop--that would solve two problems at once.


     Almost nine months after this obsession started, I’m not sure how much money I’ve actually saved for all my efforts. I’ve spent money on products that I think will save money, and don’t know if I’m in the black or red on that score. But we’re trying, and my family is getting on board with the plan. There is certainly more, much more, we can do to reduce energy consumption, at home and otherwise. It’s a slow process to change a lifetime of wasteful habits. Our summer electricity bills have still been outrageous, but then it was 100 degrees for about 47 days in a row and with school out we couldn’t just turn the A/C completely OFF. Hmmm, maybe if I didn’t have to open and close the back door for the dog so often…

Happy Forty-Five!

To My Friend, on Your Forty-Fifth Birthday

      Forty-Five. That sounds like a pretty daunting number when combined with “Happy Birthday,” but here you are. And it’s not really as scary as it sounds. After all, you’re only halfway to ninety, and that’s a lot of livin’ left! Old-timer that I am, I thought I’d pass along a few words of advice from my six-month head start on this milestone to tell you about some things you might expect in the coming year…

     First, if they haven’t already, your arms will begin to shorten. For this malady, your optometrist may prescribe bifocal eyeglasses. Now the good doctor and his staff will likely point out the many stylish options available and will offer you the “lineless” bifocal so that no one will be able to tell just how old you really are. But beware. Bifocals are not for the uncoordinated. I have never gotten the hang of raising my head up to look down at what I’m reading, and looking down to see through the top of the lens while I’m driving. All I get is a headache from the damned things. I argue with the doctor that I can’t see out of them, but he says I can, so I’m stuck. My advice is to take the money you would spend on the lineless bifocals and get a massage and a facial instead. If you still need reading glasses, head over to Target and buy a cheap pair in some outrageous color or zebra print that will embarrass your kids and that you won’t mistakenly wear out of the house. Maybe in a few years you can get one of those chains that hangs around your neck to hold the reading glasses, but for now just make your kids go look for them whenever you need to read something.

     Second, sometime soon, aliens will visit you in the night and replace your body with, well, something else. Afterward, you will be mysteriously unable to purchase clothes in any department store in Dallas. None of the regular jeans or “Young Attitudes” tops will fit you anymore, and you will cry in the dressing room. Instead, you will be consigned to shop in places like Chicos and Coldwater Creek that offer clothes for the more mature woman and come in prints better suited to the cruise ship or shuffle board court than the office. “More is More” in these boutiques, and you have to stay on your toes to avoid looking like someone's mother-in-law. Fashion tip: stick with solids or simple print offerings, lest you blend in with the fake foliage at Luby’s or the glint from your rhinestone–studded jacket blind others in your path. Alternatively, you can take a teenager along who will roll her eyes and mumble “Grandma” under her breath anytime you pick up an offending item. If you’re short on teenagers, I’ve got one I can loan you.

     Third, you will become all too familiar with your gynecologist. Hormone testing, mammograms, and bone density tests are but a few of the exciting things he (or she) has in store for you. And with all that to worry about, he (or she) will lecture you like a teenager that you can still get pregnant! It’s just not fair—I mean one day you’re having a hot flash and the next you could be knocked up. Life is truly a bitch. And I’m not even going to talk about the leak-when-you-laugh syndrome, because if you don’t already know about that, you’ll find out soon enough.

     But seriously, being 45 isn’t all that bad. In fact, I’ve never been happier. When I was 25, I viewed 45 as so ancient as to be almost dead. Surely, I thought, if you drove a four-door sedan, or worse, a mini-van, your life must be just about over. Nothing left to hope for. But fortunately, the wisdom of my youth has been proved folly and I don’t feel “almost dead” at all. I feel very much alive, and hope you do too. And I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up…maybe the cool old lady professor who can match wits with her young students and do the Sunday New York Times crossword in ink. Or maybe I’ll go ride a camel in Egypt and write about it on my blog. But I’m sure that in another 20 years we’ll look at this essay and laugh at the naiveté of my current outlook on getting older. We’ll both think how young we were then and how much more we know now. So when you turn 65 I’ll write you another story and give you some more advice, but for now, Happy 45! And please, try not to get pregnant.

Tippid

     Tippid is a small red and white bear, with a heart shaped nose and a ribbon bow tie imprinted with the words “I Love You” in gold letters. He was a Valentine’s Day gift from Grandma when Alex was four years old, and for years was a constant playtime and bedtime companion. We don’t really understand the origin of his unusual name, and I’m not entirely sure of its correct spelling, as it was born of a child’s imagination and to my knowledge has never before been glorified in print. Tippid’s fur has been worn smooth from years of hugs, and like the Velveteen Rabbit in the children’s story, he has become “real” through the strength of a child’s love.
     Today, Alex moved to his college apartment. He’s not going far, less than two miles down the road, but for all that it might as well be across the ocean. It is the first time in over eighteen years that he doesn’t live here with us, and the first time in his life he has signed a lease and been legally responsible for his own “home.” It doesn’t really matter that we can call, or text, or email as many times a day as we might like to-- it’s the fact that he won’t wake up here, won’t stomp down the stairs to breakfast, and won’t argue with Sophie over the morning comics.

     The move itself was a fairly informal affair, with the mattress tied to the top of Alex’s truck and assorted furniture, kitchen, and bedroom accessories piled loosely in the back. We got to the apartment and discovered that he had left the key at home--not an auspicious beginning. A couple hours work assembling the bed and hanging the shower curtain had the place looking almost livable. We took a picture to document his room in its original “clean” state. Quick hugs, and plans for a Target run tomorrow to stock up on snacks.
     Back home, the house was eerily quiet. Usually I enjoy a little mid-day solitude, but today was different. Sophie is at camp, Ted went back to work, and Patch was snoozing on the patio. I took a box of apartment extras up to Alex’s room, and for the first time looked around at the emptiness and detritus—stuff that didn’t make the college cut. Mostly it was just old boy scout and school stuff, but then I opened the closet, filled with empty plastic hangers and old shoes. And there, sitting alone on the shelf, was Tippid.
     I had been handling things fairly well until that point, but Tippid undid me. As far as I know, Alex hasn’t done more than glance at that bear for years, but at that moment he mirrored my feeling of sadness and loss. Our boy is grown up and gone. The fact that Tippid is here and Alex isn’t, and never will be in the same way again, made me burst into tears.
     I feel like a fool sitting here sobbing over a stupid teddy bear. I’ve tried so hard to be grown up about the college transition and treat it as the wonderful, positive thing it is, for both Alex and us, but who am I fooling? I am crying inside, and so I guess it is natural that I should cry on the outside as well. I know I will get over this, and I know this is the way things are supposed to be. Life moves on. Babies grow up, and up, and up. But it is not easy, and I fear I will never really have my boy with me again.
     I will never forget the night, when Alex was three days old, that we took him to the emergency room because of severe jaundice. The nurses bundled him into a tiny incubator and the doctor told us to go home and get some sleep. Go home? Without him? I refused to leave until Ted convinced me that I had to get some rest so I could take care of Alex the next day. I knew my baby was in good hands with the nurses, but I still cried all the way home, barely slept, and was back at the hospital by 7am to make sure he was okay.
     Now I feel sort of the same way as I did that June evening so many years ago. I know Alex is in good hands--the school has taken care of many a freshman and successfully dealt with their hyperventilating parents. And he is an (almost) grown up young man, not a baby or even a child any more. But I’m still not sure how well I will sleep tonight, or for that matter how well Alex will sleep, alone in his apartment for the first time. I do know, however, that I probably shouldn’t show up at his door at 7am to check on him. He’s really old enough to take care of himself—I’m just not sure I can say the same thing about myself.