Does sexual assault mean I am not invisible? Or does it just mean this was one messed-up kid?

I have been reading Anne Kreamer’s funny and relatable and timely book, Going Gray: What I Learned about Beauty, Sex, Work, Motherhood, Authenticity, and Everything Else That Really Matters.

She is making me think and making me wonder if I should even be coloring my hair anymore. It’s not like anything looks at me and thinks, “Huh. Because of those blonde highlights, there is no way this woman can be any older than 25.”

I am older than 25. I am 55. And I’m not even that vain – I was never noticed for my looks when I was younger and never thought I would have any kind of vanity about them as I aged, but – guess what? There is a lot of attractiveness to be found in nothing more than youth and you take that for granted, even when you have never been the Pretty Girl or the Beautiful Woman. You take your nice clear skin and your glossy, lush hair and your teeth and gums and the ability to exercise without being stiff and sore later for granted. You don’t think it will ever end. It never even occurs to you.

Yet end it does.

And that’s when you notice the droopy eyelids and the dry skin from too much sun (wear sunscreen! EVERY DAY!) and the wrinkles. You know it’s better than the alternative, but then you notice the dull, drab hair and think, “That. That I can fix.”

And so you do.

It’s not even like I am trying to attract attention. I adore Mr T, aka Mr Texan in Exile (I have decided to change from “Marido”), but once he’s dead, I am done. I don’t want to get married again. I’m not even sure if I would want to date. What almost 11 years of marriage and living in the same house has taught me is that I was very, very used to living by myself and doing things my own way before I got married. And I got used to not having to argue about the Proper Function of A Dish Cloth, which, for the record, is not to remain perfectly clean while paper towels are used for cleaning spills on the counter. (Floor spills are cleaned with rags. I am not a savage.)

Anyhow. I am re-thinking coloring my hair and then this item popped up in my facebook feed:

Me: Remember how I had that hip problem last week? I could hardly walk and had to wear flats?

Boss: Yes.

Me: It’s gone! I thought it would take weeks to heal, but – it just disappeared! It’s a miracle!

Boss: That kid laid his hand on your butt and healed you.

Wait! you ask. “What is this ‘kid laid his hand on your butt…’ part?”

Yes. That.

I was minding my own business walking home from the state fair. It’s only three miles up a main-ish road with a decent amount of traffic through safe neighborhoods. I was at an intersection of the main-ish road with a major road and saw a kid waiting to cross the street with me. I made eye contact and smiled because it’s kind of rude to ignore someone else sharing a situation with you. Then I continued to walk.

When I finally thought I was out of sight of other walkers and there were no cars around me, I reached behind me to tug my underwear back into their proper position, as one does.

I felt a hand on my butt.

A hand that was not mine.

And a voice that asked, “Would you like some help with that?”

“Stop that!” I said. “Stop that right now!”

I shooed him away.

He did not move.

“Go away,” I said.

He did not move.

“Go AWAY! Oh for pete’s sake I am old enough to be your grandmother.”

Which, technically, I am. I am old enough to be his grandmother.

But I really missed the point on that because – grabbing someone’s butt isn’t necessarily about sex. It’s not like my butt is soooo compelling that young men overlook the other signs of age and think, “I don’t care that she’s in her mid 50s! I must have me some of that!”

Anyhow, I had to call the police and knock on the door of the stranger to wait in their house while the police came and the whole thing made me very very cranky because this is not the order of the universe and although I am glad not to be invisible, this is not exactly what I had in mind when I started coloring my hair and maybe – maybe – it’s time just to be who I am, which is a mid-50s woman who is probably going gray.

I don’t like pain. I do like cute shoes. What’s a woman to do?

 

I always swore I would not Cross the Rubicon of Shoes.

I swore that even though fashion has never been my life – not that I am not interested, but apparently, I am incapable. My sister got all the hair, makeup, and accessory genes. She is as cute as a button and always knows what to wear and how to wear it and I? I am kind of frumpy and dowdy.

Except for my shoes.

Shoes are the place I. Will. Not. Compromise.

I heart the shoes.

I especially heart the expensive nice Italian shoes. Only I have a secret.

I get them on eBay.

Oh don’t act all shocked. Like you wouldn’t take shoes from your best friend?

Pretend the little old lady who died and left a closet of Ferragamos was your best friend’s grandmother.

Indeed, something like that happened to me once. My best friend from high school, Julie, was volunteering at the Junior League thrift shop in Atlanta – btw, the JL thrift shop is an excellent place to look for quality used clothes – and nabbed several pairs of Ferragamos when another Junior Leaguer, who happened to be the Ferragamo rep, dropped off a bunch of samples that had not sold.

I think Julie wears a ten, so the nine narrows that the rep left did not fit her. But she thought they might fit me, so in an act of generosity that only a high school best friend could offer, she sent them to me.

I wore them one day.

One.

And spent most of the day sitting at my desk and trying not to have to hobble to the ladies’. I called Julie. “They don’t fit! They HURT!”

“Then dangle them off your toe!” she ordered. “THEY ARE ITALIAN!”

And she was right.

Anyhow. You can get some really nice Ferragamos on eBay for under $50. And once you own them, do not wear them outside! Leave them at work and use them only to walk indoors on the carpet. They should not be taken on icy, snowy, salty sidewalks or driveways or parking lots. Mostly because the ice and salt will ruin them but also because Italian shoes are not designed for walking well in winter conditions.

I also found a pair of Ferragamos at a Milwaukee thrift shop for only $12.

“Is this price right?” I asked the clerk. “These are Ferragamos!”

She sighed. “Yeah, I know. But nobody here knows what they are.”

I did.

I wear high heels at work, even though we are now a jeans every day office. I like high heels. I wear my leopard print heels every time I can. Did you know leopard is a neutral? It is. Theresa May inspired me. As soon as I saw her leopard shoes, I had to have some.

But – high heels are starting to hurt.

Did you know that the places you lose fat as you age are not your butt, your thighs, or your belly but your face and the bottom of your feet, which is probably the one place I ever wanted to have fat. Nobody has ever said to me, “Wow. You sure have chubby bottoms of your feet.” I was not vain about the bottom of my feet. But I sure liked having fat there because guess what? THE FAT IS WHAT KEEPS YOUR FEET FROM HURTING.

So. I had to have the shoes. But I don’t want the pain.

Back to eBay I went.

And guess what I found?

Ugly shoe brand in a cute shoe!

Yes! I found leopard print CLARK’S!

So reader, I bought them. And I wear them.

And they do not hurt. Amen.

PS Like my facebook page, please?

I set one up. Would you mind following/liking/sharing? Thanks!

Those of you who do not do facebook, don’t worry. It’s a supplement, not an instead of! I will still be writing here.

 

 

Or, as Marido says, “I wasn’t panicking. I was concerned“

Or, How I grew to love bats instead of fear them

It’s Sunday morning. (Not right now. In the story I am telling.)

It’s Sunday morning and Marido and I are following our usual Sunday morning routine: Coffee, newspaper, reading advice columnist questions out loud and answering them for ourselves (who are these mothers in law who write about their evil daughters in law? have they ever thought that perhaps they and not the DILs are the problem?), and listening to a re-run of Casey Kasem and American Top 40 from the ’70s (which are great) and the ’80s (which are not so great).

Marido is capable of identifying the year of the episode solely by hearing one song. It’s his superpower: That he has to hear only the opening bars of a pop song to know not only what song it is but when it was released.

My superpower is I can find typos in any document except one I have written.

He goes upstairs and very soon thereafter, I hear a scream.

He would say that he yelled.

I ignore it because Marido is Dramatic. He grew up in a High-Drama Home, where people yelled at each other.

I grew up in a Low-Drama Home (Norwegians) so yelling is a Big Deal in my life, but I have become somewhat conditioned to his yells and have learned to ignore them.

He runs down the stairs.

Marido: There’s a BAT in the upstairs bathroom!

Well. That’s not what I was expecting to hear.

I have to see for myself.

I go upstairs.

And yes, there is a bat in the bathroom. It has fallen into the toilet.

Me: We have to get it out! It could drown!

Marido: Don’t touch it! It could have rabies!

Me: I know! I’m the one who had the rabies shots, remember!

[Yes. This is a childhood memory that will never leave me. I told my mom there was a mouse in the basement window well. She told me to leave it alone. I did not. It bit me. I got a kleenex from my friend’s house, wrapped it around my bloody finger, and returned home. Shockingly, my mom noticed and took me straight to the hospital, where they gave me the first of 14 shots to my stomach. In case you didn’t know? Shots to your stomach hurt a lot.]

I reach for the toilet brush.

Marido: You can’t use that! It will get dirty!

[Imagine the withering look I give him.]

Me: Then what’s your idea?

Marido talks and tries to think of the perfect engineering solution while I try to think of the fast save an endangered species from dying one.

I go to the garage for some gardening hand tools – one of those little pronged thingies you use for prepping the soil for planting and a weed digger. I bring them to the bathroom and start to use them to carefully lift the bat out of the water without touching it with my hands.

Marido: No! You’ll get water on the floor!

Me: Water can be cleaned off the floor, you know.

We had this argument in 2009, when our basement flooded shortly after we moved into our house. The sewer drain backed up with rainwater (not sewage, thank goodness) and was soaking the new carpet. That carpet was new because the basement had flooded the year before right after we bought the house but before we moved in. Carpet left wet for three days in hot weather is not salvageable.

I wanted to save the carpet this time. (I didn’t care the first time – that carpet was really ugly.) I grabbed a bunch of bath towels to absorb the water on the carpet. Marido disagreed strongly with my approach, but I argued back that 1. bath towels can be washed and bleached and 2. it is easier to replace towels than carpet.

Marido: Wait! Let me get something.

He runs outside for a corrugated box, sets it on the floor next to the toilet, and gently lifts the bat out of the toilet and places it in the box. The bat squeaks desperately and pathetically. I am relieved that it was not dead.

Then we put a paper shopping bag over the bat and invert it so the box is over the bat and put the bag in the garage so Marido can take it to the wildlife rehab center near us.

He calls me from the center: I took the bag into the center. We lifted the box off. The bat was gone!

It had flown out of the slit in the bottom of the box. It was healthy enough to escape. It didn’t need wildlife rehab after all! Whew.

(If you want to know more about how cool bats are, go to Merlin Tuttle’s  site. Bats are maligned unfairly.)

And it repeats itself

Because Out is Out and In is In and they are not the same

Saturday – or any morning – at our house.

Laverne: I want out I want out I want out.

Me: Grabs leash. Changes from indoor flip flops to outdoor flip flops. Puts on hat. Opens door. Walks with Laverne to the back yard. Lifts Laverne and sets her on top of trash can. Puts harness on cat. Puts cat down. Clips leash to line attached to garage. Goes back inside. Takes off hat. Changes from outdoor flip flops to indoor flip flops. Returns to previously-scheduled reading.

Ten minutes later.

Laverne: I want in I want in I want in.

Me: Changes from indoor flip flops to outdoor flip flops. Puts on hat. Opens door. Walks to back yard. Unclips cat from line. Walks cat back inside. Takes off hat. Changes from outdoor flip flops to indoor flip flops. Removes cat from harness. Hangs leash back on thingy where leash hangs. Returns to previously-scheduled reading.

Laverne: I was so thirsty. Soooooo thirsty. And did Shirley leave any food? No. Rats. And by the way? I don’t care if you put water outside for me, even if it’s Inside Water. I want Inside Water inside, not Inside Water outside. It’s not the same. I want to come in for my water. In.

Laverne: I want out I want out I want out.

Me: Grabs leash. Changes from indoor flip flops to outdoor flip flops. Puts on hat. Opens door. Walks with Laverne to the back yard. Lifts Laverne and sets her on top of trash can. Puts harness on cat. Puts cat down. Clips leash to line attached to garage. Goes back inside. Takes off hat. Changes from outdoor flip flops to indoor flip flops. Returns to previously-scheduled reading.

Ten minutes later.

Laverne: I want in I want in I want in.

Me: Changes from indoor flip flops to outdoor flip flops. Puts on hat. Opens door. Walks to back yard. Unclips cat from line. Walks cat back inside. Takes off hat. Changes from outdoor flip flops to indoor flip flops. Removes cat from harness. Hangs leash back on thingy where leash hangs. Returns to previously-scheduled reading.

Laverne: I was so thirsty. Soooooo thirsty. And did Shirley leave any food? No. Rats.

Laverne: I want out I want out I want out.

Me: Grabs leash. Changes from indoor flip flops to outdoor flip flops. Puts on hat. Opens door. Walks with Laverne to the back yard. Lifts Laverne and sets her on top of trash can. Puts harness on cat. Puts cat down. Clips leash to line attached to garage. Goes back inside. Takes off hat. Changes from outdoor flip flops to indoor flip flops. Returns to previously-scheduled reading.

This repeats many many times until I get some sense.

Ten minutes later.

Laverne: I want in I want in I want in.

Me: Changes from indoor flip flops to outdoor flip flops. Puts on hat. Opens door. Walks to back yard. Unclips cat from line. Walks cat back inside. Takes off hat. Changes from outdoor flip flops to indoor flip flops.

Leaves harness on Laverne because to streamline the process a tiny bit.

Returns to previously-scheduled reading.

Laverne: I think I’ll sit in the window and lick myself noisily. I think I will pick at this harness and make a lot of noise because the harness? It bothers me. What? No. No, I’m not thirsty. Sheesh. Can’t a cat just sit in peace and enjoy the morning?

 

My eyebrows are my spirit line

I have always had squinty eyes with droopy eyelids. They have not made me famous the way Renee Zellweger’s eyes made her famous.

They haven’t even been functional – I didn’t get glasses until I was in fifth grade but undoubtedly needed them well before that, if I can blame my complete lack of hand/eye coordination on anything and yes, I am seeking an excuse for my total lack of athletic ability.

I was always picked last for any team at school and I guess I can’t blame the other kids. I can’t hit a ball. I mean, I can. I did hit a baseball. Once. It was after it had passed the bat, so I hit it into my chest instead of away from me.

I think being able to see the ball before it actually is in front of you is probably essential for doing well in sports that are played with a ball.

I have squinty eyes with droopy eyelids. I thought this was just going to be how my life was. It never occurred to me that this was something that could be altered.

Then I learned that a surgery exists – a surgery to lift the eyelids discreetly so they don’t flop over the eyes.

Not only does this surgery exist but my mother had it.

My mother, whose physical clone I am.

(There are those who say I have inherited certain tendancies of hers as well. When my former boyfriend, John, met my mom, her sister, and my sister, he commented dryly that it wasn’t that the apple had not fallen far from the tree, it was that the tree had placed the apple exactly where it wanted the apple to be.)

(He was right.)

My mother is 20 years and eight months older than I am.

Which means that 20 years and eight months after she had her surgery, I could expect my eyelids to look like hers the day before she had the surgery.

Which suggested to me that if I was going to have to have the surgery anyhow – hers was covered by insurance because the droopiness was affecting her vision, I might as well have it when I could benefit professionally or at least, you know, assuage my vanity.

Although the reason I said out loud was because younger skin heals faster than older skin so I Might As Well, which sounds a lot less vain than, “I don’t like looking so old.”

I asked around and did some research and found the local doc who is known for this and made an appointment for a consult.

He was not exactly oozing with bedside manner, but I suppose if I have to choose competence or choose charming, I will pick competence.

He looked at my droopy eyelids and asked me a few questions and answered my questions impatiently and then we were done and I went into the waiting room to wait for some coordinator to tell me more about costs and scheduling, which is the business model I would use: why waste a doctor’s time talking about the money when you could pay someone ten percent of what the doc makes for that work?

I was drumming my fingers on the chair and thumbing through my phone, annoyed at having to wait, when he ran out of his office and into the waiting room.

“I almost forgot!” he announced. “When I do your eyes, I can also adjust your eyebrow!”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Your eyebrow! Your left eyebrow! It’s crooked!”

What?

“What are you talking about?”

He turned and grabbed a hand mirror and held it to my face. “Here,” he pointed. “Don’t you see how your eyebrows don’t match?”

Um. No. I didn’t.

I squinted and looked more closely. Oh yeah! My eyebrows don’t match! They are not symmetrical. One has a more pronounced arch than the other.

I had honestly never noticed in my entire life.

Is that a thing? I mean, should I have noticed that my eyebrows are not perfectly symmetrical? I had never even known to look for that.

Every now and then it would bother me slightly that my glasses seemed crooked. I always assumed it was because my ears weren’t even with each other.

It was probably because my eyebrows are asymmetrical.

I guess I am kind of oblivious.

The next week, I saw my aunt Pat at my great-uncle Fritz’s funeral. Uncle Fritz was my great-aunt Helen’s husband. Aunt Helen was my grandma Sylvia’s sister.

Pat is a nurse and I told her about this doctor and that I was maybe thinking about having the surgery but was conflicted because the local anesthesia in the office method was not an option because I had told the doctor I am A Fainter and fainting people have to have the procedure done at the hospital, which costs about a thousand dollars more and I paid only $1,200 for my first car and was I going to pay as much for only part of a surgery as I paid for a car? Was I going to pay $6,000 total for a surgery? That’s more than I paid for my master’s degree.

Then I told her what he had said about my eyebrow.

“You can’t change your eyebrows!” she gasped. “That’s your Granma Sylvia eyebrow! Your eyebrows are just like hers and like Aunt Helen’s and your dad’s! That’s a part of you!”

I looked around. I looked at my dad’s brothers. I looked at my aunt Helen. I looked at her two sons, my first cousins once removed? My second cousins? My – well, my dad’s cousins.

I looked at my dad’s cousins’ kids.

We all had that eyebrow. Just a tiny little extra arch on the one. Just a tiny bit of unevenness. Just a bit that tied us together.

Nah. I don’t need that fixed.

 

 

 

 

When I was a girl, I wanted to be Nancy Drew. I think I still have it in me.

So Marido and I went on vacation to Spain this winter and we were in Madrid and we were hungry and we wanted to eat at the fabulous little mom and pop place where we had oxtail several years ago but we couldn’t remember what it was called.

We were googling things like, “mom and pop oxtail madrid” to no avail. Nothing that popped up looked familiar.

Then I remembered.

I had taken photos the last time we ate there and posted them on facebook because I am all about the food on facebook. I have taken two selfies – one where I am wearing sunglasses and a hat and another of my shadow. I am not a fan of selfies. I don’t like it when other people take my photo. I sure don’t want to do it myself.

Anyhow. I searched my posts from a few years ago. We had been there over Christmas break.

I found the photo.

We did an image search with it.

We found a similar image.

That image was tagged with a location. Not with a name, but with a location.

We checked the map.

It was near where we thought it had been

We started walking.

We found it.

Taberna Juan Blanco.

And it was delicious.

Maybe this should become my new career? Finding places? And things? Would people pay me, do you think?

 

What is patriotism but the love of the food one ate as a child?

 

1. In the South, everything is A Coke. As in, Would you like a Coke? Yes? What kind? We have 7 Up, Dr Pepper, Pepsi, and Sprite.
2. Dr Pepper is better than Coke.
3. Dr Pepper does not have a period after the “r” in “Dr”
4. For whatever reason, it is difficult to find Dr Pepper up north

I don’t know why for #4.

I don’t know why for #3, either, but I also do not care. One character fewer to write is fine with me. Why bother with an extra period? We already know “dr” stands for “doctor.” Does a period after the “r” make it easier to understand? I think not.

But back to #4.

Why don’t they have Dr Pepper up here? To see Dr Pepper in the fridge in the hotel lounge on a business trip I had to go to Dallas! Not that I mind going to Texas. I didn’t mind at all. But seeing the Dr Pepper and the diet Dr Pepper in that fridge made me realize they don’t have it in the machine at work. At company lunches, they will offer both Coke and Pepsi but there is no Dr Pepper.

Do people up here just not know? Do they not know diet Dr Pepper tastes better – well, less bad – than diet Coke and that in the morning, when you need an additional caffeine delivery system after you have already had your coffee and need something that won’t make your teeth all nasty and your breath bad, both of which are highly undesirable under regular circumstances but even more so when you are around other people, like your co-workers, you want that clean, carbonated taste?

They had diet Dr Pepper in the machines at work but took it out because not enough people bought it.

Which is why I was so excited to see it in the lounge at the meeting in Dallas.

And then I got into the meeting room and saw the neat pyramids of soda for the meetings and saw only Pepsi products.

Which seriously what the heck?

Bad enough that there was no diet Dr Pepper – which I knew they had in the hotel because I had just seen it – but now there was also no diet Coke?

Who does that?

Who?

I wanted to say “evil people who hate me and don’t want me to stay awake and hydrated,” but that might be too strong.

So I will say, “Corporate people who invited to the meeting Major Customer headquartered in Dallas whose name rhymes with ‘Mempsi.'”

All I can say is we better get that account because I was asked to suffer greatly.

 

Or, when your cloth grocery bags from your college are so attractive someone wants to steal them

 

Marido came home from Aldi, which, if you do not have in your neighborhood, I am sorry, because it is the best place for basics and for Italian and German goodies like ladyfingers and chocolate.

It’s not because they exploit people, either. It’s not like Amazon where they make their employees go through a search after they finish work – but after they clock out. If you have to wait more than a minute or two to leave after your shift is over, you should be paid for that time. Making people wait 15 minutes to go through search and not paying them for that time is – I don’t know if I want to go as far as evil – I save that word for people like Jeffrey Epstein – close to evil. People don’t work at low-wage jobs as a hobby.

Aldi is inexpensive because they cut all the frills. They don’t play music in the store, which I love for its own sake – can’t we just have some quiet in public spaces? – because they don’t want to pay royalties.

They display goods in the boxes to save unstocking fees. They have limited variety. They don’t pack the groceries for you.

And they charge you a quarter to get a shopping cart and give you the quarter back when you return the cart to the stall. This keeps carts from being left in the parking lot where someone has to collect them and probably makes it harder to steal them. (Unless you are a cart thief who is willing to lose a quarter.)

So Marido was at Aldi and he stepped away from his cart for a second and returned to find it – gone.

He was confused, as the cart was gone. Who takes a cart with someone else’s food that hasn’t even been paid for yet?

He wandered – well, “wandered” does not impart the sense of confusion and probably panic and for sure growing ire that he felt – looking for his groceries.

No luck.

He told an employee that he couldn’t find his cart. The clerk helped him look and eventually, they found all the food stacked carelessly by the blueberries.

The cart was nowhere to be found.

The clerk got another cart for Marido. He put the food in it.

But he had no bags.

So he searched the store and found a guy with a cart that contained our grocery bags.

Marido: These are mine! Where did you get these!

Guy: They’re mine!

Marido: Um. I went to Rice. [Which is a college many states away from where we live.] Did you? Because that’s where I got them. [They gave them out at homecoming a few years ago.]

Guy: They were in the cart when I got it!

Marido: Yeah, well, they’re mine.

And he snatched them out of the man’s cart.

And came home all discombobulated because that really is a clear violation of the Social Contract: We Do Not Take Each Other’s Carts Or Their Grocery Bags. And Marido is used to (I don’t know why as so much evidence is to the contrary) people playing by the rules.

I hope he can recover from this trauma. Aldi has been good to us.