HARD WEAR

After several years wallowing in pandemic pajamas or “loungewear”, I now anticipate my only son’s impending nuptials. This monumental event signifies he will take on the role of husband, and I the daunting post of mother-in-law, as we add another female to our family.

I cannot ignore the fact I now face the overwhelming challenge of trying to impersonate the quintessential mother- of -the-groom. Or so I like to imagine. I envision myself as a chic, poised yet understated MOG, an acronym I notice influencers use these days to lure us anxious if not desperate shoppers to their stores and sites.

I have courageously undertaken the challenge of searching for a stunning ensemble appropriate for a woman of a certain age whose beloved son is getting married. In the old days, I might set aside several grueling shopping days or weeks to peruse the local malls. I’d reserve a dressing room and try on promising dress after gown after pantsuit, in search of the perfect attire for one of life’s more memorable occasions. Nowadays this can be a joke as most upscale shops carry nothing more than a few token frocks, fully aware their clientele now prefer shopping on line in the comfort of home or office.

You’re likely to find me these days hunched over my computer, pouring through an endless stream of formalwear often while in “loungewear”. Much of what I find in the MOG category appears dowdy, frumpy, flouncy, frilly and simply not me. Sequins rule as does all that sparkles. My fashion savvy daughter warns me to avoid anything “Vegas-ish!” and I heed her advice.

Several days ago a site popped up for my perusal. “CHEAP FORMAL WEAR FOR SENIORS”. Later I saw an ad for “PERFECT GOWNS FOR THE ELDERLY “. Who is marketing for these manufacturers? They should be fired immediately.

To date I have ordered, tried on, and returned a reasonably priced yet dowdy, beige, lacy pant suit which truly should have been promoted as “CHEAP FORMAL WEAR FOR SENIORS.” You get what you pay for. I also received on my doorstep two blush, swishy “Umbrella” dresses, one of which fit perfectly, though both were entirely transparent. Here I did not get what I paid for. Priced at nearly $400 I felt the manufacturer could have either lined the frocks or included an appropriate undergarment to wear beneath these see-through sensations. I considered another subtly sparkled dress in champagne until it arrived and I wore it for a trial run around the house. It was distressing as I began discovering glistening sequins here, there and everywhere. I worried by the close of the wedding day my sparkly dress would be no longer. This pricey reject was promptly returned to Neiman Marcus.

I could continue describing more failed fashions; the daring number pictured above caught my attention along with that of most of my Instagram followers. The dress, what there is of it, falls within my budget but, obviously, is way over the top. And I certainly would not want to upstage the bride, whose preferred pallet ranges from champagne to blush to rose-gold.

With absolutely no mention of chains…

OH JOY

Over the past six months I seem to have contracted everything possible; Sinusitis, Covid, Influenza, Rhinitis–you name it. But I have not caught the holiday spirit–yet.

I admit my spirits were beginning to simmer back in October when I hosted a small dinner party. Knowing one of our guests is a close relative of Mr. Scrooge, I decided to be mischievous. The guest of whom I am writing claims she refuses to enter any establishment choosing to blast Christmas music before Thanksgiving. If she walks inside and hears such tunes, she immediately turns and walks out, in a blatant huff. Lost business for those poor souls eager to entice customers–the earlier the better.

So on a balmy Saturday morning in late October I drug out a small, artificial tree from the basement storage room. I placed it high atop the television cabinet off the kitchen, where guests could not help but immediately notice my special creation.
Next I strung sparkling white lights and hung a few decorative bulbs on the petite pine. I instructed husband to pull out the sappiest of Christmas CDs while I dug out some festive napkins, candles and ornaments. I even wrapped a few empty boxes in cheery leftover Christmas paper, tying them with shimmering holiday ribbon.

Our home was bright, merry and aromatic (I had sprayed a pine scent earlier) as guests arrived to the sounds of Here Comes Santa Claus, It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas and Silver Bells. I half expected Miss Scrooge to bolt back to her car in the driveway. Instead she grimaced, rolled her eyes and tried to stifle a chuckle. She knows me well–but not well enough to have checked around her car before pulling away following dinner. While she was preoccupied I had hung a flashy red -bowed wreath on the front grill of her Mini Roadster. I still chuckle at the thought of the dour woman driving around D.C. in the jolliest of vehicles which, I am told, she did for several days before discovering my prank. Call my humor dark. You won’t be the first.
And so it is now officially the season; designated time to be merry and bright. Seems every time I attempt to get into the holiday spirit I turn on the news and/or answer the phone. We cannot seem to escape life’s doom and gloom. I welcome any good news that might come my way. Even a close win at Scrabble or vibrant new bloom on a Christmas Cactus can brighten my day.

Based on past experience, I will likely succumb to the season once warm greeting cards begin trickling in and shimmering lights dazzle the nighttime. My favorite will be the thousands of twinkling white lights outside our rear windows. Celebratory neighbors across the woods annually illuminate a row of towering evergreens between our house and theirs. I consider their time and effort a treasured gift for those of us fortunate enough to be able to view the magical sight. Not to mention less tedious decorating on my part!

And so, until further notice–

!CHEERS!

SO HANDSOME

I was just poking around at the local grocery store intending to pick up a few basic staples.  Frankly, it is a gorgeous, sunny day here and I was feeling rather fine.   Wearing a nice sky blue blouse, (not shirt,) and khaki Bermuda shorts –my legs were freshly shaven, so I felt presentable in my Italian leather sandals.   Granted, I had not done my hair so wore a BMW baseball cap to look sporty if not quite fashionable.  As I made my way down the frozen foods aisle an absent minded, middle aged woman crashed into my cart with hers.  Startled, I looked up, only to hear her remark–

“OH, I AM SO SORRY SIR!”

Stunned, I shared my tale with  the check out person and she laughed out loud, remarking—

“I DON’T THINK YOU LOOK LIKE A MAN!”

Once in the safety of my car, with all doors locked, I tried to decide whether to laugh or cry. 

THANKS AGAIN

I have a peeve.

Why don’t people today write simple thank you notes? I mean, if only to let the givers know the thoughtful gift has been received.
I cannot count how many birthday, graduation, Christmas, Hanukkah, wedding gifts we have given with no response. At times I wonder if they were ever received? Or did the postman simply profit?

It is not that difficult or time consuming to sit down and write—
“Thank you for thinking of me. I love the fountain pen I will never use.”
It is all about common courtesy which I fear has been forgotten.
And now I wish to express my sincere gratitude to you readers taking the time and effort to peruse this post. I wish you all the best.

THE VICIOUS VIRUS

I have not posted lately as writing while lying down is trying. Somewhere in my travels last month I seem to have contracted “THE COVID.” I admit I attended a class reunion but will not name schools, towns or people. I am not a hugger but the weather turned and we all gathered inside around the fire chatting and in retrospect, spitting germs into the air. Especially when we laughed.

My physician son tells me the virus is spread in the air so washing my hands was wise but not a solution. Much as I respect and admire him, I am not sure where he gets his information.

I realize I could have picked up the bug in a service station restroom in, let’s say, Massachusetts. I never should have gone inside to pick up that bag of pretzels. Or that Spritzer. Or that magazine…

And then there was that snazzy hotel room in another town on our route. I felt the cleaning crew might have been short staffed. And the exclusive Club Lounge a tad dingy.

And so, I have spent far too much time on the couch over the past days, weeks, months? This Covid brain fog is a killer. At a few low points I am not sure I knew my name.

But today I am feeling perky-ish and actually have dinner plans. We are celebrating the life of an older if not wiser friend who is having a birthday. Again, I will not share names.

I intend to wish him well with a toast I heard years ago while living in Tokyo.

And “older” couple (I was in my late 20s) seemed to be celebrating at some fancy hotel.

“TO OUR HEALTH! SHOULD IT EVER RETURN…”

LOVE ME TENDER

I will forever relish the grand experience of cruising from Southhampton, England to Reykjavik, Iceland. Along the way, over roughly twelve days, (and some sailing the Irish and Atlantic waters were indeed rough) we dropped anchor numerous times in England, Wales, Ireland, and Scotland before our journey ended in “The Land of Ice and Fire.”
Of the eleven ports we explored, six required passengers to board a tender to get to shore. For those not familiar with cruising terminology, a tender is a small vessel used to transports passengers from a larger boat, such as a cruise ship, to shore when the boat is unable to get all the way into the port. My guess is a majority of passengers, including crew members whose free time off the ship is limited, do not enjoy tendering. Such an often turbulent ride can take up to twenty or thirty minutes, precious time butlers, servers, housekeepers, cooks, and most every crew member do not want to spend rocking back and forth on a less than comfortable vessel. Most would prefer ambling off the ship and onto the stable dock. This is not only faster but safer and more convenient. But due to factors such as water depth, crowded harbors and/or local restrictions, ships cannot always sail all the way into a port. Thus they carry three or four tenders at all times.
Getting onto the bouncing little carrier is an undeniably intimidating part of the tendering procedure. Passengers gingerly make their way down the gangway ramp, where a tender is waiting at the end. At times there is a gap between the ramp and the tender as wide as a foot. Three or four crew members stand by to help each traveler make the daunting step up onto the swaying tender. Passengers are advised to accept assistance from the crew in boarding the small vessel. I have seen otherwise brave people turn around and walk back up the gangway ramp and onto the ship, so fearful were they of slipping through the crack and into the frigid ocean below. It can and has happened, though cruise line literature claims the occurrence is rare.
Once all are on board, seated and these days masked, the efficient tender crew untie the ropes and direct the driver, seated some six steps above the passengers, to “Let go!”

And off hums the tipsy vessel full of possibly a hundred guests, often stuffed on board like salty sardines.
The other day I took a rough and tumbly tender ride from our luxurious ship into the Dublin Harbor. As the vessel rocked and rolled across the Irish sea an annoying safety announcement was repeated. Felicity, the feisty British hairdresser from the beauty salon aboard on board, sat nervously tugging on her ponytail, looking like she might be sick or even faint. As we bounced along the annoying woman on the recording announced–
“Please alert the tender crew should you have problems or feel uncomfortable!” I glanced at Felicity and we stifled our giggles. I dared her–
“Felicity, alert that official near the front hatch that you feel uncomfortable. Let’s see what he does!? And I will inform him I have a problem, in fact, several problems!”
Maybe you had to be there but we got a good chuckle out of the absurdity of it all. And the announcement must have been monotonously repeated ten or twelve times as we made our bumpy way from ship to shore.

CHECK YOUR VITALS

The other day at Orange Theory I was disappointed to learn my favorite teacher Jessie would not be coaching us. Instead we had a pleasant looking older woman named Jennie who would be torturing us.

I began wondering, as my mind tends to do, if everyone working at OT had to have a name beginning with the letter “J?” This musing was reinforced when Josh at the front desk asked if he could help me.

The story goes like this..

It was a cold blustery April day and I decided it would not be a wise decision for me to head outside for a jog. A workout at Orange Torture sounded better so I struggled into my workout garb and headed into town. Parking seemed easier than the norm so I began wondering (I warned you earlier my mind goes there) if I were arriving at the wrong time.

Nope.

All systems were go although Jessie was not there. Again realizing I was by far the oldest in the class I hopped up on the tread mill, set the meter, and took off. All seemed fine until I checked the overhead monitor, which I had instructed my wondering, wandering mind NOT to do until the end of the torture session.

I allowed myself a quick glance at the monitor where I noticed NAN K’s heartrate was 238!?!?!?

I suspected something was wrong, even if I felt perfectly fine. But I slowly ambled out to the lobby where Josh was chatting on the phone but quickly hung up.

I did not feel like I was in good hands but asked if he thought a heartrate of 238 was high for a woman nearly that age.

He looked puzzled and replied “You look fine so if I were you I’d just get back on the treadmill and work hard.”

Now I truly was panicking but realized what I was reading on the overhead screen was the number of calories I was burning.

My heart rate at 118 was normal for a woman nearly that age killing it on the dread I mean treadmill…

WRITING NAKED

For those of you who’ve been inquiring, my second book, BARE NAKED, A Writer’s Life Exposed is completed–as far as I’m concerned.  Thanks to Covid I have had plenty of opportunity to write which has been a silver lining in an otherwise trying few years.   I think of this time as my period of pandemic productivity in pajamas. 

“Wonderful!  I can’t wait to read it!” I often hear.   While I shudder and attempt to change the subject. 

“What is this book about?”  Some are tempted to ask.    

“Well, I like to say this is a book about writing a book,” I struggle to explain.  The extreme highs, lows and often sheer torture involved in getting a work published.  Having been through the ordeal with NAKED JOY, Confessions of a Skittish Catholic from Idaho, I now know what to expect.   And I am less than excited.  It can be weeks, months, even years before I might see my work tucked in on the shelves.  This after months of researching agents and editors, editing, revising, synopsizing (each and every chapter—really?) querying and pulling my hair out…one strand at a time.   Then while rejections trickle in I continue to edit as tears cloud my weary eyes. 

So yes loyal followers, I have finished writing my second book. Here I pat myself on the back.  Meanwhile the inch and a half stack of type-written pages has been patiently lying on my desk for several months; I dust around it.  The pile seems to be whimpering, “What’s to become of me?” as I do my best to ignore the neglected manuscript before me. 

Had I sought a career in marketing I’d have pursued a degree in the field.  Frankly, I have no interest in struggling to promote and/or sell anything to anyone.  And yet this is what is expected of nearly every aspiring author at work today, unless you are the likes of Grisham, Patterson, Steel or maybe J.K. Rowling.  The world of publishing has changed drastically since those days of a wordsmith being coddled by agents and editors who’d eagerly grab their precious manuscript and run with it.   Back then the editing, publicizing, marketing and most tedious tasks fell upon seasoned publishing professionals.  In those glorious times, authors were allowed to do what they intended to do…write. 

Those were the days.

CAN YOU HACK IT?

Several days ago my AOL account was hacked.  Via this provider, friends and family everywhere were receiving bogus messages from me.

“I need swiftly your little HELP and I’ll gladly appreciate it if you could write me back. “

Nan

Followed by—

“Glad to hear from you. I am sorry for bothering you with this mail I need to get an Apple Gift card for my Niece as her birthday gift, but I can’t do this now as I am currently stuck out of town at the moment and I tried purchasing online but sadly no luck with that.  I would appreciate it if you could help me purchase the cards from any nearby CVS or Groceries Stores.  I’ll pay back as soon as I return.  Please let me know if you can handle this.” Nan

This was “swiftly” (a word I never use) reported to me by several friends who have known me well for years.  They assured me they recognized this is not my writing style nor did they believe I would email friends asking for gift cards/financial help.  It seems some were asked for not one but four cards.  And by the way, I have only two nephews and sadly, an estranged niece I have not seen in years.  My nephews, much as I adore them, are lucky to get even a silly greeting card from me on their birthdays.  Much less a gift card—or four!   If I am feeling especially generous I might send a recent bestseller or possibly a few Omaha steaks, but that is about it.   Both are doing well on their own and years ago we adults dropped the idea of gifts, even at Christmas time. 

Initially, while in the throws of recovering from a vicious bout of food poisoning and fairly delirious, I found this ordeal mildly amusing.  (Later, and at the moment, I am annoyed if not thoroughly disgusted.) At the time I was preoccupied with keeping myself hydrated and near a bathroom.  After all, knowing anyone can be hacked at some point, I rarely if ever post anything on line I would not want the world to know.  And I was flattered beyond belief that so many dear friends contacted me to let me know I’d been hacked.  And that they think I write much better than this creep, whoever he or she  might be. 

As the days wore on and I realized I had lost my AOL “New,” “Old,” and “Sent” mail, I was surprised to learn all my past emails could be found under my “Recently Deleted” mail.  My hacker(s) might not have realized this.  I imagine he or she did not want me to see all the mail from people informing me I’d been hacked.   Plus, a year ago I had opened a gmail account, and now this is the provider I use for most important personal messages. 

As I attempted to recover from this mess and retrieve my dignity and some information, I was compelled to look up the definition of the word “HACK.”  The following information I found, courtesy of google:

1. To cut with rough or heavy blows.
2. To use a computer to gain unauthorized access to data in a system.
3. To manage or cope.

Over the past several days I can claim to have experienced the word HACK in all its meanings:

1.  I would like to hack off the fingers of this creep intruding on my emails.
2.  I have learned about how this pathetic jerk used his/her computer to hack my AOL account.
3.  Despite this annoying inconvenience and violation of my privacy, I know I can hack it!

I’d like to add my mother had another meaning for this polyseme, or word with more than one meaning. 

 “Nanner, I heard you hacking last night. Do you need some cough medicine?  I made a batch and it is in a jar in the fridge.” 

Mom used to prescribe her own concoction when were kids.   Honey, lemon juice, and whiskey always seemed to help us hack a cough.   And I also found it helped me sleep…

CHILD REARING 101

As my loyal internet followers might know…I have been traveling. As much as Florida is not my favorite destination, I find roaming the sandy, sunny beaches on Amelia Island quite relaxing. This is a place that feels less like Florida than possibly the Hamptons, Cape Cod or even the French Riviera. I could live here.

But what struck me this trip, possibly because I am longing for grandchildren, is that today’s millennial parents do not have a clue how to raise a child. I give them credit, because realizing they are lacking in skills and patience, they travel with a nanny/au pair/ surrogate parent. Thus these well intentioned parents are free to eat, sleep, dance, swim ,drink, “whateve” knowing their offspring are under the supervision of an adult. Or at least a teen close to turning the magical age of 21.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE kids. So the first morning in the “club lounge” of the hotel, while enjoying my breakfast , it did not bother me that there were some 8 or 9 children slobbering at the tables next to me. Fruit loops, chocolate muffins and bacon seemed to be a hit with this age group. I did not flinch even when one of their uncles pointed out “Rosie needs a diaper change!” I naturally assumed her father, who was enjoying his coffee, eggs benedict and mimosas, would whisk the two year old away for a change. But NO. He simply announced to the tastefully decorated room “Nah, that is just chocolate oozing from her pajama bottoms!”

Flash forward to next morning when I am again attempting to enjoy my coffee, toast and the sunrise. Next to us is an unremarkable family of four with an older woman called “Nana.” Ignoring the group I suddenly dropped my spoon as the 3 year old daughter shrieked louder than a siren signaling an air raid attack.

Her parents, grandmother and subdued brother all ignored her. Long story short, the shrieking and misbehavior (she threw a loaded fork at my husband) continued until FINALLY her adoring daddy suggested Nana take Brianna Rose back to the room.

At which point little Brianna picked up a plate and hurled it across the room as if it were a frisbee.

The heavy pottery plate shattered into a dozen pieces.

Our obsequious server cleaned up the mess and no one mentioned how it happened–or why.

p.s. Later that morning, at around 11a.m., I spotted the clueless family frolicking around the pool. And smirked as I heard Daddy ordering a “Moscow Mule” at that hour.

If that kid were mine, I thought to myself, I’d have ordered two…