The Ten-Year Nap

I heard a recent interview with Meg Wolitzer on one of the afternoon talk shows I listen to on Sirius/XM—I believe it was on Broadminded. Something about the way she spoke or what she said about her latest novel grabbed me.

Now I'm not a good book club member. I don't go looking for themes and rationales and what did the author really mean when she said, "increasingly and transparently annoyed"? I just want to be entertained. I want to escape my troubles for a half-an-hour and revel in someone else's troubles.

Certain book topics, certain key words an author might say in an interview, will always reel me in. Adoption is, of course, a hot topic. Love late in life interests me. Sewing, quilting, pottery, beading—I like to see how authors such as Debbie Macomber or Kate Jacobs will thread one of my interests through a story. And once I find a book I like, I tend to read everything that author has written. John D. McDonald, Agnes DeMille, Harry Kemelman, Nora Roberts—read 'em all! (My lifelong best friend just sent me another bookmark for my birthday, saying someone as well-read as I can never have too many bookmarks. She's right!)

So as I got into "The Ten-Year Nap," I couldn't remember why I bought it. The Publisher's Weekly review on the Amazon product page says, "In her latest novel, Wolitzer (The Wife; etc.) takes a close look at the opt out generation: her cast of primary characters have all abandoned promising careers (in art, law and academia) in favor of full-time motherhood." I couldn't see that as I was reading. I saw the interconnectedness of the one generation of women, but the jumping around from generation to generation and story to story lost me. About a third of the way into the book there was the introduction of an adopted child, so I thought maybe that was what had grabbed me, but that character didn't figure too prominently in the book.

So the story itself never grabbed me—I kept reading because I hate to just drop a book midstream. I kept thinking I'd find the reason for my purchase if I read one more chapter. That never happened.

But what happened is I discovered an author who is simply fabulous at choosing words and meshing them together to make absolutely beautiful sentences. As sentences and paragraphs unfolded in front of me, I kept thinking, "Oh, that's brilliant." "Oh, that's how I could put those words together."

So you can bet I will be running to the library to find more books by Meg Wolitzer. She is an incredible craftsman, and I look forward to reading more of her works.

This week I'm reading a chapter of Martha Beck's "Leaving the Saints: How I Lost the Mormons and Found My Faith." My third husband was a Mormon, and I considered the friends from that time in my life to be very dear friends, even though I lost all of those friends when the marriage ended. Within the Mormon community, you're either all the way in or all the way out, in my experience. There's no halfway, and if you don't believe everything they believe, you're not going to find a place on my calendar. Just sayin'. Just my opinion. Beck is an excellent writer and story-teller, and I look forward to each breakfast, lunch, and dinner break to devour another chapter.

And what are you reading?

A Lesson in Listening

I just had my hair cut. I am frustrated. That's the whole story.

For the past year-and-a-half, I've been visiting the most wonderful stylist named Amy who works at Nolas Salon and Day Spa in Fairlawn. She's an angel, a genius, and a really nice lady. But I no longer work in Akron, so driving to Akron to get my hair cut drives up the cost of the cut into the just-can't-do-that range. It's been two months since I've seen Amy. I was looking a little shaggy.

Now, I've lived with shaggy before. But I've got an audition on Friday evening for a position I really, really want, and I didn't want to go into the audition looking and feeling shaggy. So today I ran over to a salon in Girard. I know the owners, who are dear and longstanding friends of my daughter-in-law. I've gone there before for haircuts, but the owner who is the principal stylist always thinks I'm chic, rather than simple, and wants to give me the latest hairstyles. I don't want the latest hairstyle. I want what I've had for the past 15 years. I want what I know looks good on me.

Amy and I have been adjusting and playing and changing until about eight months ago, when we got exactly what we wanted from my thin, fine hair. And I don't want to change.

I walked into the salon this afternoon and sat down in the chair of the stylist who had been assigned to me. She was a pretty young lady, covered in colorful tattoos. But the tattoos don't affect her hearing, do they? From the book I was carrying, I pulled out three photos of me, each showing a variation of the hairstyle Amy had given me. I told the young lady, "I'm simple. I want this hairstyle, just a little shorter. Just trimmed up. I don't want anything chic or fancy. I'm just a simple person."

Whoosh. In one ear and out the other. She fiddled with my hair a minute, then said, "Well, I'd like to stack the back to give you a little more shape." I grimaced, and said, "Maybe just a little." I told her this haircut was about two months old, so needed over half-an-inch cut off, and that the top needed to be kept shorter because of how fine my hair is.

She took me to the shampoo bowl and spent what seemed like fifteen minutes shampooing my hair. Then she took me back to her chair and spent another twenty minutes on the back, followed by about two minutes each on the sides and the top. I said twice that I didn't think she was taking enough off the sides. She held her fingers up and said, "I'm taking half an inch." I'm a sewist; I deal with half-inches and five-eighths-inches on a regular basis. That was no half-inch.

The longer I sat there watching her, the more upset my stomach became. She asked if she could put mousse in my hair, and I said, "Just a little." She asked if she could tease the back and I instantly had a most-pained expression on my face. She saw the expression and said, "Just a little." By the time she had the top poufed up about two inches higher than I ever wear it, I said, strongly, "No, that's too much."

She patted it down where it looked okay, but all I could think was that I had been assaulted. The sides and the top look like only about one-eighth of an inch has been trimmed off. The back has this danged shelf of hair hanging over a neatly trimmed portion. And my bangs look like nothing has been taken off. I just got my hair cut twenty minutes ago and already I can see my bangs without a mirror. And then she sprayed my hair. Spray!

As I stood from the chair, stomach in knots, I knew I would not be coming back into that salon, as much as I personally like the owners. This young woman, who had no appointments booked for the afternoon, had just lost a potentially long-standing client.

I am angry. I am missing Amy. I am upset about having my perfect cut focked up. I am concerned that I will not be able to get this ridiculous cut to look decent for my audition. I am disgusted with myself for …, oh, I don't know for what. For wanting to get it done quickly. For trusting the personnel of a salon that screwed me up two years ago. For not being willing to make the time or money to drive to Akron for a haircut. For thinking I could get it done quickly.

I feel sick.

And to the service professionals reading this post, I say this: When a person tells you she likes simple things, simple hairstyles, give her the god-damned simple hairstyle. Don't feel like you're betraying the reputation of your salon by not giving her the latest spiky chic cutting-edge hairstyle.

Wouldn't you rather be known as a stylist who can listen and implement in a manner that's pleasing to your clients?

Just as every woman of dating age knows that you can't change a man, I would also proffer that you can't change a woman's opinion about her hair. I've been living with this awful, unmanageable hair for 60 years. I know what it will and won't do. I need a simple hairstyle that will look good for six weeks before forcing me back into the salon. Period.

I didn't get what I wanted. I'm just thankful that I only paid $35 for this travesty of customer service.

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P.S. Annnnd, the fragrance in the hair spray is so strong I'm going to have to go wash my hair before much more time passes, or risk incurring a migraine. Argh!

From the Mouths (and Tummies) of Babes

I spent quite a bit of time with the babes over the weekend, including piano recital time, dinner time, and Barnes & Noble time (our personal favorite!). Much discussion took place surrounding the plans for Ridley's Sunday birthday party.

On Thursday evening I asked what she planned to serve at the party. She said she didn't really know, that she would have to go to the grocery store with Rara (their name for their mom) and see what they could decide. (I knew, of course, that Rara already had matters well in hand and a firm menu, but seven-year-olds don't yet understand planning.) She continued, "I know it will be some food for kids, but I will also have some food that adults will enjoy."

She paused and thought for a moment.

"Cucumbers," she blurted out. "Adults like cucumbers. I don't really like cucumbers, but I know adults do. I'll have to make a cucumber salad. Rara will help me."

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At another time during the weekend she told me that she and [her little male friend] were planning to have a lemonade stand during the summer. She asked if I knew how to make lemonade. (If you stick "lemonade tycoon" into the search bar at the top of this blog, you'll quickly understand what a superfluous question that is.)

I asked how she thought you could make lemonade. "Well," she started, "you squeeze the lemon." I nodded. "Do you add water?", she asked. I told her you needed water and sugar, and the best way was to make "simple syrup" because then the sugar would dissolve. She acknowledged that without sugar the lemonade would be too sour. I made a puckery face. Then I told her we could look it up in a cookbook. She quickly responded, "We could look it up on the Internet." Trying to keep her grounded in our old ways, I told her I really liked "Joy of Cooking" and had a copy on the dining table. "Oh," she replied, "we have that cookbook, too."

Yea! Maybe I can encourage these children to keep one foot in the ways of their elders while they're forging ahead with technology!

There Is No Catching Up

I'm feeling like a slacker for not posting on a regular basis any more. I used to be able to sneak in a quick post at the office, and just hope that no one with any power over my employment would notice. But now I work for my son, and I constantly feel I'm not doing enough. Of course, most mothers think they're not good-enough mothers, so I guess my attitude at my new job is simply a follow-on to my attitude as a mother.

A couple of notables events: my cousin, Cindy, visited Mother at the nursing home last Saturday, cell phone at the ready, so I was able to speak to Mother for a few minutes. By all accounts, she's anxious to get back to her beautiful apartment at Fletcher Park Inn. The more she hangs on to that desire, the harder she'll work in physical therapy. At least that's our hope. My oldest brother is supposed to go to NC this coming weekend, and we're hopeful he can move Mother back to her apartment.

Little Miss Ridley turned 7 on the 29th of May, and her talented mother threw a fab Beatles Rock Band birthday party for her on Sunday. I don't believe I've ever seen a 7-year-old with as much self-confidence as Ridley possesses. She was in her element, surrounded by friends and the star of the day. And what a hoot to hear all these elementary school children singing 50-year-old songs perfectly. I never knew all the words to the Beatles' songs, choosing rather to sing what I thought the words were. ("Lucy in disguise with diamonds.") The babes will take their first solo plane ride on Thursday, off to visit the Colorado set of grandparents. Their daddy and their uncle had taken many solo plane rides by the time they were 7 and 9, so Boston and Ridley are just following in well-worn footsteps.

I have good days and bad days at the new job. The bad days are when I can't figure out a piece of software or a quick way to make things work correctly—when I feel stupid; when I feel my 60-year-old brain just doesn't work like it did ten or twenty years ago. The good days are when I learn something new—when I master a technique or figure out a cool way to do something. I love those days, and I cling to the hope that they will become more frequent and the bad days will wither away.

The Jazzman and I snatched a little piece of time yesterday to visit the Y and the J to check out their gym plans. He is being enormously supportive of my doctor's directive to get my ass in gear. We're leaning toward the J, which is more reasonably priced, has better parking, and is just two blocks away from my house. We've taken morning walks twice this week on the neighborhood sidewalks. The first day I tripped on an uneven square of sidewalk and dropped my knee to the concrete with a thwack! Clearly I need level surfaces on which to walk.

And I'll close with the note the newly-60 PianoLady sent me. She was quoting one of her son's best friends. He had just returned home from his first year of college, after a year of institutional food. He shook his newfound protruding belly and said, "Don't tell me to get in shape. Round is a shape!"

You're now as caught up on my life as you're going to get!

The Answer to Your Dreams?

Two weeks ago I started work on a new felted bag. The base and body is Lion Brand^® Fishermen's Wool from Jo-Ann's. About two inches up from the base I added a strand of Karabella Silky Tape in Spring Green. This yard, made of silk, viscose and rayon, is hand dyed in a yummy range of greens and browns, with a little glitter to add interest.

But I digress. After adding the Silky Tape to the project on Tuesday of last week, I knitted for a day before noticing my hands were itching. All day Thursday my hands itched. When I picked up the Jazzman on Thursday evening to head for NC, my knuckles on both hands were red and inflamed. By Friday morning, I was in bad shape. We ran into a drugstore in Beckley before resuming our drive, and picked up some Benadryl, plus a non-drowsy antihistamine, and some cortisone cream.

On Friday afternoon as we were sitting on the front porch of the cottage, I was dying to knit, despite, the itching, so put on some non-latex rubber gloves and tried to add a few rows to the project. Nope. The non-latex gloves don't have any elasticity to them, so the tips of the fingers hang off and keep getting knitted into the pattern!

While wearing the gloves, I didn't really feel the itching, but once I took them off, I was itching again. And that night the itching and redness was worse.

On Saturday and Sunday the itching and redness and swelling kept getting worse, and I could hardly not keep myself from scratching. By Monday evening, back in Youngstown and attending a friend's Memorial Day party, I began notice spots elsewhere—on my forearms, on my wrist.

Tuesday I went to the dermatologist, who prescribed Doxepin to ease the itching. Holy Mother of Naps! I couldn't stay awake on Wednesday. When I visited my internist Wednesday morning for a followup to an earlier appointment, she was surprised I had driven to her office on the Doxepin.

And the dreams. Oh. My. God. Wild and crazy, frenetic, busy, exhausting dreams. I remember when I went on Paxil eight or so years ago. When I was trying to wean off the Paxil, I hated going to sleep because I knew the dreams were going to begin and I was going to be exhausted when I woke up.

So the bottom line of this long, drawn-out story? The dermatologist thinks the itching has nothing to do with the yarn, so I continued working on the bag last night. We'll see if the itching picks up tomorrow. And I'm going to cut my dose of the Doxepin in half tonight and tomorrow because I just can't stand the fatigue—life is too short to be so tired.

And the funny story of the day? I pointed out a raised place at the base of my thumb to the dermatologist to ask if that should be zapped. "Nah," he said, "that's just like a barnacle on an old ship." Excuuuuse me? I'm almost 60, not almost 90!!!

We'll give this boy an F in bedside manner this week.

And for the knitters in the audience, here are a couple of pics.

This is the Silky Tape in Spring Green.






And this is the Work In Progress bag, in poor lighting so you can't see how fabulous the yarns are together. Once I finish the bag—oh, and find my camera—I'll post a finished pic.

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Updated at 10:39 a.m.

So, you wanted to know what the dreams were, didn't you.

The first morning, I dreamed I was still with my second husband. (Refresher: Montgomery Village, MD; 48 to my 33 when we married; daughter who told him lies about me and he believed them and didn't ask me to confirm or deny—i.e. guilty until proven innocent; would get severely depressed and not speak to me for five days at a time.) In my dream, he had decided I was moving out of his house so he brought in movers and packers to get all of my stuff out of his space and I had no idea where I was going.

This morning, I was on a group tour with my mother. (Note: this would never happen.) We needed to pack up to go to the next stop on the tour, and I was finding way too many things that needed to go back into my bag, including four New Yorker magazines!

These dreams have wayyy too much detail and wayyy too many old painful emotions!

Happy Birthday, Dear Friend

Today I wish a very happy and healthy 60th birthday to my darling friend of forty-one years!

Her pseudonym, PianoLady, pops up here regularly, and three years ago I documented her birthday.

She is 20 days older than I, and we were born in the same hospital. She grew up less than two blocks from my elementary school, we took accordion lessons at the same studio, and we took piano lessons at the same studio for a while. We never met until my first semester at University of Central Florida. And our lives have never been far apart since that day.

I played for her first and third weddings; she played for my first wedding and was my matron-of-honor at my second.

We differ drastically on a handful of issues. For example, she prays for me and I think.good.thoughts for her. She would like to see me come back to a church, and I would, with equal depth of interest, like that never to happen again in my life.

But we love music. And we love each other. And we have a lot of history and understanding of each other. She has had a lot of challenges in life with a handicapped son, and I have done everything in my power to support and encourage her. She loves and accepts me unconditionally. Could anyone ask for more in a friend?

So, Darling Cheryl, I hope you have a wonderful day. Sixty looks damned good on you!

See you in October!!

Unexpected Tears

This is the first in what will potentially be a recurring theme in this multifaceted blog: My mother fell last week. Twice.

Those of us who are in the second half of our lives frequently say, "You can't take it with you" or "Everybody dies" or some similar aphorism. The bottom line is this: No one lives forever.

When you follow that adage with the fact that yesterday was Mother's 97th birthday, then we have to acknowledge that she probably doesn't have that many years left. As I've observed her over the past few years, I've repeatedly stated that I don't want to live to be 9x years old. She has very little hearing left. Her eyes are fine, but she'd rather sleep that read. Her life revolves around walking down to the dining room of her retirement apartment complex for meals, Sunday night Scrabble with like-minded residents, and sleep. Lots of sleep. She forgets to take her meds; she forgets to shower and wash her hair; she forgets to put on clean clothes.

<Sidenote On>
It could be worse. It could be so very much worse. I've observed the parents of many friends who are not aging gracefully, who are battling Alzheimer's or Parkinson's or the demon cancer. In fact, my mother-in-law (John's foster mother) is almost 103 and is pretty much deaf, blind, and wheelchair bound. Quality of life? Not so much. Mother's brain is in darned good shape for 97. She still has a quality of life. We are lucky. Still ….
<Sidenote Off>

We have a lovely companion who comes in to help her with laundry and who takes her for manicures and pedicures. The complex provides a Fletcher Academy student who comes in to clean once a week. You and I would kill to have that much uninterrupted time to read. She sleeps.

If you've read this blog for very long at all, you know that I don't feel very bonded to my mother. She and Daddy adopted me when I was six days old, and I've never felt like she gave me unconditional acceptance, as I believe one should give to one's child, whether adopted, stepped, fostered, or natural. For y*e*a*r*s, I've said I would not cry when my mother died. I've presumed I would just feel an enormous sense of relief.

But Sunday, as the Jazzman and I were preparing to leave the hospital to begin our journey back to Ohio, I hugged her goodbye and told her I loved her. She had a look of helplessness in her eyes. This strong woman is never helpless.

I cried.

It broke my heart. The sense of what she's feeling right now—mortal, helpless, hopeless—broke a heart I didn't think could be broken any more by her.

Monday morning she was moved into an assisted living/nursing home facility where she will receive physical therapy for at least two weeks until she can increase her mobility and at least get out of bed and to the bathroom by herself.

It's going to take a hell of a lot of hard work on her part, and a commitment to maintaining the status quo that existed before last Tuesday's fall.

My sense over the weekend was that this was the beginning of a slippery slope to the end, be it six months or six years away.

I hope I'm wrong.

Note: The photo was taken a year or two ago in Mother's apartment in Hendersonville. I did not take any pictures of her on this trip, as she just wasn't looking good at all—not like I expect her to look! May she be able to get things together and look this good again!