The Devil Made me do it and Other Stuff

Monday was a Red Letter day for Levi. He got a long overdue walk followed by an afternoon at the doggie foo-foo beautify parlor where he was greeted by a giant-but-gentle pit bull. She belongs to the owner of the shop so she’s always there to offer a butt sniff to the clients---human and canine alike. It’s a busy shop with five groomers, a shampoo person and someone manning check ins and outs. Levi’s groomer is a guy in his mid-forties, he’s the Schnauzer specialist and owner of the shop. Levi loves him and that feeling is mutual but from my point of view, a forty-eight dollar haircut and a bath ought to come with a heavy dose of love. There are cheaper places around but I’d rather save money somewhere else like skipping professional pedicures. I don’t have the patience, lately, to have someone play with my toes or to listen to a random woman in the next chair spend ten minutes deciding on the color polish she wants. Just pick one, already! Of course, no one had better say the same to me about taking forever to find the exact shade of gray I want in an oriental rug for my bathroom. That’s different, says the widow who has suspended doing “girlie-girl” stuff until further notice.

I don’t mean to imply that my widowhood has anything to do with my lack of enthusiasm for girlie-girl prep-time. It doesn’t. My newest theory (read that as newest excuse) is there should be only one primped-and-pampered person per household and Levi gets that title here on Widowhood Street and judging by Levi’s excitement greeting the groomer it’s clear he thinks his beauty routine is worth every penny. Now, if pedicures came with a heavy dose of sweet-talk, kisses and petting from a hunky guy I’d probably break the one-per-household rule and hop right into a pedicure tub with the same enthusiasm that Levi shows when we pull up in front of the foo-foo beauty parlor. Did I mention the groomer calls me ‘Honey’? I don’t know why. It doesn’t sound patronizing coming from his lips. It’s not because he doesn’t remember my name; he also calls me ‘Jeanie’ which I find endearing because so many people called me that when I was growing up.

On Groundhog’s Day I attended a Mexican Fiesta/luncheon at the senior hall. It was different than our normal luncheons. This one was sponsored and planned by a local senior living facility and they spared no expense. They brought in truly great food and virgin margaritas and for entertainment they hired a three piece band from the local Council for Cultural Exchange. They played calypso/ Caribbean Music---but not modern versions. It was the historical beats and rhythms the African slaves brought with them to the Caribbean that got mixed with the instruments used by the indigenous people. It was a repetitive and “happy” beat meant to keep the slaves working at a good pace. The trio made up a “song” on the fly from three words said by an audience member to demonstrate how it was done on the sugar cane plantations. The songs of that era had just a few words repeated over and over again so that they required no thinking and evoked no longings. There was a dance demonstration of how the slaves were allowed to celebrate at the end of the work day. I’ve seen that dance somewhere before and it does look like a celebration but I never would have guessed its origins. 

I was in a mischievous mood at the luncheon so I mentioned that I stayed up late the night before to watch the Iowa Caucus coverage. That’s all it took for several of the ladies at the table to spit nails and venom at Hillary. And that's all it took for someone else to declare Ted Cruz will be the next president and for several others to argue that Bernie is too old to hold the office. It amused the heck out of me that at a table full of old people Bernie, at 74, was deemed too old. “Why would anyone want to vote for an old man like that?” someone asked. ” I wanted to answer, “Ask someone under thirty. That’s his demographic” but I behaved myself and sat there with my sociologist’s hat firmly in place, not saying a single word after confessing to why I was sleep deprived. Observe and record but don’t become part of the study. Ah, I’m good at doing that. It was fascinating that one of the nicest ladies I know from the senior hall and one of the nastiest ladies were both animated in their hatred of Hillary, trying to out do each other with their tales of Hillary’s wows and Bill’s hoes. I knew before I brought up the topic of politics that a discussion could turn out like it did. I live in a tomato red state in a crimson red county but, like I said, I was in a “mood” to be a lightning rod, hoping to get the sparks I got. It was my way of celebrating the way the 2016 Iowa Caucus turned out. ©