Sexy Hair and Pickup Lines

A couple of weeks ago I had tea with a friend I hadn’t seen since before the pandemic and she couldn’t get over how much my hair has changed. She said, “You’re going to get a new man with that sexy hair after you move” and I laughed if off. 1) I don’t want a new man, and 2) there are 52 two women moving into the complex and 10 men and other women in the group with “sexy hair” have faces, bodies and better wardrobes to match their pile of silver waves and bangs that you can hide behind.

I was reminded of that conversation this week when I stopped at the Guy Land Cafeteria to get a bowl of soup and a piece of chocolate pie. There were at least two dozen empty tables in the place but a guy picked a table adjoining mine with a short pony wall in between them and after getting seated he was only two-three feet away, with both of us facing the same direction. Not a bad looking guy for an old duffer. Sandy-gray hair, blue eyes, a well-trimmed mustache but thin where I am not. He commented on the weather. I replied in a friendly manner then went back to writing in my notebook which clearly he didn’t take as a hint that I wasn’t up for mindless chit-chat. 

He asked if I’d ever seen the magazine Reminisce. Target audience, older than dirt---my words, not his. Yes, of course I had. It’s filled with photos, short stories and recipes from the 1940s, through the 70s. I had even submitted a few stories that never got printed but I didn’t tell him that. He started reading an article to me about household cures our parents used when we were growing up while I tried to figure out if this guy was just lonely and any warm body to sit near would do or---drum roll, please---was it my sexy hair? I had just washed it that morning and it was all over the place, each wave having a mind of its own and extra silvery shiny because I’m trying to use up a bottle of conditioner before I move. 

It’s been so long since I’ve had to decide if someone was flirting with me or just a talkative stranger. Either way he thought I’d be a kindred spirit who likes stories about curing warts and boiling bullets to make a tea to drink to cure something soldiers picked up during the war which I’m assuming wasn’t VD because I’d have remember that. He was having such a good time while I was woofing down my pie and probably leaving a brown ring around my mouth from the speed I was going. I wasn't going to leave that pie behind but I wanted to escape after he asked, “Do you come here often?” which was reminiscence of my barhopping days, a popular pick up line back then right up with “What’s your sign?” and "If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?" I’d have been happier if I’d been eavesdropped on our conversation because it’s hard to record notes and think of good comebacks at the same time. My chocolate pie finished, I wasted no time in leaving him with my classic goodbye line to just about everyone---man, woman or child: “Nice talking with you.” “You, too,” he replied.

I was out running errands that day picking up more packing boxes and stopping at a place that buys gold and silver. I sold a Ziploc bag of stuff I never wear for $464.00. Some was jewelry I made in college using the lost wax process, the only art class I didn't get an A in so I wasn't sad to see these pieces go. My husband’s class ring, souvenir spoons and some old gifts Don gave me before he finally got the message I don’t like gold are also now on their way to The Great Melting Pot to get reborn.

Sexy hair. And now that my friend planted that phrase in my head she had me wondering if a guy at a future residence meeting yesterday sought me out for my hot hair or if he really did just want to tell me that his wife passed away since I saw him last. Just kidding. The guy was devoted to his wife. She was in the beginning stages of dementia and I always made a point to talk to her about the centerpieces on the tables because she, her husband and I all had extensive experience in the floral industry. 

He showed me photos of floral arrangements he’d made for his new unit out of silk flowers. He's a great designer but a few decades out of style unless the sleek, lineal lines are back in style again and I'm the one out of touch. He showed me his new area rug and couch and his decorating style couldn't be more different than mine. I'm all whites to the point of boring if I'm not careful with decorative touches. He's got a red couch and a rug full of primary colored flowers over a black background. He gave me something new thing to shop for though. He found covers for throw pillows for under $10 and I had six throw pillows waiting for my next trip to Goodwill. I pulled three back out of the bag. Amazon's got the best selection but I'm forcing myself to wait until after I move to buy some.

I told him about how hard it was to downsize my collection of flower vases which may prove to be a mistake now that he knows my intention is to have fresh flowers in my apartment as often as possible. If this guy by some twist of cosmic humor starts bringing me flowers to put in my many vases he’d better be bringing them to all the other ladies around us as well or I’ll be pooping canary features and cutting my hair boy short again.  

I need to come up with nicknames for my fellow residents starting with him. The Florist is too obvious. Since there are so few guys on campus maybe I'll number them and he can be Guy Two. Guy One has already named himself but that's a story for another day. 

Another newbie I met yesterday I may name N.E.F (negative energy field). She's leaving another CCC against her children's strong objections to move into my CCC, probably lowing their inheritance substantially to do so. She no doubt kissed $250,000 away that is non-refundable in places like this. When I asked her what was wrong with the place, she said, "If you're not Dutch, you're not much." Having heard that phrase my entire life, I laughed. I should have had sympathy for her since growing up I experienced the prejudices firsthand from the Dutch Christian Reformers in the area, but I didn't. I felt smug because I did my homework when clearly she didn't. Does that make me a bad person? Hint: When picking out a new community, read their freaking newsletters and mission statements. I made a mental note to avoid her in the future because her Negative Energy Field was draining the sassy-ass, Sexy Hair attitude right out of me.   ©

One High, One Low and One Strike Out

Guess who I saw for lunch on Monday! Two of my old Gathering Girls pals. I’d tell you how that came about but then I’d have to swear you all to secrecy since it’s no longer my responsibility to organize anything. (Hint: I was looking for ways to fill up time while my house was listed.) Four of them RSVPed to go to a bar/restaurant where an indifferent waitress didn’t even ask us if we wanted to order drink. But at the last minute two ladies bailed out which only confirms what a few of them have been saying about “digestive issues” making the spur-of-the-moment invitations more desirable than the ones from ye olden days when we did fixed dates and times on a calendar. I accept this change and challenge of aging friendships, but don’t get me started on my wish-it-wasn’t-so-isms. I wanted us to be like the characters on The Big Bang Theory or Friends where re-runs would keep us forever together, fun and young and playing off each other’s humor twice a month like clockwork. Not going to happen so I'll take what I can get.

Tuesday I was supposed to have a full battery of screening tests: 1) to evaluate my stroke risk carotid artery plaque build up, 2) get a peripheral arterial disease profile, 3) an osteoporosis risk profile---already know this one but the bundle of tests is cheaper when you don’t pick and choose---4) an abdominal aortic abdominal aortic aneurysm screening and 5) an atrial fibrillation screening. They're not covered by insurance and you don’t need a doctor to order them through Life-Line Screening but for $150 it gives you piece of mind. It didn’t matter because Monday night I got a call wanting me to reschedule the tests to late September---the week before I move---because they were going to be understaffed. I got a little---read that a lot---upset. They threw me this curve ball a half hour before my realtor was due to present the offers I wrote about in my last post so my nerves were already flying higher than a kite in a thunderstorm. I apologized to the poor woman for reacting to her request like a whiny child but I didn't reschedule.

Five years ago when I got those same tests done I, of course, showed the results to my primary care doctor and I asked if they were a waste of money. He side-stepped the question by saying if we had any reason to suspect anything was wrong we could order these tests and insurance would cover them. But my husband had a football sized abdominal aortic aneurysm that was ready to burst any minute that they found while looking at his kidneys for something unrelated. They had him in an emergency, 10-11 hour surgery that same afternoon. People pay more than $150 for something they’ll wear less than dozen times before sending it off to Goodwill, so I reserve the right to get judgy with anyone who judges me for wanting to spend $150 this way when I really, REALLY need a new pair of shoes.

Wednesday I walked out of the Infusion Center after getting my IV bag full of Reclast for my brittle bones and I felt like a puddle of pudding. I sat in my car trying to get warm because they keep that place as cold as a meat locker and even though they give you a heated blanket to snuggle under its never enough to warm me up. Puddles of pudding are not safe to drive so I waited behind the steering wheel of my Trax, the summer sun beating down thru the windshield until I no longer felt like an elder in a tribe that sends their grandmothers off on icebergs to die. It was 11:00 when I left the parking lot and suddenly I was starving. An Atkins shake I had earlier was supposed to keep hunger away for four hours but it failed to live up to its promise. Had I not been driving I might have written the company a stern letter of complaint using lots of explanation points.

On the road my car knew that in my condition it needed to take me to the Guy Land Cafeteria which---surprise, surprised---was filled with old men hence my nickname for the place I will miss after I move. Some of those guys were racks of bones and looked like they should have been at the Infusion Center with me. Others looked like they were hiding bowling balls under their shirts. I ordered the super breakfast because it came with hash browns. Then I wondered if I might be pregnant because I haven’t wanted or ordered hash browns since the ‘70s.

I love people watching but frankly the old men at Guy Land that day were too bland looking with their ash white, paper thin skin and gray hair that matched their muted plaid shirts. (Or was my cataracts telling me that?) Either way, maybe I read too many romance books while my house was being shown because I tried to imagine what some of these old guys looked like in their primes. I got nothing. 

When three guys at the next table started talking about passing kidney stones through their penises I left before I was tempted to over share the woes of having urinary track infections. I’d much rather get my penis talk in fictional conversations in romance books, thank you very much. Although that word rarely comes up in contemporary "hot" romance books---no pun intended---and the euphemisms used in the last century when I started reading the genre are few and far between. Nope, now they go straight for the ‘C’ word and aren’t you glad you came by today to learn that bit of genre reading trivia.  ©

Back from the Dark Side

After weeks of dragging myself from one pity party to the next I've finally got my groove back. Accomplishing stuff does that to your mood and outlook…at least it works that way with me. And what have I done to lighten my mood? Finishing up the Great Money Disposal Project I wrote about in my last blog was one thing and having the-son-I-wish-I-had come to fulfill his end of our barter trade was another. That barter meant I now have freshly painted door trims outside and a promise to finish the project up next week.

As a bonus to the painting project we got into some long conversations like back in the good old days when we were neighbors and we hung out as couples…his wife is a sweetheart and Tim truly did look at my husband as a father figure. He told me there wasn’t a day that goes by that he doesn’t think of Don and all things Don taught him. When Tim left I said, “It's always great to be around someone who remembers Don. It’s fun to talk about him once in a while.” That's hard to do that with people who never met your spouse without them assuming you're still a grieving widow, lost in the past. And insider jokes about a departed spouses just don’t compute with newly acquired friends.

While the-son-I-wish-I-had was here I was lamenting about how conflicted I felt about having to send my favorite antique metal patio chair, footstool and side table off to the auction house. It needs spray painting every four-five years and I won’t be able to do that where I’m moving. So I planned on buying a cheap set that I can throw out when it starts looking bad. Tim is good friends with a guy who owns an auto body shop and he suggested I send my antique stuff to him to get it sandblasted and painted with auto paint which should last as long as I do. And it really won’t cost much more than buying a cheap set. I can’t tell you how happy that idea makes me. I just have to wait until I can see the outside treatment of the building before I decide what color I want my new/old patio furniture to be.

New Topic: My favorite people watching place to eat and write---the Guy Land Cafeteria----opened up this week. It had a kitchen fire just before the pandemic started last March so it couldn’t operator, even for curbside until the place was rebuilt. I heard flames were shooting through the roof, extensively damaging the place and for three months afterward, when our state was in total lock down, they weren’t allowed to do anything more than to secure it against the weather.

I love that place. It makes me understand why so many serious writers are fond of writing in coffee shops. As I sat there yesterday a guy in his mid-thirties caught my eye. He had a mask that was made of red, white and blue fabric that he’d push up high on his forehead, his sunglasses perched even higher up. I’ve never seen a mask worn that way and he got extra credit for creativity. It made him look a bad-ass biker and he was texting back and forth with someone who put a wide grin on his handsome face. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring so I ruled out that he was texting a little princess or pirate at home with a wife. And like I imagine one of my favorite romance authors would do, I made him the central character in boy-meets-girl scene and he was making the lady parts on a girl across the aisle take notice.

When he stood up to leave---holy cow!---he grabbed a leather jacket off the bench seat on the other side of the table, making it clear he really was a biker. My heart be still, he was even wearing leather chaps over skin-tight jeans and you’d have to be a dead-Dora not to be impressed by his smoking hotness. In my imagination the woman sitting across the aisle was young but in reality she was my age and she, too, was enjoying the eye candy. As he pulled his mask down in place (a state rule for walking around inside a restaurant) the woman smiled up at him saying, “It’s a good day for a ride” and he replied, “Every day is a good day for a ride.”

In a novel you’d be prompted to read a double innuendo into the word ‘ride’ but in real-time the older woman kept right on talking and before the guy left she’d gotten him to show her a picture on his phone of his bike. The old hussy must have been a good flirt back in her day. In my wanna-be writer’s mind he would have then offered her a ride on the back of his Harley Davidson and she’d impulsively take him up on it the offer, pushing to the back of her mind that he could be a serial killer instead of panty-melting bad-boy. And I, as an observer in my fictionalized version thinking the same thing, would have snapped a photo of the couple in case she turned up dead. You can never tell if the writer sitting in public places is writing a romance, a murder mystery, a thriller or is just a bored blogger with a word count to fill. ©

Living Under House Arrest

It seems weird to live in a town of over a million people and know that nothing social is going on anywhere. The schools, colleges and universities' extension buildings are closed until for the foreseeable future. The public libraries ditto. Churches canceled services and Laugh-Fest folded up most of their annual and very popular venues. Even the butterflies are flying around in our huge tropical conservatory without the thousands of visitors coming to see them. Their doors are locked, school buses full of children are not lined up at their entrance and won’t be this spring. All state Indian Casinos are closed and our state's Tulip Festival that brings 48 million dollars worth of tourist dollars into the economy was canceled. And on the boohoo-so-sorry-about-that front all elective surgeries in the area hospitals have been canceled so if you were hoping to get some fake boobs during spring break you're plum out of luck. All kidding aside, it's getting serious, people! This afternoon our president told the nation not to go to any gatherings of more than ten people and our governor ordered all bars, restaurants and coffee houses to close (except for take-outs and deliveries) for the next two weeks.

None of those closures affect me personally but I'm bummed out that I can’t even go through the take-out window at the Guy Land Cafeteria because just before the coronavirus came to town they had a kitchen fire and are closed for remodeling. God, I miss that place and while I don’t usually go through their take-out line, preferring instead to go inside where my people watching skills have been honed to perfection, I would have used it during these Code Red days we're in. They cook in plain view so we'd know if they dropped stuff on the floor and put it back on plates to serve. My nephew got fired from a line-cook job because he saw another cook do that and when my nephew challenged him about serving the steak, he was told to keep his mouth shut. So he followed the server to the table and told the customer not to eat it and why. The other cook kept his job, my nephew didn’t. 

My other go-to place when I’m out and about, an oriental take-out place, I’ve cut off my list because the odds are high that some of their workers aka family members are international travelers. Not that it matters with the travel ban on but I've got that irrational thought stuck in my brain and it won't move along. A few weeks before Code Red put us all in social distancing mode, I’d already stopped buying deli at the supermarket because who knows who might have been breathing on my favorite chicken/grape/walnut salad and a day ago my favorite store closed their deli counters altogether and will package stuff up in individual containers. I might just have to start cooking. This week I did stock up on Atkins liquid diet meals and comfort foods. I don’t like to stockpile comfort foods opting instead to buy them as needed. If they're in the house, they'll end up on my hips sooner rather than later. But trying times call for drastic measures. Between the diet meal replacements and the goodies I refuse to name because they might incriminate me, my digestive system will be asking, “What the F is she doing to herself?” And I’ll have to explain---for the millionth time in my life---that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a stress eater and living in a Code Red world is stressful. 

It’s all in the mind, though, isn’t is. Other than a few canceled events that I’ve experienced many times during winter ice and snow storms, my daily routine hasn’t really changed. It’s the fact that I'm being told I'm under house arrest that has me anxious and wanting to be on the go. I’m still e-Baying my brains out. I’m still going to the post office and I'll keep my CPA appointment today to get my incomes taxes done. I’m still playing on the computer and writing my silly little posts, hoping if I sent them out in the world something I write about will resonate with someone. If I was a more elegant writer I’d phrase that more like May Sarton: “I would like to believe when I die that I have given myself away like a tree sows seeds every spring…” Yup, that's me spreading my coronavirus paranoia out like pods off trash trees that no one wants growing in their yards.

I’ve heard about people taking the lemons growing during Code Red and making them into lemonade…taking the opportunity to do deep cleaning or finally getting to the bottom of their mending box. And let's talk about the obvious baby boom coming after everyone is freed from house arrest. (I'd like to suggest we call them the lemonade generation.) In my own family two of my relatives work for a company that makes and sells hospital beds world-wide and they were told to work from home until June 30^th….can’t chance any of their critic workers getting sick and spreading it around the corporate offices. They are packing up their lives and going up north to their summer cottage, happy as clams for the opportunity to do that, which makes me wonder how the person who coined that ‘happy as a clam’ phrase knows if clams are happy or sad.

In this age of Google inquiring minds can find anything and I found this: “The phrase ‘as happy as a clam’ is derived from the full phrase ‘happy as a clam at high water’ where ‘high water’ means the tidal waves. The phrase means very happy and content with what a person has. Clams are collected during the low tide. So, during the high tides, the clams are safe from the fishermen.” Just think, I’ve lived nearly eight decades without knowing that. Thank you Pandemic, for helping me learn something new today. Now, please go away!  ©