Fancy-Pants Dining, Haircuts and Mr. President

Practically in my back yard is a large culinary college that is listed in the top five in the USA. Every year our senior hall has a popular event where they’ll bus 100 of us (25 at a time on four consecutive days) down to their 5-star style restaurant. This week was my third year going and I’ll keep going as long as I can still spoon food into the biggest orifice in my head. The ambience and food are to die-for and out of the norm for my dining experiences. We sat at tables of six and the conversation focused on the food, the dessert cart and the chefs that came out to answer questions about unidentifiable flavor profiles in the dishes and how they were prepared. I had the “Caribbean Adobo Braised Pork” with sofrito and pineapple sauce and for dessert I practically had an orgasm devouring the tiramisu cake in an eatable chocolate dish served with a scoop of coffee ice cream on the side. Each time we go, we tour a different part of the college and the bakery was on slate this week. After lunch we went on a mystery side trip that turned out to be a tour of the fire department and its regional-wide training center. They had a “house” with moveable walls that can be filled up with smoke so the firefighters can’t see where they’re going. I swear they must have picked the cutest guy in the department to do the talk and tour. Dimples and tiramisu in the same day? It doesn’t get much better than that. 

I got a new hair style this week---breezier and easier for a spring that includes more showers now that I’m going to the gym three to four times a week. It seems like the longer you go to the same stylist the more they get into auto-pilot-cutting your hair and then you end up with a helmet head. At least that happens to me. So I searched for a photo to bring with me and when I showed it to the stylist she said, “That’s not going to work.” I didn’t expect resistance. “Why not?” I asked. “Because It’s longer than the cut you have.” Say what? I couldn’t believe it but I wasn’t about to argue with a lady holding a pair of sharp scissors. “I’m not married to that photo,” I said. “What do you suggest?” Instead of answering she asked me what I was trying to achieve and I told her I wanted to get rid of the bulk on top and be able to towel dry my hair after a shower and be good to go. Boy short. “Well, that’s not going to happen,” she replied. “As thick as your hair is if you go that short it will all stick straight up and there’s not enough jell in the world to make it lay down.” “So what should I do,” I begged, “walk around with a helmet in my arms so it looks like I have a good reason for having helmet hair?” She talked and I lost interesting in listening. Finally I ended her monologue with, “Why don’t you just surprise me.” She did. She gave me a cut that to my untrained eye looks like the one in the photo I brought in! “Magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?” Well, I didn’t get the answer I wanted but my new cut is definitely ready for the sultry summer days.

A week or so ago a blogger friend, Bella Run, recommended signing up for The Word of the Day at Dictionary.com which I did and until yesterday I hadn’t received a word that I’d seen before or thought that I’d use in the future. Then an email came with this word: mumpsimus. “1) adherence to or persistence in an erroneous use of language, memorization, practice, belief, etc., out of habit or obstinacy, or 2) a person who persists in a mistaken expression or practice.” Who does that remind you of? Hint: He lives in a big white house. Oops, zip my mouth and slap me silly. My blog is in a controversy free zone. At least I’ve been trying to keep that way lately, but this past week has been a good week for those of us in The Resistance so I’m sticking my neck up like a periscope on a submarine. Feel free to take a potshot at me if you think the world is being unfair to Mr. Mumpsimus, if you don’t think Voltaire, the French philosopher of ye olden days, knew what he was talking about when he warned, “Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.”

Speaking of The Resistance, I had lunch with my oldest niece over the weekend, an early birthday treat on her part. I love that woman! We talked about the Russian entanglements in the White House, the failed Trumpcare bill, the second Muslim ban that's been blocked by several district courts and I got caught up on all things family related. We each had to drive a half hour to meet in the middle and as I drove home after lunch I couldn’t help feeling wistful that we can’t do it more often. I miss having people around who’ve known me longer than a minute and a half---who knew me when my brain and my tongue worked at the same speed and who can fill in when my memory fails me. Magic mirror on the wall, why can’t I age like smooth-as-silk Jamaica Rum instead of Hire’s Root Beer that’s gone flat? ©

The haircut

My dessert

A hard choice that came in second

The Winter of Disappointment

This week I got my first professional pedicure since last fall. You’d think that would have been a relaxing outing, given the fact they I was sitting in a massage chair while a nice lady played which-little-piggy-went-to-market with my toes, but there were groaning sounds coming from up above and that made me nervous. We’re at a point in our record setting winter where roofs are caving in from the weight of all that snow---nearly 90 inches of snow so far this season. That’s three feet more snow than our yearly average. Nine or ten cave-ins have made the news and any flat roofed building is in danger. Long story short my pink little piggies look perfect and the roof overhead stayed in place long enough for me to escape the impending danger. This senior citizen knows how to live on the edge.

Aside from it being a perfect winter for downhill skiers---if they want to brave the bitter cold---another good thing about having a hard winter is the fact that the ice sculpture contest contestants, this weekend, don’t have to worry about their huge blocks of ice disappearing any time soon. In past years I’ve seen their slightly melted creations as I pushed my husband’s wheelchair around a small tourist town near-by but this year I planned to bundle up in my warmest clothes and I go watch the carvers as they worked---twenty three sculptures created over two days. If you’ve ever seen the Food Network’s Ice Brigade with Randy Finch and his crew you’ll know exactly who is in town working their magic. These guys and gals are awesome!

On paper, the opening day looked perfect for me to get out of the house---no new snow predicted. I had my wool socks, long gaiters, heaviest sweats, snowmobile gloves and a hat laid out. I was looking forward to sipping free cocoa while watching people play miniature golf on a course made entirely out of ice. I planned on sampling the quirky mash potato bar at the olive oil store before wandering over to the chili cook off and the snowman building contest in the park. Then I saw the morning news. Cars crashes and spin offs all over the place. Icy roads between me and the contest. So I’ll be seeing the sculptures and snowmen next week, after the ice festival is over. I’m calling this the Winter of Disappointment. Not to worry. I’m getting used to it. I’m in no danger of hanging myself from the rafters in the attic.

Saturday I had tickets to a country western show put on by the fire department. I haven’t been to one of these twice-a-year firefighters fundraisers since Don passed away even though I continued buying tickets. In the back of my mind I kept thinking I’d connect with someone to invite to go with me, but that hasn’t happened. This year, I decided to go alone, to made it a widow’s work goal. But the temperatures never got high enough for the road salt to work and there is a huge hill in between me and the auditorium that is well known for its bumper car intersection at the bottom, so I opted not to chance it. Color me disappointed. Our fire department guys are the ones who come to the house when you call 911 and say, “X, Y or Z has fallen and can’t get back up.” They’d been here many times when Don was still alive and they never charge, so I will keep buying their tickets whether I go or not. However, if we still have icy roads in July when their next show is scheduled I’m moving to Fiji where I can tie myself to a tree during hurricane season. I’ve had enough of the devil’s dandruff and his polar breath for one season, thank you very much. 

Switching gears, at one of my favorite blogs, As Time Goes By, there is a recent post titled Coming Out as Old. Reading it I learned that to be politically correct I have to quit calling myself a senior citizen or elderly. Instead, I have to use the words ‘elder’ or ‘old’ person. The idea is that ‘elderly’ and ‘senior’ implies a fragile body and declining cognitive abilities. Since I’ve been admonished in my off-line life not to call myself ‘elderly’ I found this discussion of labels very interesting. For some reason that defies explanation I’d rather be elderly than old but I also like the title, ‘elder.’ I guess it's all in the perceptions the labels conjure up in our heads. Many if not most people my age are not frail or have declining abilities---I get that point, I really do---but what about those who are? Do we have to find a new label that covers them? Or do we just get out our bag of adjectives and say, “She’s a fragile old person" or "she's flaky old person”? Given a choice between ‘elderly’ and ‘a fragile' or 'flaky' old person I’d rather be elderly. Ohmygod, I need a pie chart to sort this all out! In the meantime, I am officially now the elder in my tribe of one here on Widowhood Lane. ©