Slumber Parties, Pedicures and Widows

Back when I was teenager in the ‘50s Slumber Parties were a common teenager activity at my school and presumably in the greater realm of the pop culture of the era. If you’re too young to know what a Slumber Party was, today they go by the names Sleepovers, Sweet Dreams Parties and Sleepover Glamping Parties. And judging by the party planner websites these modern day parties are a lot fancier than the ones of my youth. Did you know you can rent white party tents for your back yard then fill them with individual pup tents with matching bedding for the little princesses in your household? (I’m assuming based on what I saw on these website, Sleepovers are not something the opposite sex is engaged in hosting for their guy friends.) The party planners can even provide you with professionals to teach your preteens and teens all about make up. They also set up tables for catered food and fill up swag bags for the little guests to take home. 

Back when I was going to Slumber Parties we just showed up with our sleeping bags and  pajamas or nightgowns but prepared to stay up all night. We’d make Chef Boyardee pizzas from a box, pop popcorn or heap ice cream up for banana splits. We’d give each other pedicures and manicures or we’d wash and set each other’s hair. We might even puck a few uni-brows. If we were lucky, a few boys would come by and the hosting parents wouldn’t catch us sneaking out to the backyard to play a little kissy-face. Even better was when the girl had an older brother like I did. That always got you a better turn out for your party. Jerry was on the football team so he was a major draw, even though he had a steady girlfriend from out of town. Some girls at my school probably though she was a mythical girlfriend and some probably though they could charm their way past the absent girlfriend’s claim. But usually my mom made sure my brother was otherwise occupied when I had my Slumber Party.

What made me think about the Slumber Parties of my youth was the fact that I got a pedicure today, only the sixth professional pedicure in my life. I have a feeling a person either loves getting their fingers and toes pampered or they don’t. I’m in the latter category. I don’t like sitting that long and I really don’t like paying money for some thing I could do for myself before I got too old to be able to reach my toes without throwing my leg and hips bones out of alignment. I still do my own finger nails---only had two professional manicures in my life---and I get compliments on them, especially if I take the time to do the French style manicures. One of the professional manicures never made it home before one nail was ruined and I removed the rest of the polish when I got there. 

I thought about trying to organize a glam party here at the continuum care campus so we could do each others toes, but I don’t hear anyone complaining about getting them done professionally the way I grumbler about the indignity of someone other than a male in the heat of passion playing with their toes. Quite the opposite. The women here seem to enjoy going to nail and spa salons. Most of them go once a month. I’ve gone six times in ten years and most of them before an annual appointment with the dermatologist or foot doctor. I was never a girly-girly I guess. Or I’m just a cheap-skate.

And have I complained enough about the cost at FULL VOLUME yet? I’m still not over the sticker shock of paying up to $50 plus tips. I’ve paid $35, $40 twice, $42 and $50 twice plus tips. If the technicians get half of that I suppose that would be a fair amount for an hour’s work for a job requiring very little training. The last place I went was the cheapest place (for the basic, express) and it was mind-blowingly big with its sixteen pedicure chairs, twelve nail stations and eight drying chairs and most of them were in use. But my appointment was at 11:30 so I don’t know how many of the other women in there were on a lunch hour. The only person working in the whole place who spoke English was the cashier, greeter and person answering the phone. He also spoke what ever language it is that they speak in the Philippines. This is the place I will go in the future because not only is it the cheapest, its also the closest but I got the best pedicure there.

The only English speaking pedicurist ever had started out by telling me one of her clients was late for her appointment which is why she was late getting me in for mine. According to the pedicurist, who knew the woman’s family, the client was widow who had become a recluse widow and has done nothing but drink beer and get drunk in the year since her husband died. “Her family is worried.” Blah, blah, blah. Ten years into my widowhood and am I losing my ability to sympathize? At lunch here at the CCC a widow was complaining because no one at the Widow’s Support Group hugged her! This was last year when everyone was jumpy about getting Covid and I offered that as a possible reason why. And I added that everyone has different ideas of what they need in the way of support. “Well, I needed hugs,” she said, “and no one gave me one!” Several women then got up from the table and hugged her and she burst out crying and left. After she was gone, another woman said, “She just went to that group too early. She wasn’t ready for it yet.” I agreed. But I should start reading my blog from the beginning and see what kind of widow I was back at the beginning of the process, in a effort to refill my empathy and sympathy wells. As the years go by we humans---at least most of us---are equipped with a wonderful gift for minimizing the pain we've gone through and only remember with perfect clarity the good times.

Until Next Wednesday….  ©

 *The photo at the top is from the slumber party in the movie Grease which was set in the '50. And the photos below were napped off party websites that offer sleepover rentals. I just can't imagine my parents ever going to these extremes for little girls or teen parties.

 

Busy Week of Firsts

I couldn’t decide what to write about for this week’s post. I had narrowed it down to two themes. 1) About all the ‘firsts’ that happened in my life since I last wrote or, 2) how busy my week was. After mulling it over in my mind I came to the conclusion that if I wrote about the ‘firsts’ that would, by nature, include a lot of the stuff that kept me so busy. I kid you not, every single day I had at least four things on my day planner. I don’t like being that busy but sometimes you have no choice.

I’ll start with a day when I drove a 40 mile round trip (which is a LOT for me to drive) up to the electronics recycling station near where I used to live to dispose of my old printer. There are closer places if you want to pay to drop electronics off but I was invited to have lunch with a couple of old friends at a place nearby, so it was easier to go up there where I know my way around than to cart printer through Best Buys or Staples, assuming I could wade through heavy traffic to find the places. I had boxed that old printer up in the new printer’s box and have been riding it around in my back seat for three weeks, hoping someone would steal it but either I shop in an honest part of town or car pirates of opportunity know that trick.

I used to have lunch with these women twice a month when I lived up in that neck of the woods. Long time readers might remember we called ourselves The Gathering Girls and it sure felt like old times being back at the Guyland Cafeteria. They and the place hadn't changed a bit. This was the first time since I moved that we all sat at the same table laughing like we used, we even ordered the same specials we always did in the past.

After lunch I swung around to the cemetery where my husband’s and my tombstone is located and half of his ashes are buried. I had come with a shovel, whisk broom, garbage bag and gallon water all prepared to dig out the quack grass that usually is attempting to cover over the inscription in the marble, but for the first time since Don died in 2012, it didn’t need my help. I couldn’t help wondering if it died out because the last time I was there, I sprinkled the ashes from my dog, Levi, closely to the footing of the stone. Maybe he killed the quack grass by marking the stone with magic, ghost urine.

Also close by was the house that I designed and had built in 2001 and was sold before moving to my continuum care campus. It was my first time seeing it since the day I moved out and I wish I hadn’t. When I lived there the lawn and yard was the best on the street and it was the best kept yard I’ve ever had in my life. But the new owners let the grass burn up and it looked like a kid with no clue for how to mow grass was doing the job. It’s never seen a weed wacker or an edger and the shrubbery hadn’t been trimmed since I left. I doubt they can even see out the library window anymore. And the back yard where my nature strip should be blooming with wild flowers is completely overwhelmed with invasive sumac. I had my lawn care guy take it out every year. I looked the house up on Zillow to see if it’s changed hands since I sold it but it hasn’t. They place a value on it that is $69,000 more than I sold it for! Anyway, it’s true that you can’t go home again. I’ll never drive by the place again.

Another day I had to take my car in for its thirty thousand mile servicing which included a tire rotation. The dealership is new to me and they had trouble getting a lung nut off because it was cross-threaded so they had to drill it out and replace some stuff on the wheel and it ended up costing me an extra $150. What was supposed to be an hour job ended up being  all afternoon because they didn’t have the part in stock, and they said it wasn’t safe to drive the was it was. So the next first time I have to write about was they gave me a loaner car to drive and it was the kind with a button to push instead of a key. Took me awhile to figure out how to start the silly thing and it beeped warnings and was a zippy little thing t drive. The service department manager told me to contact my old dealership to get reimbursed for the $150 and I’ll let you know how well that works out. 

Another day I had an appointment for my annual eye exam. I’m two years out from my cataract surgeries and I thought for sure I’d need the laser treatment to remove a new cataract forming over the fake lens they put in one of my eyes. Turns out that eye changed enough that I need a new prescription for the left lens while the other  eye remained the same. That’s the first time that’s ever happened in my life. I felt good leaving the office after ordering just one lens and more importantly, after hearing that my macular pucker hasn’t changed significantly. That sound you're hearing is a sigh of relief. I've been worried about that pucker.

And last but not least, the best first time of all makes me very happy. It was the first time an ex-president was indicted in a criminal court and on espionage charges and they look like they will stick.

 Until next Wednesday….  ©

 * The photo at the top is of my old back yard before the new owners let the sumac take over.

 

Confessions from a Dieter Drop-Out

There are a couple of (gay) women living here who I’ve nicknamed the Skinny Minnie Twins. Both of them were college professors and have been together since their early twenties. They are upbeat, friendly and well accepted into the ecosystem here…if the term ecosystem can be applied to a continuum care campus. They both took Mahjong lessons when we all started but one decided the game was not for her. We’ve had 4-5 others who’ve tried to learn but gave up on themselves ever catching on, so they dropped out too. But the other twin plays Mahjong every Wednesday along with me and enough others to make up two tables. American Mahjong is a hard game to learn and even harder to get good enough at it to occasionally win which is why I love it. The challenge of always having something new to learn about playing the game excites me. Yes, I’m obsessed. And I'll bet you're thinking I got side-tracked away from the dieting theme. I didn't. Well, maybe a little bit but not much.

I recently learned that Twin # Two has been going to Weight Watcher meetings every week faithfully for over 40 years. I’d been a member of Weight Watchers for a couple of stretches in my life but I gained what I lost back again when I quit. I’ve been in Tops and another diet group whose name escapes me. I’ve done a doctor supervised, all liquid diet (my favorite of any I’ve ever been on because I never got hungry or thought about food). I’ve joined gyms and worked out obsessively, then quit when the pounds were gone. I’ve lost and gained back 50 pounds three times in my life.

I was 14 or 15 the first time my mom dragged me to a (quack) weight loss doctor. He had me breathe into a tube and declared I needed thyroid medication to speed up my metabolism and he had me wrapped in clothe strips soaked in some kind of herbs and put in sauna bath. Behold I’d come out five pounds lighter and ready to pass out. Of course, the water weight that got sweated out of me would come back just in time for another ‘treatment.' which he sold in blocks of ten. Years later, another doctor told me that putting me on thyroid medication that young and without the proper tests to know if I even needed it is probably what killed off my thyroid gland so that now I actually do need it. (Being on it for so many years is what thinned my bones out.)

I’ve always admired how the Skinny Minnie twins look. Their bodies could easily pass for women in their twenties and they dress in simple but well-made jeans, tailored shirts and occasional sweaters. Before I learned about Twin # Two not always being skinny I thought they maintained their healthy bodies because they walk a lot and take the line dancing classes which I know helps, but I never would have guessed # Two once had an unhealthy relationship with food, like I do. I asked her if she was a WW leader. “Nope.” I thought maybe she worked for the corporation like all the long-timers I knew back in the day. I asked her if after all this time she still feels she needs to go and she replied, “I’m afraid to stop going.” I need to have a one-on-one conversation with her sometime. I’d love to do a deep dive into her back story regarding her relationship with food.

My back story is the classic tale of a fatty-fatty-two-by four. I use food for comfort, for celebration, to soothe hurt feelings or to treat anxiety and depression on the rare occasion when I experience the latter. I use food when I’m bored or if I want to punish myself or someone who dares to suggest I shouldn’t eat this or that. Yes, I’ve been known to be a closet eater because no one tells ME what I can or can’t put in my mouth! Not since I turned thirteen and my dad and mom had a huge argument over making me clean my plate or sit at the table until bedtime when I didn't comply. Closet eating makes no sense and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out nor would it take a psychiatrist to point out that it’s all my mothers fault. Just kidding. She may have set me up for an eating disorder but intellectually I know I’ve been an adult for far more years than she forced fed me as a child so in theory I should be able to monitor myself by now. I can get obsessed over things like playing Mahjong or learning a new craft so why couldn’t I have obsessed over developing a healthy relationship with food for the past 69 years?  

Weight gain has been on my mind big time since the first of the year when I usually do the traditional New Year’s Resolution and loss a few pounds but this year instead of losing I’ve been gaining at an alarming rate. So fast that I obsessed for awhile that I had a huge tumor growing inside me until I remembered that in February when I was in the hospital they did a thorough set of  x-rays of my body looking for broken bones and would have seen the mass my imagination conjured up. 

My only comfort is that one day at a lunch table with a dozen or so of my fellow residents everyone was complaining about gaining ten pounds over the past year. One lady said, “It’s all the carbs they serve us” and a guy replied, “they do it on purpose so we’ll all die off faster and they can resell our apartments.” Ms. Social Worker bemoaned the fact that she’s had to buy all new clothes and I confessed that I refuse to do that and I have fewer and fewer choices left in my closet. I mean that, too, about not buying clothing in a larger size. I’m only fifteen pounds under what was the highest I’ve ever weighed in my life. I’m not going to make it easier for me to get there again.

I’ve done a lot of thinking about my life since The Fall in February. I’ve experienced most of the benchmarks we humans are supposed to find along the way and I’ve long ago made peace with the ones I’ve missed. I’ve had hard times and good times. Fun times and sad times. Times when I've failed and times when I succeeded. But I’m mostly proud of the way I've 'done life.' I may not have accomplished great things that will go down in history but I've had some good friends,  found my soulmate and I'm a good person where it counts in my heart. I have only one real regret, one big thing that if we had do-overs in life, I’d do over and that's my relationship with food. Its my Achilles' heel.

Until next Wednesday… ©