it’s not a not-listening thing. it’s not even a not-paying-attention thing. it’s just that sometimes we are simply on two different planes thinking about two different things – entirely. we can have whole conversations during which we both think we are communicating and, yet, we are talking about different stuff. i have learned to preamble my questions or statements with a little background, kind of painting the picture, so to speak – no pun intended – so that we might stand a better chance of being on the same page subject-wise.
we rarely disagree. when we do it is with gusto. but there are those really strange moments we gusto ourselves out and suddenly realize that we were talking about the same thing, the same opinion, in agreement. all that bluster for nothing.
and then there’s always the bemused reality check “wait! what are we talking about again?”
bill never failed. and he would get me every single time. we have had many, many dinners together, lunches together, even breakfasts together, at their house, at our house, in restaurants, in picnic areas. and each time he has managed to break through my confidence and subtly – or not so subtly – point to a tooth or wipe at the side of his mouth all the while staring at me with that-look . . . the one that says, “you might want to mimic this – be aware – there’s something you should know”. i would fall for it each and every time, quickly closing my wide-toothed smile or stopping mid-sentence to scrub my napkin at the side of my mouth, whereupon he would belly-laugh and i would lovingly roll my eyes at his antics while linda would, with one word, admonish him, “bill!”
grace’s “if you see something, say something” made me laugh aloud. we are now watching ‘grace and frankie‘ episodes all over again, starting at the beginning. while i am on the treadmill and david is on the bike, aerobic exercise our goal, we turn the volume way up and grace and frankie and sol and robert and the kids get us through exercising. each episode we see things we missed the first time; such brilliance and great writing, words at their funnest. (yes, i know…not formally a word.)
“if you see something, say something” is kind of a girl rule. i have made it a rule for david, but he misses things in a guy sort of way, so if there is a woman around, i would totally count on her to let me know about the head of broccoli in my teeth or the pasta sauce that escaped to my chin or the mascara falling onto my cheeks, inadvertent momentary flaws that need pointing out. we women have a way of letting each other know about these things and we extend the kindness to each other mostly without previous acknowledgment of the rule. first world, yes.
when i taught music at the elementary school in florida we were cautioned to watch carefully as our children were released at the end of the day. “if you see something, say something,” the principal directed. and, at the end of one particular day, a day that i was not on duty but had just walked outside under the breezeway near my room, i watched as a parent on a no-pick-up-list drove up into the line to pick up his small child. i bolted back to my little music shed and called the office, alerting them and asking for help to waylay him. i don’t know what we averted that day, but i do know that our watchfulness protected that little girl from whatever placed him on the list as dangerous. if you see something, say something. absolutely yes.
i’ve recently seen videos explicitly showing a hand motion you should use or watch for in times of peril: tucking one’s thumb in and closing one’s fingers over it. a sign, without words, for domestic abuse. a signal for help in a threatening situation. a plea for aid, for an intervention. important stuff to know and to be aware of. if you see something, say something. always yes.
in this world in these times it would seem that watchfulness is paramount. it would be lovely to think that you could just mosey through life, naively unaware, but these days call for something different than that. these days call for more attentiveness, more caution, more observing, more alertness. these days call for responsibility to each other, whether it is following pandemic health guidelines, obeying traffic rules or being vigilantly aware of keeping each other safe. these days demand it. yes.
perhaps that is why, on the treadmill in the basement of our house, immersed in grace and frankie and thinking about stuff in my teeth and bill teasing and laughing is so, so good. exercise good for our hearts in more than one way. mmhmm.
we are each other’s best rant-stoppers. sometimes we can stop it at the gate and sometimes we can just sort of sway the after-effects at the other end of the crescendo. either way, we have found that we are pretty well equipped – specifically balancing for each other – to offer consolation or lighthearted redirection or nudges of positivity or reminders to not get stuck in a maelstrom of yuck. if none of that works, then a midnight bowl of cereal might do the trick.
in the moment it may not be so funny, but, sometimes, looking back on a venting-rant and, always, promises to never-rant-again are pretty doggone hilarious.
i can’t imagine what it would feel like to have written enormously happy screenplays like ‘when harry met sally’ or ‘sleepless in seattle’ or ‘you’ve got mail’. my sweet momma loved the play of meg ryan and tom hanks and billy crystal and, even in face of a double mastectomy at 93, she would watch these movies and she would feel good. nora ephron had feeling good dialed in. her recommendation to “laugh in the face of calamity” is not surprising and deborah copaken’s recent article in the atlantic with snippets of deborah-nora 2011 conversation includes two more of nora’s rules for middle-age happiness: gather friends and feed them and cut out all the things (people, jobs, body parts ) that no longer serve you. these seem to be sage tidbits of wisdom.
when i was younger, there was no shortage of reader’s digest issues in our house. i grew up reading these excerpted and short stories. one of the features was called ‘laughter, the best medicine’. people would submit their own stories for a chance to be published and paid $100. some of these paragraph-stories would elicit a snicker or two, others a real chuckle, though i don’t remember ever out-and-out guffawing. i suppose guffawing is not so young-girl-like; perhaps i should substitute another word. regardless, they were clean jokes and real-life experiences of people that were there to make you laugh. i loved watching my mom and dad laugh over them.
when i googled reader’s digest, i stumbled across an article about bob carey, a man whose wife has been battling breast cancer since the early 2000s. he, in his hope to help, pulled on a pink tutu and went all over the country having his picture taken to raise money for breast cancer research. there is nothing like a man-who-doesn’t-have-a-tutu-body in a pink tutu struttin’ his stuff in the middle of new york city or at the grand canyon to make you laugh. his honoring his wife linda through the tutu project he embraces her spirit, her courage and the power of laughter in their lives. it’s good stuff, this laughing.
laughter triggers physical and emotional changes in our bodies. even a smile elicits goodness in our own selves, relaxing stress muscles, encouraging others around us to relax. it’s the reason i will always start a concert with a story that will likely make people laugh, a story of vulnerability, even a self-deprecating story. a relaxed audience is a participatory audience who has been invited in. there’s no second chance to make a first impression.
my sweet momma would have been good friends with nora, had she had the chance. she would have applauded bob carey in his pink tutu, had she seen him. the sound of her laugh and the dancing light in her eyes stay with me.
in the words of pablo neruda, “…deny me bread, air, light, spring, but never your laughter for i would die.”
sweet laughter. like the whisper of words of your beloved or a gentle kiss to the top of your head, the laughter of your beloved.
there is a book i haven’t read yet – by richard cohen, about nora ephron. it is called ‘she made me laugh’. can you imagine a better legacy?
there is no question – whatsoever – that i lay awake inthemiddleofthenight waaay more than he does. i ponder and wonder and fret and worry and perseverate and plan and make lists and sigh and re-start the cycle over again. i lose sleep over things that are troubling me and during times of discontent. it is impossible for me to not carry these concerns into sleep – it’s disquieting and, most definitely, interruptive.
on the other hand, it takes david about six seconds to fall asleep and – perish the thought – stay asleep. there is little to no tossing, turning, blankets-on-ing-blankets-off-ing, staring-at-the-ceiling, looking-at-the-clock. somehow it is possible for him to empty-his-mind-of-all-troubles and just sleep.
middle age is called that because it is the middle of aging. with that comes a bundle of surprises that seem to arrive overnight. suddenly, new wrinkles. suddenly, crepey skin. suddenly, age spots and creeping-on lovehandles. suddenly, menopausal insomnia, achier joints, keeping track of rest areas on the way to everywhere. suddenly, jowls. it’s like a piñata that is slowly letting out candy, treats to relish with this person you are aging with.
we have decided that we simply cannot pine for what our bodies were like or could do back before we knew each other. now is now and we are lucky to have that. and so, we will celebrate the laughlines and the readers and changing bodies and funny long errant eyebrows. we’ll roll with the surprises as they arrive, with gratitude, laughing as much as we can, and we’ll stay right here in the middle of this aging thing – together.
there are many days that we are a bit anxious for snack-time. we work on projects and check the clock, clean the house and check the clock, feed dogdog and check the clock. happy hour is a must and snack-time accompanies it. much like toddlers, we love snack-time.
right now i am thinking that late july chips might want to sponsor smack-dab, as we are dedicated to their organic, non-GMO, gluten-free, dairy-free, soy-free, chia, quinoa, millet, amaranth and flax tortilla chips. with hummus, with salsa, in chorus with kalamata olives or maybe those tiny sweet pickles or even pickled beets that make me think of my sweet momma. there is nothing like a circa 1940s cut-glass crystal bowl filled to the rim with chips and a couple of wine glasses with our tried-and-true apothic red blend or bogle’s old vine zin. (more sponsors! we are not proud.)
there are moments – mostly the ones when i look in the mirror – when i wonder if we are eating too many chips. one has to ponder who really sticks to the serving size. i suppose a little will power would go a long way.
but i’m thinking that the up-north gang and jen and brad and 20 would all poo-poo that. “who needs will power?” they’d all say. “happy-hour-snack-time is non-negotiable!”
nevertheless, excused or guilty, we have a way of justifying snack-time. we figure at least we aren’t gorging on hostess cupcakes – you know, the chocolate ones with white filling and chocolate frosting on top with a little white swirly. at least these tortilla chips are contributing to our good health.
it’s all about the crank. it’s one of those unremarkable-yet-remarkable imperative gizmos that makes all the difference.
we’ve had an umbrella. it was 9′ in diameter and dark green in color. but there was no crank and it was – now – in the departure of having a “normal” wrist and the genesis of a we’ll-work-this-as-hard-as-we-can-and-see-where-we-get wrist – literally impossible for me to open or close it. i would huff and puff and stand on a chair, but even in the good old days of normal-wrist, i was hard-pressed to open it. and so, it would remain closed. and closed is not the life-goal, not the self-actualization of an umbrella. so it was time for the big-green-umbrella to move on, to be loved by someone else…someone with two normal wrists. we put it out by the big tree between the sidewalk and the street with a sign that said “free” and it was gone within fifteen minutes. that made my heart happy. but it left us with a challenge: to find another umbrella.
now, if you haven’t been out there looking – in brick and mortar or online – there are a LOT of umbrellas. they come in all different sizes and shapes and with all different purposes. there are umbrellas that tilt and market umbrellas and patio umbrellas they have named cantilevers – which stand next to chairs or outdoor settees and gracefully shade you from the side or the back, not just the middle of a table.
we wanted one for the middle of the old wrought iron table and found one – after much research (as you might guess) – that we really liked. i did all the proper investigating: does it have a crank? is it heavy enough to stand in the wind? does the diameter of the pole fit properly into the stand we already have? will it match or complement our deck and patio? is it spf friendly?
the umbrella we found was just lovely. off-white with a floral print of black flowers, some of which are faded to a deep gray. that may sound weird, but it was really pretty and somewhat unusual and matched our vision of the deck…a little pattern in what was mostly solid or simple design.
we ordered it. we picked it up. we glanced at the outer covering, a sheath with a photograph of the umbrella set up in some faux-yard. we were pretty excited -like when we got our fire column (for this umbrella preceded it) – when we opened it up. we were setting the stage for our backyard sanctuary, this place of peace, with much planning and as few expenditures as possible.
we slid it out of the sheath we would later store it in during cold winter days as it waited to be used once again in early spring.
we brought it outside to the deck.
and we started to open it up.
and. . .
there was no crank.
none.
not a handle to be found.
though the photograph and the description depicted a crank handle, it was a misnomer. false advertising. someone mightily slipped up.
and though it was quite lovely, i could not open it alone. what good is an umbrella you can’t open? we had just given one of those away.
a couple of umbrellas later and in umbrella-information-overload, we settled on this one. it’s not perfect. it’s not exactly the color tone i wanted. the pole is not black as it was advertised. it doesn’t have a self-tie. but it was on a terrific sale and – – – it has a crank.
i thought i was over the lovely off-white-black-flower-patterned-umbrella until i saw it in a yard in the ‘hood. i stopped in my tracks and stared, poking david in the arm and pointing, speechless. i wondered if they were also surprised by its no-crank-handle-ness. i wondered if they ever open it. i wondered if they have normal wrists.
but i’ve moved on. i no longer think about the off-white-black-flower-patterned umbrella. because there are some things that a sanctuary really needs.
there’s so much truth in this. the red wine. the adirondack chairs. the ‘what are you thinking about?’ the sky-gazing. the existential amazement. the mars and venus. the hot flash. yes, yes. so.much.truth. yup. uh-huh. nothin’ more to say here.
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“achieve visibly younger skin.” “who wants to look their age?” “visible results in minutes of use.” “recommended for discerning patients.” “join me in the battle against ageing.”
i am wayyy wayyy behind the curve. the pink oil of olay hydrating lotion in my small cosmetic drawer in the bathroom has been around for sixty years. hmm, i should have written that sentence in a structurally different way. the little plastic bottle has not physically been in my drawer for sixty years; the product has been produced for sixty years. sheesh. other than a few pass-me-down gifted clinique products from my sister, this has been my moisturizer of choice. simple. done. i have not researched this nor have i had long conversations with girlfriends about moisturizer. joann has absolutely lovely skin. her face glows. one day i asked her what she used and, delightedly, she told me oil of olay. yippee! samesies. so, that means if i keep using oil of olay my face will glow? hardly.
the jowls i woke up with one day that my sweet dad and gravity so generously passed on, the wrinkles around my eyes, the sweet-momma crease in my forehead – these are genetics. webmd.com says that the intrinsic aging of skin cannot be avoided. and the time: time spent outside as a child, spud and kickball in the neighborhood, swimming in our round above-ground pool, teenage time spent on bike hikes and on crab meadow beach laying on a bazooka gum beach towel playing my radio, trips to florida beaches with woven bags holding tanning oil and iced tea and potato chips, motherhood time on backyard swings, at lakefront beaches, on soccer fields, at baseball diamonds, earlier-middle-age un-thinking time on adirondack chairs basking in the sun – though perhaps innocently skin-irresponsible, cannot be erased.
aging. ageing.
my dad received national geographic magazine for as long as i can remember. paging through were articles and photographs through which i was introduced to cultures i was likely to never actually visit but from which i could gain small bits of wisdom.
though i mostly understand the medical importance of taking good care of our skin and using spf products and staying out of torrid sun and hydrating and eating proper nutrients, i could see that the women and men of these other cultures – outside of our society – did not concern themselves with aging-ageing. indeed, they were not in a battle or a race against it. instead, they upheld it, celebrated it, honored it. and while i would probably prefer less jowls and less wrinkles and less crepe and less of the other stuff with horrendous names that advertisers have come up with for natural aging processes -god-forbid- i will choose to stand in it and feel fortunate to be here.
fortunate to be aging-ageing. winning the race either way.
reverse threading 