aging, Being greek, humor, Uncategorized

Happy Camper?

This past summer, I revisited the Metropolis of Detroit Summer Camp (MDSC) for Orthodox youth that I had attended as a child and young adult. Starting at age seven, I would stay each summer for two weeks at this camp located in northern Michigan. I started sending my own kids there when they were in grade school, and for several years Teddy has been a lifeguard there. My sister, Melissa, and I have a deep love for MDSC. We had often spoken in recent years of going back as cooks so we could relive our youth (minus the swimming lessons and hiking through tick-infested forests). This year, the camp was severely short-staffed and was considering for the first time in their 75-year history of cancelling a couple of weeks of camp. As a result, Melissa and I decided to take the opportunity and go back as kitchen staff. Both our daughters were also going to be there as staff members. How fun would it be to go back to summer camp as an adult?

Not too fun it turns out.

The day we arrived at camp I was excited, but also a little nervous. As I arrived at check in, the director looked at me and said, “So you and your sister can decide which one of you is going to be a cook and which one is going to be a counselor.”

I’m sorry, what?

Apparently, they were so short-staffed that one of us was going to have to move to the junior girls (ages 7-10) cabin to be a counselor all week. There I was at a church camp, volunteering in an environment that helps to spread the word of God with selflessness and sacrifice, and all I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry, I came up here to hang out with my sister and bond over hamburgers and french fries, not watch a bunch of 8 year olds.” I went to find Melissa to discuss what we should do.

“I don’t care either way,” she said. “You decide.”

Being a counselor would mean going to swim lessons, doing arts and crafts, playing athletic games, and generally being a mom for a week. Cooking for 80 people would mean getting up at 6am, spending the day in a hot kitchen on my feet, and preparing food and doing the dishes. So, generally being a mom for a week. I chose counselor.

I chose poorly.

They placed me in a cabin built in the 1950’s with no ventilation or air. There were three sections: The left side was large, airy, and had real beds and mattresses. This is where Melissa and my daughter, Franny, were. The 10 junior girl campers were on the right side of the cabin in a similar room, but with bunk beds made of metal with thin mattresses.

My co-counselor, Emily (20 years old), and I were in a tiny, cramped, windowless, dark room between the two larger rooms, separated from the campers by a curtain. (Her name has been changed, not for privacy, but because we were at a Greek camp and if I use real names I am going to have to differentiate between Maria One, Maria Two and Maria Three and George the camper and George the counselor.) I was on a bottom bunk so low I couldn’t sit up without getting my hair caught in the metal spokes from the top bunk. The mattress was a three inch piece of foam I assume is similar to what they use in prisons. Oh, and did I mention the camp doesn’t have cell service? Everyone is supposed to give up their phone upon arrival, but I don’t think they dared ask me for mine after the bait and switch they pulled on me. But it didn’t matter anyway. The only way you could use your phone is if you could find out the secret wifi password, sneak to the top of the flagpole hill, stand in a certain spot, and make sure no one saw you doing it.

The embarrassment of being three decades older than the rest of the counselors happened almost immediately with the staff introductions. As your name is called, you are supposed to do a cute choreographed dance or chant with your co-counselor. This is adorable and fun if you are 20, not so great when you are 56. Emily and I decided to do a Disney channel spoof where we take the pretend wand and outline the Disney ear…and end in a crossed-arm-white-girls-trying-to-be-hip-hop stars pose. As you can see from the picture I was way off with my timing.

As if things couldn’t get worse, modern days have afforded the camp a Media Director. This position was filled by an adorable young man who spent his days going from activity to activity taking photos and uploading them to the camp website. Suddenly I felt sorry for celebrities who are constantly dodging the paparazzi. It is impossible to be “on” all day. You never knew when you were going to be in the background of a snapshot. I found out quickly that my “resting face” leaves me with little to no neck, and a chin that blends right into my sternum. I believe the clinical term for this ailment is referred to as “jowls.” (See pictures below.) By the way, when you look up the word “jowls” to make sure you are using it correctly, it directs you to pictures of Mastiffs and Great Danes.

The evening activity that day was a game of Gaga ball at the field. I am familiar enough with Gaga to know that I was not going to be able to match the energy and speed of the campers. I decided I would wait until they had a Wordle tournament or bird-identification test to show my real talents. I climbed into the pit, which I’m sure wasn’t a pretty sight. (Thank goodness the media director wasn’t around for that one.) Suddenly I had an idea.

“Hey,” I said to the closest kid to me, a boy around 10 years old. “If you cover me during this game I’ll get you an extra dessert tonight.”

God bless this child who spent the next ten minutes protecting me like I was a tribute in the Hunger Games. Every time the ball came near me, there he was, expertly deflecting it in another direction. This lasted the whole game until eventually it came down to him, me cowering behind him, and another counselor. Suddenly, my protector was out, and it was just me staring at a young man about 20 years old and the size of a tank. He gently rolled the ball toward me and hit my leg. That’s all it took.

I didn’t matter though, because at dinner that night I excitedly bragged to everyone that I got second place in Gaga ball while I discreetly took an extra piece of cake from the kitchen and handed it to my savior for the day.

And that was just day one.

If I wrote every crazy thing that happened it would be the length of a book, so I have split this blog up into two parts. I hope I have set the scene for you, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride. I am going to make you relive everything I experienced. It will be long. It will be hot. You will want to stop reading by day two. You will count down the days until it is over. Stay tuned next week for more escapades.

aging, fashion, humor, Taylor Swift, Uncategorized

The Eras Tour (Samantha’s Version)

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you are aware of the phenomenon that is the Taylor Swift Eras Tour. I was lucky enough to be able to attend her concert with my niece Natalie when the show came to Chicago.

First came the outfit planning. I can honestly say that I spent more time trying to figure out what I was going to wear to this concert than I did to my nephew’s wedding, which was occurring the following weekend. For that one person out there who isn’t aware, there was a whole thing about which Era/Album you were going to represent via your outfit. This concert was not just a concert, it was a collective event for Swifties.

I made the mistake of telling a young teacher at work that I was unprepared and stressed and might just have to channel the Evermore Era and wear a flannel shirt. Not as cool or sexy as the black biker shorts and bralette she was going to be wearing from the Reputation Era, but at least I would be comfortable. When she responded “That’s OK, that’s what my mom is wearing,” I realized I had reached an ultimate low. I mean, I know I am a mom, and I know I am old enough to be HER mom, but I still didn’t want to be reminded that I was going to be DRESSING like a mom.

Add that to the fact that this was early June and I get sweaty just by telling an exciting story, I decided to forgo the flannel shirt and wear pink and represent the Lover Era.

Natalie came into town the night before and we set to work on our friendship bracelets. Apparently, there is a line in one of Taylor’s songs about friendship bracelets. Not a whole song, or a song title, or an album title, just ONE LINE about making friendship bracelets, and the next thing you know we’re all furiously pulling out our bead-making kits from the 6th grade. I mean, Nena had some great lines in her songs, but you didn’t see me showing up to her concert in 1983 with 99 red balloons did you?

As soon as we arrived at Soldier Field Natalie insisted on getting in a line longer than Peter Pan’s Flight at Disney World so we could get “merch.” (this is what you call over-priced t-shirts, posters, tote bags, etc.) You can get the same stuff online but it is not the same as the experience of waiting in a long line with others who have the same obsession as you. One hour later when we were three spots closer, they closed down the booth because they had run out of all the merch. One thousand disappointed females in sequins and cowboy boots and fedoras (I did not see ANY flannel shirts) dispersed to their seats.

As we wandered through the stadium looking for our seats, every once in a while a concert-goer walked up to Natalie and asked her to trade bracelets. This was the part of the night I had been waiting for. The trading had begun! What style bracelet would I get? Which one of my own was I willing to part with? I waited eagerly for the tweens and teens to ask me to trade.

Reader, it is a mystery why no one wanted to trade with a sweaty mom wearing heart-shaped glasses and a sparkle headband. Needless to say, I went home with the same bracelets I arrived with.

Finally, the moment arrived. Taylor appeared and the concert began. Almost immediately, she started singing her hit song, “Cruel Summer.” I was happily singing my heart out with thousands of teenage girls and their moms, when suddenly Natalie started screaming “THE FIRST BRIDGE! THE FIRST BRIDGE!” When I tell you I was confused, I mean that I was confused. But I didn’t have time to ask her because suddenly the part I had been practicing for weeks was upon us. I quickly FaceTimed Franny so she could witness me nailing the line.

“He looks up grinning like the Devil,” the entire crowd screamed, except for me who was screeching out the wrong words two beats behind everyone else, all while FaceTiming Franny and looking around Soldier Field for that damn bridge.

(And if you’re wondering, yes, I did learn later that the part of the song I had been trying to learn is called (surprise!) a “bridge.” Taylor is known for her bridges and this was the first one she sang at her show. Hence: THE FIRST BRIDGE! I mean, it all makes sense now.)

Side Note: Natalie of course nailed it. This is because Natalie knows every word to every song. And I don’t mean this as in “Natalie knows all the words” in a casual way. I mean this as in a very literal “I seriously think that she might know the entire catalog of Taylor Swift songs and that with her kind of photographic memory maybe I should take her to Vegas.”

As the concert progressed I realized there were many songs where special chants, claps and dances were added that everyone in the audience seemed to collectively know but me and probably some other middle-aged moms who are not on TikTok. But I was still trying to figure out the actual lyrics, never mind made up ones that the secret Swiftie society created. I imagine this would never happen in the 80’s before social media (except for maybe during Billy Idol’s Mony Mony where added phrases created much excitement to high school dances).

Finally, we got to the surprise songs. Taylor introduced the acoustic guitar song by telling the crowd, “This one is pretty new.” In fact, it had been released 9 days earlier. She played about three chords of it and Natalie began to literally shriek, “IT HITS DIFFERENT!!” And by shrieking, I mean imagine it is 1964 and the Beatles have just arrived. (For those of you reading who don’t know who the Beatles are, think One Direction). Why I was surprised Natalie was able to identify a song just released the previous week after only three notes, I don’t know. In a shocking turn of events, she also knew all the words.

After three hours of music, dancing, and singing, the concert ended. Whether you like Taylor Swift or not, no one can deny she puts on a heck of a show. It was phenomenal.

***Stay tuned for parts two and three of my Taylor Swift blog trilogy: One: I attend the Taylor Swift movie by arriving 3 1/2 hours early and end up initiating hesitant movie theater-goers to get on their feet and dance. Two: I spend $20 (again) to watch the movie on TV while wearing my Taylor Swift 1989 cardigan sweater. That hasn’t occurred yet, but knowing me, something will happen to write about.***

aging, humor

A Massage a Day Keeps Relaxation Away

Various high-end products used during my massage. Not pictured: Unlabeled bottle of oil.

A while ago a couple of friends and I decided to get massages. We were treating a friend who needed a little pampering and thought a massage and dinner would do the trick.

“Don’t be scared by the outside, as it is in a strip mall that doesn’t have much,” said my friend who made the appointments for us.

What she should have said was “Don’t be scared by the outside as it is in an ABANDONED strip mall.” Or maybe even ‘If you choose to look at the website, don’t be scared by the cover image of two sexy lady massagers massaging one smiling man.”

We walk in and are met by a woman inside who quickly asks us to pay upfront and also include the tip. I push down the thought that this particular establishment must have experienced a lot of clients “Massage and Ditch out the Back Door” to make it a rule to pay first.

As she leads us toward the massage rooms, which are basically right off the entrance, she ushers both of my friends into the same room. It is all I can do to not burst out laughing as I would have paid double to hear about how their “couples” massage went, but they quickly clarify that they will be needing separate rooms. Thankfully I am led into a room by myself and asked to undress and lie down with the towel over me.

Now, if you ever have had a massage, it is your choice how many underthings you leave on. I prefer to leave on my underwear but take off my bra. I don’t care if someone is touching my bare back and I prefer not to have someone working around my bra straps and getting them all greased up with massage oil.

At this point I would like to ask my children (and quite frankly any of their friends who might be following me) to STOP READING NOW. I do not need them to have any of the following images of me in their mind at all, ever, at any time in their lives.

The massage starts out like any other massage. She works on my back for a long time. It is fine, typical, not much news here. Except here’s the thing: I am an over-thinker. Like, give me an hour in a quiet room and I’m going to start thinking about all the things I need to get done for the day. It’s not really an anxious train of thought, more like a “working massage,” if you will. It’s just who I am. It’s unfortunate. It doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the massages, I just often feel that I am still tensed up as I am trying hard to relax. My mind starts to wander…

I wonder who is playing this massage flute music? Do flutists get commissioned specifically for massage soundtracks? “Okay, Hans, this next piece is for the massage parlor on 14th Street, just make it soothing and generic, but it has to be about 50 minutes long.” If I Shazamed this song would it come up with something like “Flute and Harp Massage Remix/Mashup”?

Back to the massage. As she finishes my upper back area she pulls the towel down a bit. And down a bit more, and more, taking my undies along with it, until I realize I needn’t have contemplated whether or not to leave them on as they are basically as low as they can go.
“Okay?” She asks.

“Uh-huh,” I lie.

Now if you think at this point I am relaxed, think again. Instead, I am now worried about numerous things I won’t go into. After what seems like an eternity, the masseuse finishes my back and starts working on my legs. Phew, I think, the uncomfortable part is over.

Nope. Think again. Think again.

She moves the towel to the side, basically giving me a homemade thong, and goes to work. Now, maybe this does not come as a surprise to some of you, but for someone who generally goes to get massages NOT IN STRIP MALLS from establishments NOT NAMED JUST ONE LETTER, I was a bit surprised. Also, when someone is working in this area and you are tense, I don’t need to tell you what part of your body clenches up.

Finally, she finishes my backside and leans down and says something. Unfortunately, with my head far down in the oval opening and towels around my face, I can’t really hear her, but it does not sound like “roll over.” She says it again.

I lift my head to hear better and the circular cut-out face paper towel comes with it.

I catch a few words…”Hot…towel…clean”

I am now looking at her with a paper ring framing my face, stuck to me with sweat or condensation or who knows what. (I wish I had a picture of myself looking up at her. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted to grab my phone and take a pic of myself, as by now I was mentally writing this blog and trying hard not to forget every funny thing that had happened).

“Okay,” I say.

She comes back in with of course a HOT TOWEL to CLEAN my back. She rubs my back hard as if I were getting a Turkish massage, and ends with a strange karate chop on my back and tells me to flip over.

I mentally prepare for what to say if she decides to pull the towel down to my waist again and leave me topless on the table. I quickly make a list of phrases in my head like “No, thank you,” “No please” and “NO TOUCH” among other things. I prepare to wrestle the towel with her if I have to.

Thankfully, she leaves the towel on me and begins with my arms and shoulders, kneading and rubbing for a short while until she finishes with a flourish by grabbing my fingers in a weird enlaced “Titanic in the backseat of the car” clasping kind of way. She then takes my wrist and shakes my whole arm hard, wiggling it like I have no bones. I worry she will break all my arm bones and I will be the first person who needs a cast after a massage.

On to my legs. Dear Lord, when will this be over. Let’s just say I was really hoping when I shaved my legs that morning I did a thorough job. Her finale is to move my legs into a frog-like position while massaging them as I panic and pray there are no hidden cameras in the room. She tries to do the same floppy wiggle with my legs, but as they are considerably heavier, it just ends up that she picks my leg up by the ankle and drops it with a loud THUD back to the table. She gives my legs a karate chop, which I now assume is the universal massage sign for “all done.”

I assume incorrectly. Still to come is a head massage. I agree to this, but then panic as she pours a bunch of oil into her hands. We are supposed to go out to dinner after this. I don’t need a hair full of oil.

“No oil,” I say.

When I decided to leave out verbs as I spoke, I have no idea. It’s like I’m Kevin from The Office. (Why waste time say lot word when few word do trick)? She either ignores me or doesn’t care, as she proceeds to rub my head. She focuses hard on my angry 11s over and over which I suppose is a lot cheaper than Botox but makes me feel bad about myself, as if she was trying her darndest to rub out those pesky wrinkles that simply won’t go away. It suddenly dawns on me all of the places she has touched with her bare hands before ending with my face.

Finally, it is over. She leaves the room, taking the unlabeled bottle of oil she has been using with her. All I can think is….

I can’t wait to get home so I can relax.

aging, Being greek, death, Family, grief

The Tapestry of her Life

When I think of her I think of teacups and cats.

And Boston. And England. And dainty little fingers. And coral lipstick.

She is my only female cousin on my mom’s side and she is 12 years older than me. Which makes her 65.

And about a month ago she asked me to write a tribute to her for her memorial service. Actually, what she really said was “I’m working on my memorial service (what, you think I wouldn’t try to control that?) and I’d like you to do one of your funny/spot on tributes and read it.”

So here we are.

Truthfully, I had already started writing it.

Two years ago she was diagnosed with ALS. And like the disease itself, her timeline is unpredictable. She is declining. I’m going to see her in a few weeks knowing this is probably the last time I will see her. And it’s another important person I am losing. Along with my mother, her mother, my sister, my father, and now her, my surrogate sister. And at this point, it’s beginning to feel as though while the branches of my tree of life might be growing, the roots are being yanked out of the ground one by one. With nothing to hold it stable, won’t the tree eventually just fall over?

If you know her well, you know she has had more tragedy and life shake-ups than most people. If you don’t know her, well, those stories are hers to tell, but to say she has moved through them and come to a place of grace and gratefulness is an understatement.

The truth is, I used to be scared of her. Let’s just say in her early years I don’t think you would have described her as easy going. She had a bit of an edge. Besides, twelve years is a wide age gap when you are growing up. By the time I was in Jr. High she was already living her adult life in Boston. She had moved there to be a journalist and had re-named herself “Cate” when NO ONE was Cate with a “C.” Especially not a Greek girl whose extended family could not understand why she would do this and did we have to call her Cate because she will always be Cathy to us and what the heck we will never get used to Cate.

Side Note: At this point she went rogue. Ok, not really. But as the memories start flooding back to me while I write this, I realize that she really tested the limits of our ~~judgmenta~~l conservative, Midwestern, Greek-Orthodox family. First, she had a boyfriend that SHE WAS LIVING WITH. I mean, this was such a scandal at the time that I am nervous putting it in print right now 35 years later. I remember the phone calls between my mother and aunt discussing this unheard-of development. (NOBODY TELL YIAYIA!) Never mind she was in her 30’s with a full-time job half-way across the country. Thank goodness she married the guy. But then there was the non-denominational wedding (hand-wringing) with a lady minister (Kyrie Eleison) where no, they did not read about the Wedding at Cana but instead read from THE VELVETEEN RABBIT (“‘What is real?’ said the rabbit,” the poor bridesmaid choked out through tears).

But the joke was on them. No, it did not turn out to be the happily ever after my mom and aunt had apparently hoped for her, with the Greek husband who did not cook or clean or watch the kids but still made all the decisions. Instead, she found herself an ideal partner. And I mean that. I know very few marriages where the two people appreciate each other strengths and quirks as much as those two do. After 32 years of marriage they still not only love each other, but they like each other too.

But I digress.

We saw her maybe once a year. As far as I was concerned she was not my peer, she was an ADULT. I mean, she called our Aunt Susan “Susan.” By her first name! She didn’t seem to share the family silliness the rest of us shared. (In truth, she has a GREAT sense of humor and when I have the occasional oddball observation or catty comment I know she will laugh without judgement.) It was just hard for me to recognize this as a 12-year-old. I could not relate to this sophisticated cousin I barely knew.

Side Note: We are actually similar in many ways, but I didn’t figure that out until much later. She is smart and sarcastic, and sensitive and funny and a great writer (ok, fine, maybe that one is a stretch for me). She is opinionated and isn’t afraid to go against the grain and say what she believes, regardless of how popular her viewpoint is. She excels at sarcasm and wit. I realize now that I am an adult that she gets me in a way few people do. She was around when I was a very difficult child for my mother. And I think she was there to maybe even give some advice to my mom. Former pain-in-the-ass kids understand current ones better than most.

But then I moved to Boston for grad school. I was 24 and she was 36. We were finally at a point in our lives where age was not a deterrent to friendship. Yes, she was married with a toddler, but we were both adults. I would visit her downtown at her job when I was on campus, and then on the weekends at her house in the suburbs to either babysit or do my laundry, usually both.

My two years in Boston were both the darkest and happiest time of my life. It was a significant period for me and was crucial to who I am today. There were lots of stressors and little support and I was far from home. The fact that Cate and my sister Melissa and I were all living on the East Coast created a forever bond between us.

She is the one I call when I’m not sure if I’m using a semi-colon right (I’m not; like, ever). She is the one who texted me after I wrote a blog on grammar to tell me my grammar is ok but my punctuation could use some help. She is the one who when I was going through a bit of a depression informed me of the not-so-uplifting news that studies say happiness is a bell curve and we are happiest in our 20’s and 60’s (Gee, thanks. That’s promising.)

She is the one known for her creative and thoughtful, often handmade gifts. She is also known for starting said creative and thoughtful, often handmade gifts, and getting them to you one, two, three months (or years) after the event. (This is actually a genetic family trait so I’m not going to fault her on this one.)

She is the one who fan-girled with me at Copley Place in 1994 when Olympic speed skater Dan Jansen was there signing autographs. We waited in a long line so we could have him sign our newly purchased Olympic-themed Swatch watches. She was cool as a cucumber while I said something ridiculous and then bolted.

She is the one who drove over an hour in a snowstorm when I called my sister desperate with grief after my mom died. It was the Nor’easter of 1994 but Cate showed up at my door to take care of me.

She is the one who I think of when I hear Billy Joel, James Taylor, Carole King and Carly Simon.

I have watched more family members nearing the end of their life than I care to remember. This one feels different. There is not a desperate struggle through the next treatment. A blind hope for a miracle. A positive attitude to fight the good fight. I only see an even-keeled acceptance. A serenity that I admire. A gradual decline coupled with increasing support from family and friends. Adjustments have been made to keep her mobile, communicative, and comfortable. I am sure she has her days, but I sure don’t see them. I asked her the other day if she was scared. “No,” she said. “Sad.”

Me too.

***This essay was written before my dear cousin passed away on August 4th, 2022, hence the use of present tense. When she asked me to write this tribute to her, she shared that she hoped she would be able to read it someday. I did, in fact, sent it to her several weeks before she died. I read an edited version for the actual memorial service, but this is the original version. I will miss her terribly. ***

aging, humor, Uncategorized

Jewel Rules

When I wrote the title for this, it hit me that it could be read two ways: Jewel Rules, as in here are some guidelines; or Jewel Rules, as in JEWEL ROCKS!!!! It should definitely be taken as the former.

Now, I realize that there are lots of options when it comes to grocery shopping. Most people I know prefer Trader Joe’s or Mariano’s to Jewel. But let’s face it; when you need a last-minute item in the middle of making dinner, or want to make a quick stop on your way home, there is nothing more convenient than the Jewel on the corner. However, if you are going to brave the check-out aisles of this local gem, you need to be prepared by following some general rules.

Rule #1: Go in with a positive attitude and loads of self-confidence.

I have found that the cashiers are disarmingly upfront and honest. One day I went to my local Jewel and got in “Linda’s” line. (Name has been changed to protect ME. I’m scared of her). Linda often waits on me. Although she is speedy, she is Not Happy. She seems annoyed all the time at every moment with everybody who works there. Linda rolls her eyes and has a permanent grimace. She has no ability to keep her emotions in check; they are written all over her face. If there were a thought bubble above her head I think it would say “I hate working at the Jewel and all these co-workers are so annoying and I should get better pay and hours and this Monopoly game is DUMB and a waste of time and it’s only for people who like to sort and organize and never win anything and also when I get home I have to make dinner and even though I work at a grocery store thinking of what to make for dinner is the worst part of my day and I can’t believe my husband still doesn’t know how to load the dishwasher correctly after 20 years of marriage.” Just a guess.

I’m not REALLY complaining, even though it seems if you are in customer service you should at least pretend to be in a good mood. I know better than to ask “how’s it going” to her because she is going to tell me the truth. I feel like maybe she should work in the stock room so she doesn’t have to come into contact with that many customers. Or get her anger out by frosting cakes in the bakery. When a customer asks her to write “Happy Birthday Julie” in purple, she can write “Happy Birthday Julie In Purple” on the cake and go home and rub her hands in an evil manner and cackle to herself that her passive aggressive trick has worked. But then she will remember she still has to think about dinner and re-load the dishwasher.

Back to my story. Recently I got in her line. I had just come from lunch with a friend. Now I did not realize that as much as we recognize the checkers and baggers, they also recognize us the customers. So while Linda is ringing up my items she is looking down at the scanner. She has not yet noticed me. When she gets to the end, she finally looks up and makes eye contact with me. And then she does a double take. Like one of those double takes where if she were a cartoon character it would have come with Hanna-Barbera sound effects.

And then she says to me: “WOW. You look pretty today.”

Let me stress to you this was not a compliment. This was an “I am in complete shock because usually when you come here you look like crap and who knew with a little makeup on and your hair not in a pony you would look so completely different” comment. And like all self-deprecating women, I start to explain away WHY I looked so nice that day. “Oh, haha, yes, I have makeup on. I look different. Blah Blah I did my hair blah blah I had lunch with a friend hee hee blah blah blah blah.”

What I should have said was “Why so surprised, Linda? Don’t I USUALLY look good?” But I would never say that because Linda would probably answer me truthfully again and I would feel bad, so basically I just laughed a fake laugh and decided that now even the grocery store is off-limits for my usual uniform of no makeup and yoga clothes. OR..if I was a self-empowerment blogger I would say that my REAL AUTHENTIC self is good enough for Jewel and Linda and maybe I will just commit to looking like “myself” at all times and WHO CARES. But thank God I am not a life-coach-destiny-finder-blogger because that would be boring and not funny and certainly not MY TRUTH. Haha. See what I did there?

Rule #2: No, really, have loads of self-confidence.

Occasionally I will purchase alcohol and occasionally I will get carded. Okay. Not really. But, this did actually happen to me in the somewhat recent past. We have all been there. Super excited when some naive checker sees your bottle of wine and asks to see your ID. You are thinking you are all cool that someone thinks you are under 21, but guess what? They have to card everyone who looks under 35 so sorry they don’t think you are still in college. But at my age, thinking I may be under 35 is still pretty awesome.

So one day I get in line and start loading items on to the conveyor belt. My back is to the checker as I am facing the cart and unloading. As I place the alcohol on the belt I hear the woman (NOT LINDA) say “ID please.” I continue to unload (very smugly I might add) and when I am finished I reach for my purse to grab my ID. As I turn, the cashier gets one look at my face and says, “OH. NEVER MIND.”

THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED. SOMEONE THOUGHT I WAS UNDER 21 (OR 35) FROM THE BACK BUT CLEARLY REALIZED HER ERROR WHEN SHE SAW MY FACE.

As in, oh now that I saw your face clearly you don’t need to show me your birthdate because, boy, you are definitely old enough to drink wine and hey maybe you would like me to go get you some more so you can drown your sorrows away you old crypt-keeper mom.

I realize this could be a positive. Maybe my backside looks young. Wink wink. I mean, I could get on board with that. Although that still means from the front not so much. Could it be I have an under 21 or 35 butt? This is a longshot. And no, I will NOT be posting a picture of me from behind to get everyone’s opinions. Although that would be hilarious and possibly something I might do just to be funny. How would that work? “Hey, Franny, come take a pic of my bum for the internet.” That does NOT sound like a conversation I want to have with her and I sure don’t want to see the results of that poll.

Rule #3: Self-confidence will sometimes backfire.

This past winter I was in line once again when the man behind me started chatting with me. If you know me, then you know this is not unusual. I am outgoing and talkative and can make conversation with anyone and often do so. He was probably in his late 50’s to early 60’s. Why do I mention this? You know exactly why. And yes, I realize that this age group is only one generation or so above me, but still. In my head I am not Almost 50. In my head when I was hanging out with my 23-year-old adorable nephew last week I was saying “I wonder if everyone thinks he is my boyfriend” until he said out loud, “I wonder if people think you are my mom” and there was nothing much to say after that.

Anyway, this gentleman and I were talking about the weather or some other totally boring topic. I am sure he thought I was flirting since men seem to think Talking=Flirting and for some reason have been wrongfully blessed with an extra share of unwarranted self-confidence. But I didn’t really care as I was just being myself and friendly. So I finished paying and went out to my car. As I was pulling away, there he was crossing right in front of me to get to his car. I waited for him to cross so as not to hit him. Apparently, not hitting someone with your car is comparable to “Hey big boy, I think you are hot so come and talk to me at my window.” Which is what he did. He flagged me down and God knows what I was thinking as I rolled down my window and watched him walk over to me and say……..”Hey, I just wanted to tell you that you’re a hot mom.”

Let me tell you, I am having trouble even writing this I am so embarrassed and uncomfortable. Being complimented is nice. I suppose I should be grateful that anyone thinks I’m a “hot mom.” But let’s just really dissect this can we?

1) An old man thought I was in his league. That’s the horrible un-politically correct truth.

2) He didn’t question I was a mom. I obviously fit the stereotype of a mom. Was it the go-gurt I had in the cart? The Star Wars Band-Aids? Nope. Let’s face it. It was me. To put it bluntly, it was a day where Linda would have recognized me right away.

3) I looked terrible. When you look bad and someone compliments you it’s like a math equation that equals zero. I look terrible + you think I look good = you have terrible taste and judgement /someone with terrible taste and judgement thinks I’m hot = I must be gross = I am a troll that should go live under a bridge.

If you don’t believe, me here I am right after a got home. (And, yes, I did make Franny take this picture).

Never a Dulles Moment

Finding the absurd in the ordinary

Category Archives: aging