Thanksgiving II

More Things for Which I Am Thankful:

1. Lipstick. I never used to wear lipstick. Even back in my make-up days, when I actually wore liquid foundation every day (I was young; I was foolish; I had time to waste and hope to squander), I did not wear lipstick. The occasional lip gloss, frequent applications of Chapstick, yes, but none of that old lady stick stuff. So, now I'm an almost-old lady. And I thank the Lord for lipstick. I've never seen this discussed in any scientific study or woman's magazine, but lips fade with age, don't they? I mean, I'm quite sure my lips had color when I was young. Now it's like I'm a color photo but my lips are in black and white. Lipstick makes life more livable. Thank you, unknown lipstick inventor.

2. My VW Beetle. I'm not a car person. My first car was a basic 2-door Toyota Tercel. Manual transmission. Manual door locks. Manual windows. Not even any carpet. It went from 0 to 70 in about 15 minutes. And it was fine. But now I have my Beetle. It's cute. It accessorizes well. I fit in it. It's actually spunky and funky. And it has a cd player so I can get my regular injections of Springsteen without any effort. I might not be a car person but I'm a this-car-person. Thank you Volkswagen.

3. HRT. Chances of cancer and heart disease aside, this is great stuff. Thanks, Big Pharma. . . not that you deserve those obscene profits. Just sayin'.

Thanksgiving

After all the whining, moaning, and bitching in my last post, I figure I'd better focus this one on something more positive. You wouldn't know it, but I genuinely am trying to cultivate an outlook of gratitude. No really, honestly. So here's proof: a list of Five Things For Which I Am Thankful:

1. Wimsey the Normal Kitty. She pees and poos in her litter box, and that's a fine and wondrous thing. (I'm scarred by the Peeing Kitty.) And she doesn't suddenly up and bite the nice neighbor lady, as Rowan the Neurotic Dog did just this afternoon, hence raising the specter of a huge lawsuit leading to the loss of our house and all our worldly possessions. Not that the nice neighbor lady is going to sue, she assures us she is not, but a pattern of erratic biting is emerging and sooner or later he's going to bite the wrong person and we'll end up in a trailer park having to hunt squirrel for supper. But I'm not going to talk about that. I'm being grateful and positive. Like Scarlett, "I'll think about that tomorrah." Meanwhile, I will appreciate my self-sufficient, supremely self-assured, angst-free kitty.

2. The fact that the Peeing Kitty has successfully made the transition from cossetted, clawless, indoor pet to vulnerable outdoor pet. I figured that without claws she'd be dead in a matter of days, but instead she's flourished, a poster cat for living life on the wild side. She is even beginning to look the part. Her long silky hair, designed for daily grooming and arrangement on a pillow, is shaping itself into dreadlocks: Reggae Kitty. Rastafarifeline. Marley-Miaow. (OK, I'll stop now.) I am grateful that she has lived this long because now when, as is inevitable, she is run over by a car or mauled by a stray dog, I'll feel less guilty. Life on the edge suits her. Some of us were just made for a short wild ride.

3. The iPhone. It has made Hugh happy. It's downright scary how happy he is with that thing. But he's happy. And happy Hugh means much less conflict in the household. Thank you, Apple people.

4. My Gap Body tee-shirt bras. Now, I hate bras. I hate the feel of a bra. I hate the damn straps that always drift down my upper arms and I despise that tight elastic around my chest. But several years ago I discovered Victoria's Secret simple cotton triangle bras. So light and comfy, with straps that stayed in place. And then VS stopped making my bra! Just like that! Without even thinking about my needs, absolutely no consideration whatsoever. After months of searching and much money squandered on various torture-inflicting boob-holders, then, I rejoice in the Gap Body no-wire tee-shirt bra. Not as effortlessly comfortable as the VS triangle, but close. . . and unlike the VS bra, this one contains enough fabric to hide the sight of an erect nipple. A good thing, actually, as I often do get excited when I teach--intellectually rather than sexually, mind you, but the nipple looks the same. And undergraduates are easily distracted. Gap, I am grateful--as, I am sure, are my students, who are no doubt nauseated by the thought of an aroused 50-year-old history professor.

5. My Dyson vacuum cleaner. It's difficult to admit, as I would very much like to be the sort of woman whose mood never depends on household appliances. . . but I am not that woman, not yet, so until I get there, thank you, Mr. Dyson. This vacuum cleaner rocks.

Living in Pier One

Yesterday I did something I try not to do. Ever.

I entered the doors of Pier One.

What can I say? It was a football day (see last posting). And I'd had a less-than-productive week, one in a sequence of less-than-productive weeks, stretching back, oh, well, let's see, Owen's 19 1/2 years old, so that would be 19.5 x 52--gah! advanced math--let's make it 20 x 52--so, ok, stretching back about 1040 weeks. Thus I was feeling a tad bummed. And I was looking for Halloween ornaments. And where else does one go for Halloween ornaments other than Pier One?

I suppose the Halloween ornaments might need explanation. It's my friend Karen's fault. She bought me this beautiful metal table-top tree. And in one of those rare but evidently inevitable Martha Stewart moments, I thought, "Oh, wouldn't it be fun to decorate my metal tree for various holidays?" Back when I was sane, that moment would have vanished almost immediately as I moved on to do important things. But it's been a long time since I've done anything important and even longer since I was sane, and so Saturday found me Halloween ornament shopping at Pier One.

I found several, bought a few, bought lots of other stuff, too. . . had a delightful time. Left with great regret. See, here's the problem: I want to live in Pier One. I want to live the Pier One life. I want to change my dishes every season; I want wine glasses of every possible permutation; I want to dress in brightly colored Indian cottons and drift about my fully equipped, trendily furnished, patio-deck-back yard, glimmering with torch lights and seasonally colored little candles, while beautiful guests, accessorized with playfully themed cocktail glasses and party plates, mingle and reassemble in ever-changing, casual yet graceful groupings.Witty intellectual interchange abounds. We are Happy Multi-Cultural People. Partiers with a Purpose. We live the High Life, yet it is a Deep Life.

So, a couple of overpriced glass bats and skulls now hang from my metal tree. I drank my morning coffee from a new mug, my evening wine from a new glass. The High Deep Life eludes me. I'm thinking, maybe I should try Pottery Barn?

I used to be better

Today I bought a Dyson. Vacuum cleaner, that is. Not the roller ball kind, as I couldn't justify the extra $100 just so I could zoom around corners. It's not a race car, for pete's sake.

Today I also purchased ridiculously expensive black jeans from J.Jill. And I got a pedicure and manicure.

Can you tell it's been a really bad week?

When did I become a person who indulges in Shopping Therapy? Good lord. I used to be better than this. I used to be, you know, sane.

Tax Holiday

So this Labor Day weekend is the "Second Amendment Tax Holiday" in Louisiana.

Yep. No state or local taxes on purchases of guns or gun accessories.

You couldn't make this stuff up. Tho' God knows why you'd want to.

The Queen Goes Shopping

I've finally solved a mystery that has been perplexing me for years: Where does the Queen of England get those dresses and handbags? Now I know. From a small coastal town in Norfolk called Sheringham. Like all coastal British towns, Sheringham bulges with tea shops and fish-n-chippies and ice cream counters and hopeful watercolorists. Unusually, however (at least in my experience, and I actually do have some experience in British beach holidays--much more so, bizarrely, than most of the natives of my acquaintance, who flee to Spain or Egypt or Thailand for their seaside getaways), Sheringham also includes a large number of ladies' clothing shops, all frozen somewhere in the mid-1950s.

So now I know. In the off-season, Her Maj must scutter on down and load up the Rolls with heaps of flowered frocks and boxy handbags. Maybe she stops at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe for a herring bap or a bacon buttie, and then strolls along the promenade and watches the waves. I hope so. I'm sure it would do her good.

Because we've all been wondering

You know how you get those Pottery Barn or Crate & Barrel catalogs and you think, "Geez, who lives like this?" Well, I've found the answer. Check out: http://catalogliving.tumblr.com/. : "A look into the exciting lives of the people who live in your catalogs.

Old Lady Feet

I crossed a new threshold this week. Literally and metaphorically.

The literal threshold was very pleasant. I walked into the New Balance store, where I'd never shopped before, and I must say I've never had such a patient, helpful, and knowledgeable shoe clerk. [Disclaimer: Neither I nor any of my family members are employed by New Balance. Tho' given the oil spill , the gutting of the Louisiana fishing, shrimping, oyster cultivating, and tourist industries, and the resulting sharp decline in state revenues, I soon may be exploring a new career in shoe retail.]

The crossing of the metaphoric threshold was decidedly less enjoyable. I've entered the world of Old Lady Feet. The onset of bone spurs and arthritis in my left foot* means none of my shoes--not the fab boots I splurged on this winter, not my stand-by sexy sandals, not even my funky Clarke clogs or cutey pink striped slip-on Keds--are comfortable. So now, thanks to New Balance, I have three pairs of very sturdy shoes that will keep my feet at the proper angle and reduce the physical discomfort. Or at least that's what's supposed to happen. I'll tell you what's guaranteed to happen: a massive increase in social discomfort. These are some amazingly ugly shoes. Hugh is mortified--I doubt he'll ever let himself be seen with me again--and even Keith could only bring himself to say, "Well, they're not that bad." And then, to pile corns on top of calluses, as it were, keeping Old Lady Feet comfy turns out to be an expensive business. This trio of what Hugh calls "Grandma shoes" cost $500. Eek! I've never spent that kind of money on shoes.

So, I guess I should dwell on the positive. I've now crossed the threshold into the world of Expensive Shoe Consumption--the world, in fact, of Sex and the City. Voila! I'm Carrie Bradshaw sauntering along in ridiculously pricey shoes. OK. OK. Clunking. Clunking along in ridiculously pricey shoes. But at least I'm still clunking.





*See "I Have Seen the Future" (April); "Life after 50" (May)

Boot Gal Reporting In

So, a few posts back, I described my transformation into Boot Gal. This transformation included the purchase of a pair of totally wow, classic yet funky, knee-length, black leather riding boots. Gosh. Forget intellectual depth, cultural values, timeless spirituality. Forget a world in socio-economic crisis, on the verge of ecological disaster. These boots rock. I love striding around my life like Errol Flynn on steroids. Had I had these boots 20 years ago, sheesh, 10 years ago, who knows what I could have been by now. A senator. A corporate CEO. At the very least the chair of my department.

But that's ok. Money, power, prestige, status. . . . who gives a damn. I've got these kick-ass boots. Life is Good.