I've posted before about my favorite newspaper column, "Hints from Heloise." I do love Heloiseland in all its order and enthusiasm and problem-solving spirit. This week, however, was truly a highpoint for Heloise lovers.
First came Cindy H. from Baytown, Texas. Cindy, weighed down with those "older bottles of spray perfume that [she] no longer liked or that, with age, had become too strong," has found a creative solution. "I now give a few squirts of spray to the inside of my cardboard toilet-paper rolls so that, with each use, a nice scent is released."
And just like that, we enter the threshold of an alternative universe: Heloiseland, where so little goes awry that its inhabitants have time and energy to fret over excess perfume spray bottles and where now, thanks to Cindy H. of Baytown, Heloiselanders can enjoy the fragrance of old perfume with every wipe.
But it got better.
Betty Hill, of Grove City, Iowa, wrote in to tell us, "After washing and drying sweaters, blue jeans, hooded sweats, etc., remove lint from the inside of all pockets by turning wrong-side out and rubbing briskly with an emery board. This works like a charm."
Gosh. I didn't even know about the problem of pocket lint! I will confess, that in a shocking reversion to traditional gender roles, I am the household laundress--ok, actually, I only do Keith's and my laundry; as soon as the boys entered middle school, I introduced them to the wonders of the washer & dryer, and insisted they take charge of their dirty clothes--which means that to get into bed every night, Hugh has to wade through a knee-high "clothesdrift" (it truly does resemble a snowdrift, except it's a lot more colorful and it smells much, much worse, but hey, that's his problem)--and I admit I'm a laundry "lay-about," as the British would say: the journey from dirty clothes hamper through washer/dryer onto the folding table (aka the dining room table) and into drawers and closets can take weeks, yea, even months. Occasionally, Keith will casually inquire, in his best "I'm a feminist and I am in no way implying you should be delivering clean clothes to my wardrobe" tone, "Umm, have you by any chance seen my khakis?" I ponder and then reply, "Oh right. They're in the dryer"--where they've been for six days.
All of which may help explain my reaction to Betty Hill of Grove City, Iowa.
Betty Hill, I am in awe. I mean, I'm scrambling through the dirty clothes hamper to find my no-line panty that I wore three days ago but haven't washed yet and now need because I'm going to wear my tight skirt, and you, you, oh amazing Betty Hill, you are filing--or perhaps buffing is the correct word-- the inside-out pockets of blue jeans and hooded sweats with your emery board.
Betty Hill of Grove City, Iowa: Can I come live with you? Will you buff away my pocket lint? And maybe squirt aged perfume on my toilet rolls so that when I poop, all I smell is ancient Charlie or Estee Lauder White Linen? And I know you keep Heloise's Always-Ready Basic Muffin Mix on hand, so that when unexpected guests drop in, you can quickly blend in an egg and a half-cup of milk, and voila! produce home-baked muffins in ten minutes. Betty, I could use a muffin. Please, can I come stay with you in Heloiseland?
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Extraordinary Day
So I woke up the other day and it seemed like it would be a plain ol' ordinary day. Not a Bad Day, mind you, just a regular, run-of-the-mill day. And then, in the course of this generic, average day, my 19-year-old son sent me a hastily composed message that contained this sentence: "This tattoed boy loves you more than youll ever know." And with a click of a mouse, ordinary became extraordinary.
Motherhood. What a kick.
Motherhood. What a kick.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Old Lady Yoga
Today I returned to yoga class after a long hiatus. This is not tone-your-butt and streamline-your-thighs yoga but rather gentle yoga. Stretch and be at peace yoga. Old lady yoga.
Even so, I'm really bad at it. I have never been flexible--physically, I mean. (OK, right, probably any other way either.) When you sit on your mat with your feet straight in front of you and the instructor says to fold forward as far as is comfortable, well, my torso remains at a 90 degree angle to my feet. Everyone else, even the actually old old ladies, collapse on themselves, nose to knees, like living dinner napkins. Me, I'm like a textbook illustration of a right triangle.
But I'm also really bad at the mental/spiritual part of yoga. I'd like to be a good, deep-breathing, at-peace-with-my-innerness yogi; I really would. I do regard our materialist, empirical way of looking at the world as limiting and impoverished and I do absolutely believe that meditation and yogic practice and mindfulness would enrich my life. It's just that I fail so completely. I try, I really do, but when my yoga instructor, a petite cutie with a headful of dark curls and the right blend of intensity and laid-backedness, tells us to look through our third eye, I'm sorry, I'm blind. I'd settle for third eye near-sightedness, but no, I appear doomed to total blindness in my third eye. And when she instructs us to breathe into that space we've created between ourselves and the breath around us, there I am, floundering, peering wildly to my left and to my right, trying desperately to find that space I've created but, damn, it's just not there. And at the end, when we lie in our savasana pose and she guides us through relaxation imagery, and I'm supposed to be floating through the cosmos, sigh, I'll admit it, I'm composing my grocery list or trying to figure out what went wrong with that lecture this morning.
I wish I could leap unreservedly into the yoga pool of bliss. But that means letting go of the mind and honestly, there's not a chance. The life of the mind--I didn't know those words but good lord, I knew the reality, the exhilaration, the incredible possibility and power of it from the day I read my first book. all on my own: Ballerina Bess, a cardboard-covered book from the racks in the grocery store checkout line that, amazingly, I convinced my mom to buy for me one day early in the fall of my first grade. "I want to jump, said Bess. I want to dance, said Bess. I want to be a ballerina, said Bess." And damn, so did I. Because I was Bess, there, in my mind and I knew, I absolutely knew, standing there in the checkout line, that reading on my own meant I could be and do so much more.
And yet now I know, I do absolutely know, that the inability to shut off the mind explains so much of my insomnia, my anxiety, my limitations as a sexual partner, and yes, my failure at yoga. I would like to be transcendent. And deep-breathing. And able to fold up like a dinner napkin and see through my third eye. And oh, I really would love to float through the cosmos, a tiny speck-- but a totally balanced, mindful speck, a speck that is at peace with one's speckedness and at one with all that is and was and will be.
But really, cosmically, that's as likely as a toned butt and stream-lined thighs.
Even so, I'm really bad at it. I have never been flexible--physically, I mean. (OK, right, probably any other way either.) When you sit on your mat with your feet straight in front of you and the instructor says to fold forward as far as is comfortable, well, my torso remains at a 90 degree angle to my feet. Everyone else, even the actually old old ladies, collapse on themselves, nose to knees, like living dinner napkins. Me, I'm like a textbook illustration of a right triangle.
But I'm also really bad at the mental/spiritual part of yoga. I'd like to be a good, deep-breathing, at-peace-with-my-innerness yogi; I really would. I do regard our materialist, empirical way of looking at the world as limiting and impoverished and I do absolutely believe that meditation and yogic practice and mindfulness would enrich my life. It's just that I fail so completely. I try, I really do, but when my yoga instructor, a petite cutie with a headful of dark curls and the right blend of intensity and laid-backedness, tells us to look through our third eye, I'm sorry, I'm blind. I'd settle for third eye near-sightedness, but no, I appear doomed to total blindness in my third eye. And when she instructs us to breathe into that space we've created between ourselves and the breath around us, there I am, floundering, peering wildly to my left and to my right, trying desperately to find that space I've created but, damn, it's just not there. And at the end, when we lie in our savasana pose and she guides us through relaxation imagery, and I'm supposed to be floating through the cosmos, sigh, I'll admit it, I'm composing my grocery list or trying to figure out what went wrong with that lecture this morning.
I wish I could leap unreservedly into the yoga pool of bliss. But that means letting go of the mind and honestly, there's not a chance. The life of the mind--I didn't know those words but good lord, I knew the reality, the exhilaration, the incredible possibility and power of it from the day I read my first book. all on my own: Ballerina Bess, a cardboard-covered book from the racks in the grocery store checkout line that, amazingly, I convinced my mom to buy for me one day early in the fall of my first grade. "I want to jump, said Bess. I want to dance, said Bess. I want to be a ballerina, said Bess." And damn, so did I. Because I was Bess, there, in my mind and I knew, I absolutely knew, standing there in the checkout line, that reading on my own meant I could be and do so much more.
And yet now I know, I do absolutely know, that the inability to shut off the mind explains so much of my insomnia, my anxiety, my limitations as a sexual partner, and yes, my failure at yoga. I would like to be transcendent. And deep-breathing. And able to fold up like a dinner napkin and see through my third eye. And oh, I really would love to float through the cosmos, a tiny speck-- but a totally balanced, mindful speck, a speck that is at peace with one's speckedness and at one with all that is and was and will be.
But really, cosmically, that's as likely as a toned butt and stream-lined thighs.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Junior League
Perusing the Sunday paper, cruising through the People section, skimming along past "Out and About" --and there they were, a set of photographs of Junior League's "Ho Ho Hollydays." I try to just flip on by but no, no, I can't. The pull is too powerful, the addiction--once again-confirmed. I turn back and stare at the photographs for a long, long time.
I'm not addicted to Hollydays. I'm not even sure what it is, actually, just that it happens every year in Baton Rouge. I think it has something to do with shopping and fundraising--and lots of thin white women with expensive haircuts in tasteful sheath dresses. They are my addiction--the women in the photos, the Junior Leaguers. They're so completely outside my experience, so utterly foreign, that I find them fascinating. See, I've never met a Junior Leaguer.
Oh dear. I sound like my mother, saying she's never known anyone who is gay.
I suppose, like my mom and gay folks, that over the years I've been introduced to many a Junior Leaguer, and just not realized the JL thing going on. I mean, there must be closeted Junior Leaguers, women who don't usually dress like Jackie Kennedy, women whose hair is a mass of frizz, women who fantasize about chucking their hummus-dipped pita triangles at the tv screenwhenever Glenn Beck comes on. (but don't actually do it because they know they're the ones who will be stuck scraping the hummus off the screen). And then trip on over to Ho-Ho-Hollydays and smile for the camera.
I guess. But I don't know. And that's the source of my fascination--that I don't know. I stare at the photos and I wonder, "Who are you?" They all look like they've just left the set of Mad Men--but it's 2010. I suppose it's the same reason I stare at the Amish. (I know, I know; it's really ignorant and rude and I do try to be discreet. . . but come on, 'fess up, don't you find yourself peering over as well?) Here are these people, from another time, except no, they're here, in our time--and historian that I am, I'm mesmerized.
Besides, I keep wondering, what happens when these women age? Why is there no Senior League?
I'm not addicted to Hollydays. I'm not even sure what it is, actually, just that it happens every year in Baton Rouge. I think it has something to do with shopping and fundraising--and lots of thin white women with expensive haircuts in tasteful sheath dresses. They are my addiction--the women in the photos, the Junior Leaguers. They're so completely outside my experience, so utterly foreign, that I find them fascinating. See, I've never met a Junior Leaguer.
Oh dear. I sound like my mother, saying she's never known anyone who is gay.
I suppose, like my mom and gay folks, that over the years I've been introduced to many a Junior Leaguer, and just not realized the JL thing going on. I mean, there must be closeted Junior Leaguers, women who don't usually dress like Jackie Kennedy, women whose hair is a mass of frizz, women who fantasize about chucking their hummus-dipped pita triangles at the tv screenwhenever Glenn Beck comes on. (but don't actually do it because they know they're the ones who will be stuck scraping the hummus off the screen). And then trip on over to Ho-Ho-Hollydays and smile for the camera.
I guess. But I don't know. And that's the source of my fascination--that I don't know. I stare at the photos and I wonder, "Who are you?" They all look like they've just left the set of Mad Men--but it's 2010. I suppose it's the same reason I stare at the Amish. (I know, I know; it's really ignorant and rude and I do try to be discreet. . . but come on, 'fess up, don't you find yourself peering over as well?) Here are these people, from another time, except no, they're here, in our time--and historian that I am, I'm mesmerized.
Besides, I keep wondering, what happens when these women age? Why is there no Senior League?
Friday, October 22, 2010
In a funk
I'm in a funk.
Could be a menopausal funk--the gloom brought on by increasing quantities of facial fur--matched only by the decreasing volume of head hair--and the pounds that seem to fly on and stick to my stomach like flies on a dead squirrel and the ever-decreasing libido that makes me feel like the Frigid Bitch of the North.
Could be a generational funk--the fear that I've failed to realize my potential as a scholar, the sense that my students regard me as this sometimes amusing historical relic, my longing to Do Something or Be Someone Important.
Could be an existential funk--the doubts about meaning and truth and purpose, the growing restlessness with going through the motions,the impatience with answers that used to satisfy and arguments that once seemed convincing.
Dunno.
Just know that I lay in bed last night and thought, "Life is just a bunch of orifices, just a matter of in and out." You eat, you drink, you poop, you pee, you have sex, you listen, you repeat, you smell, you sneeze. . . hydration, consumption, defecation, urination, copulation, communication, organization. . . all just a matter of in and out in and out in and out. . .
in and out in and out again and again on and on and on just life in the lower-case no capitals no highlights no need for punctuation and the more you go on the more the highs and lows level out and it's just this vast plain this tundra and the colors all fade and the whites turn dingy and the blacks lose their vibrancy so it's all the same dreary grey grizzle and you can't hear the laughter or the screams just the low ceaseless moan and the monotonous buzz buzz buzz of fake lighting and soon itjustallcollapsesinonandtheresnothingintheuniversebutfakepolitepeopleataneternal cocktailpartywithwatereddowndrinksandpackagedtastelesssnacksandsoyoubegintowonderififif
So. I'm thinking, brownies.
Could be a menopausal funk--the gloom brought on by increasing quantities of facial fur--matched only by the decreasing volume of head hair--and the pounds that seem to fly on and stick to my stomach like flies on a dead squirrel and the ever-decreasing libido that makes me feel like the Frigid Bitch of the North.
Could be a generational funk--the fear that I've failed to realize my potential as a scholar, the sense that my students regard me as this sometimes amusing historical relic, my longing to Do Something or Be Someone Important.
Could be an existential funk--the doubts about meaning and truth and purpose, the growing restlessness with going through the motions,the impatience with answers that used to satisfy and arguments that once seemed convincing.
Dunno.
Just know that I lay in bed last night and thought, "Life is just a bunch of orifices, just a matter of in and out." You eat, you drink, you poop, you pee, you have sex, you listen, you repeat, you smell, you sneeze. . . hydration, consumption, defecation, urination, copulation, communication, organization. . . all just a matter of in and out in and out in and out. . .
in and out in and out again and again on and on and on just life in the lower-case no capitals no highlights no need for punctuation and the more you go on the more the highs and lows level out and it's just this vast plain this tundra and the colors all fade and the whites turn dingy and the blacks lose their vibrancy so it's all the same dreary grey grizzle and you can't hear the laughter or the screams just the low ceaseless moan and the monotonous buzz buzz buzz of fake lighting and soon itjustallcollapsesinonandtheresnothingintheuniversebutfakepolitepeopleataneternal cocktailpartywithwatereddowndrinksandpackagedtastelesssnacksandsoyoubegintowonderififif
So. I'm thinking, brownies.
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Old Lady Gig
I let down my guard over the last couple of weeks and ate whatever I felt like. Nothing extreme, just a biscotti with my mid-morning coffee, a couple of low-fat Oreos after lunch, a round of pita bread and hummus when I got home from work. Got on the scale today and discovered I gained four pounds. Good lord. Getting old really sucks.
Meanwhile I've scheduled my first old lady surgery. (I figure there will be many more.) Once the semester ends and I've filed my course grades, I'll limp on over to the hospital for foot surgery, with the aim of restoring "some mobility" to my left big toe. Amazing how much a toe matters. "Appreciate your toes while they are mobile," counsels the wizened old woman.
The surgery is scheduled for December 16, and then I'm to keep my foot up and my body prone for two weeks. If you do the math, you'll discover I've scheduled myself out of any meaningful role in Christmas celebrations. I hadn't really thought it through--I was focusing on limiting any interruption to my teaching schedule--but now I'm rather looking forward to reclining on the sofa like a Victorian invalid while the holiday festivities flow on around and about me. I figure I'll dip my toe in now and then. And maybe, occasionally, someone will have pity on me and will bring me a reindeer cookie. Except there won't be any, as I won't be able to make them. Hmm. Slight difficulty in the Victorian invalid scenario. Well, what the heck. Christmas will survive without reindeer cookies, and I need to lose four pounds anyway.
But the thing is, I remember my grandma sitting on the sofa while the holiday whirlwind rushed on and around her. With my first old lady surgery, have I somehow propelled myself precipitously into wholesale old ladydom? Am I doomed to early irrelevance? Will people whisper about me and instruct their children to be nice and say hello?
And yet. . . my gram was a clever woman. Maybe there's more enjoyment to be had on the sofa than, well, hustling in the kitchen or trying to pacify the warring tribes of children. . . Dunno. Maybe this old lady gig won't be so bad after all.
Meanwhile I've scheduled my first old lady surgery. (I figure there will be many more.) Once the semester ends and I've filed my course grades, I'll limp on over to the hospital for foot surgery, with the aim of restoring "some mobility" to my left big toe. Amazing how much a toe matters. "Appreciate your toes while they are mobile," counsels the wizened old woman.
The surgery is scheduled for December 16, and then I'm to keep my foot up and my body prone for two weeks. If you do the math, you'll discover I've scheduled myself out of any meaningful role in Christmas celebrations. I hadn't really thought it through--I was focusing on limiting any interruption to my teaching schedule--but now I'm rather looking forward to reclining on the sofa like a Victorian invalid while the holiday festivities flow on around and about me. I figure I'll dip my toe in now and then. And maybe, occasionally, someone will have pity on me and will bring me a reindeer cookie. Except there won't be any, as I won't be able to make them. Hmm. Slight difficulty in the Victorian invalid scenario. Well, what the heck. Christmas will survive without reindeer cookies, and I need to lose four pounds anyway.
But the thing is, I remember my grandma sitting on the sofa while the holiday whirlwind rushed on and around her. With my first old lady surgery, have I somehow propelled myself precipitously into wholesale old ladydom? Am I doomed to early irrelevance? Will people whisper about me and instruct their children to be nice and say hello?
And yet. . . my gram was a clever woman. Maybe there's more enjoyment to be had on the sofa than, well, hustling in the kitchen or trying to pacify the warring tribes of children. . . Dunno. Maybe this old lady gig won't be so bad after all.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
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 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?
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