Royal Blush

Los Angeles, California

I don't know whether I'm appalled or perplexed by my friends who continue to work past a reasonable retirement age. I mean, what is a reasonable age at which to stop working? If you like to work, or if you're a guy, you should keep working. The reason I singled out guys is because I've seen men flounder after retirement. On the other hand, so did my mother. But then she had only joined the workforce after her kids had launched. After she retired she seemingly couldn't cope with being once again faced with housework as her mission. So, my dad took her traveling. And traveling. And traveling some more.

Post pandemic, I have even less desire to travel than before. The daunting gauntlet of the 'travel' part of travel is less and less appealing to me. Just the thought of a long flight is aversion therapy. On the other hand, I have spent decades striving to get to the place where I now am. I'm done with business, work, rental properties. I've turned over investments to a good planner. I am following the KISS system (Keep It Simple Stupid). I've landed where I want and need to be, and now I want to enjoy it with Joel, with my friends, and by myself when that feels right.

Do I have a Post Pandemic Bucket List? Not really. Since I started dancing salsa back almost twenty years ago, I have wanted to see Marc Anthony in concert. And, guess what? We saw him last week in Las Vegas. It was a fabulous experience, listening to him sing while we danced in the aisles of the stadium. A lot of people were dancing, and the energy was palpable.

I've never played blackjack at a table in a casino, but we did play electronically and Joel won enough to go home with all of his money plus a bit more. We watched the first game of the World Series at an Irish pub at New York, New York and were thrilled to see the Phillies stage a stellar, extra-inning comeback win. It was a very fun trip. Travel-wise, I am clearly happy to set the bar very low. I enjoy my home, my writing and dancing.

But still, one's reach should exceed its grasp and I am a believer in living in all the rooms in ones house. And additionally believe that stretching outside of our comfort zone can be a good thing. Recently, Joel asked me if I had ever skinny-dipped with anyone besides my two serial significant others at my own home. Yes. In my thirties I traveled to Puerto Vallarta with my husband and three other couples. And one night after a great deal of piña coladas (which I barely believe I ever drank) and wine with dinner, someone suggested we get naked and get into the pool. It was a pretty mild exercise, all of us being married and none of us really venturing out into the center of the pool, if memory serves.

But, as Joel and my conversation continued over a bottle of rosé, hanging out in  my kitchen while we were listening to a salsa playlist, I realized that there was a similarly innocent item on my list; a virtual box which I hadn't checked. I got a deck of cards out of a kitchen drawer. How are your poker skills?

As we were discussing our play, Joel pointed out that I was wearing one more item of clothing than he was. Well, you'll just have to play better poker, I replied. I had him out of his shoes and down to his underwear while I was still fully dressed. I was drawing two pair, a straight, and even two full houses. Eventually he rallied with three-of-a-kind and a pair that beat mine. And I folded a couple of times. Ok, so maybe this is a box-check cheat. After all, it was only the two of us. But I still checked the imaginary box on the imaginary list. And besides, after the Mexican skinny-dipping, I decided that my body was not for the general public, but rather for a select few. These days it is less than that.

The best part was how impressed Joel was by my poker skills (which he called my luck), and the exercise made us look forward to the Vegas trip even more. And while it was fun to win a bit of money last week, it was not quite so rewarding as taking Joel's clothes away from him, shoe by shoe, shirt by shorts. That was what I really call a Jackpot!

Looking Forward and Back

Los Angeles, California

After listening to an interview with the writer, Hua Hsu, I pondered something he had said about life and aging. He observed that when we are young, we are always looking forward. Looking to the future. My friends and I moaned that we couldn't wait to be out of high school so we could have the freedom to do the things we wanted to do which was unthinkable in our parents' home. Parenthetically, my generation grew up to allow their kids to do anything they wanted in their homes. But the parents of boomers generally provided boundaries and consequences.

I refer to college as the best time of my life that I couldn't wait to be over. I took a year off after barely a year of college and worked full-time for Prudential Insurance in the home office mail pay division. After a few months of that I started looking forward to going back to school, which I did. By the middle of my junior year, I considered taking some more time off but opted instead to carry more units to finish faster. I was looking forward to graduating. And the following year, looking forward to starting life with my fiancé who subsequently became my husband for thirty-five years.

After we married, I suggested that we save money by working two jobs and then taking a year to live in the south of France. He said no; that we should save money to buy a home. And we did, and I suppose he was right. But I also believe it was the first indication that I would need to suppress a side of me that wanted a different sort of life.

In early and mid-married life there was a lot of striving. As we looked around us: Buying a home; having kids; getting financially stable and secure were all things to be attained. We didn't hit every point, but maybe all that striving is what took him out. I will never really know for sure, but after three and a half decades, out he was. And I carried on. Eventually retirement loomed ahead. Through all of the looking ahead, there was a gradual shift where I began to look back. Now I look back a lot. Too much. And after the interview, I thought: When is the time when we are in the moment?

In meditation you strive for being present. It's not easy, but it is the beneficial space between past and future. I wonder if this inability to attain that space is partly what is wrong out there. No one is living in their present. People in their cars rush about dangerously. Friends together lament past disasters, both personal and public. We all do it. Is it possible, outside of meditation, to actually live our lives now?

What I love about dance, specifically for me salsa dance, is that it forces you to be present. As a follower, you have to be present, because you don't have any clue as to where you might be led. Playing sports is different. You have to utilize anticipation. But salsa is like good sex. You don't quite know where it's going but what you bring to it is being spontaneous and responsive. Maybe that's why we dance. It is like meditation in that you are in that space, but also like sex, which can be accompanied by music, and sometimes tequila.

There is an aspect to writing that puts you in the moment. When I start a post, I don't really know where I'm going with it. Sometimes I only bring a title to these blogposts. In writing larger works like a novel, I have started with a conclusion. And then, the title has generally come last.

In the larger sense, we are told that being in the moment and not looking forward nor back is a better place to be. A healthier place. But it is also a daunting process to get there and to stay there. But while we might never cease to look forward and back, the effort is worthwhile. After all, you can't live your life on a dance floor (nor in constant sexual activity à la Sex and the City). Then again, wouldn't that be wonderful?

Hesitating a Guess

Los Angeles, California

I am in a relationship with someone whose first language is not English. This both makes our life together interesting, in a sort of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo way. But it also can create pitfalls when discussing things of a serious nature. I am loathe to admit the following, because I think celebrity culture is pretty much bullshit, but I read a small blurb that popped up on my New York Times feed about Tom Brady and Gisele Bündchen. It speculated that their language differences are potentially problematic in their troubled marriage, though both speak the other's language to some extent.

If English is not your first language you are to be excused for the occasional malapropism or other verbal gaffe. I tease Joel that he struggles with the TH sound. He comes back with a triumphantly rolled R, a sound which I cannot ever hope to do with my scant Spanish. And trust me, I have tried. But, if English is your first language, how proper should your English be? I am told that with the dumbing down in American education, there is no longer a distinction between may and can. A lot of people use no when they should say any. That particularly strikes a discordant note whenever I hear it. And then there are mispronunciations, which I have previously written about here, buried somewhere in posts of previous years. Flaccid, amphitheater, anesthesia (H's are not silent, people) are good examples. I have a book entitled There is No Zoo in Zoology. Sound it out.

So, last week, when I heard someone doing coverage of Hurricane Ian on CNN, my ears perked up when someone started a sentence with: If I hesitate a guess. You would think when you are dealing with a hurricane you might be able to conjure up the word: Hazard. On the other hand, we have all had those momentary spells of aphasia when the word eludes us, and another one starting with the same letter takes its place, and this isn't bad grammar but rather not hitting the cliché on the head. Under the circumstances, I decided to give this one a pass.

Much more bothersome to me was the blonde reporter on CNN who stated Me and 'Joe Schmoe' have been working on this story. What? And, I know, I probably shouldn't have stated that she is blonde but she is blonde. How does someone get to an on-camera position like that without knowing the distinction between I and me? On the other hand, at least she didn't state This dude and I have been working on the story. I'm afraid that is coming and don't get me started.

My friend, Lynnette, and I were at a local hamburger joint which is in an old railway car and offers up my favorite chili burger. It was on a Sunday and there was an all-boys soccer team there with their coach. I'm pretty hopeless at guessing kids' ages, but I would say they were about ten. Two of them walked past our table, speaking loudly to each other as kids and adults who should know better often do. And, one of them dropped an F-bomb as they walked by. The only problem I have with that word (and I have used it here) is the overuse of it. It should be an über-emphatic adjective (and adverb) and exclamation. Not the most common one. And, aren't kids being taught to respect adults anymore? And, why am I putting rhetorical questions in bold italics? I know the answer to both those preguntas.

There are a lot of things in our zeitgeist right now that can make us loco (maybe, for you, my use of Spanglish could be one of them). We all should be fearful of the way people are driving. Would it be possible to put an end to political comments dropped into the notes after an online recipe? And when will the end come to Trump, Trump, Trump and his dangerous and moronic base? It's all bad. So why do I focus on these stupid little annoyances that I can't do anything about, anyway? I don't know. Me can't even hesitate a guess.

The Journals

Los Angeles, California

Once, under a mild threat of a brushfire, I packed up the essentials on the outside possibility that that I might have to evacuate. I packed my laptop, the best of my jewelry, a bottle of scotch, and a box of journals. About forty years worth of journals. I placed it all by the back door near the garage. Sometime later I thought: Clothing. Underwear! I returned to pack the second tier of essentials. But I never had to evacuate.

When I told a friend about my packing, she laughed at my having packed the journals. I thought it was an odd response. Most people will grab the photo albums as they are a chronicle of their life. My journals are the documentation of my thinking, feeling life. I started writing them when I was fourteen, following years of Dear Diary entries in those little books with tiny locks easily breached. They were sweet, with cute covers and filled with the angst of early teenaged years.  We passed notes in class about the boys and the crushes. The diary entries were like those notes. I think I like _____. I hate my teacher Mr. ______. My dad just grounded me!

My journals became spiral bound notebooks through high school and college and reflected my coming of age. High school not happy years. College much better. In my senior year of college I arranged for an independent study which was keeping journals while reading memoirs, epistolary novels, or novels styled as journals. Journals loom large in my legend.

In adult, married life, journals were kept in empty books with lined pages. They needed adequate spacing between the lines, and to open flat. Eventually, I steered away from spiral-bound. And, I rarely went back to read them. But they are there, on their own shelf in my office, a chronicle of my adult life writ small and with no covering of warts.

I have no heirs so what happens to these scores of books is a mystery. I have had people ask me about the ending of books or movies: What do you think happened next? There is no next. When it ends, it ends. Scarlett doesn't win Rhett back. Scout doesn't grow up. No one rebuilds Manderley. Because there is no longer a Scarlett. a Rhett, a Scout, nor a nameless character who marries Rebecca's killer. Turn the last page to find there is no mas. When it ends, it ends. Full stop. And that is what will happen with my story. When I am gone, it will end. The journals will most likely never be read and will end up in a landfill. So it goes.

But should there be another emergency, a box will be filled with my journals and they will be with the few things, including fresh clothing, that will evacuate with me. The photo albums can stay. To the end of my days, I will always value words over pictures. Even if they are only my words, filling all those lines in all those books. I am the odd one who thinks a word, finding that perfect word, is worth a thousand pictures. As James Cagney's character said in The Strawberry Blond: That's just the kind of hairpin I am. And I have the journals to prove it.

Pumpkins

Los Angeles, California

Like a child waiting for Christmas, I always approach October with happy anticipation. Ok, did I just write always? In truth, sometimes the anticipation is more desperate than happy because we are often held hostage by heatwaves and the accompanying brush fires in September (and even later). It has been said that California has four seasons: Fire, flood, earthquake and awards. Regardless of happiness or desperation, I always look forward to the landing of October. It is when pumpkins come out in the markets and farm stands, and their images start appearing around my house, on trays and tea mugs and coffee table coasters. On October 1st I drink my first cup of tea from a mug with a pumpkin or Jack O'Lantern on it. Pumpkins abound. And they are accompanied by a bit of Dia de los Muertos decor which includes a few candles, plates, and tins holding chocolates. I caved to the D de la M after seeing the movie, Coco. Joel and I saw it in a theater the day the film opened, and we were practically alone. I think there was also a father and young daughter in the theater. I tried so hard to hold back tears at the end, and then turned to Joel and saw his tears. No point trying to stay strong. It was such a tender, lovely film.

But, back to pumpkins. I always thought I loved October so much because of my birthday. But when I have asked other people about their favorite months, it never seems to be the one into which they were born. So, maybe it's just that transitioning thing. We don't get much of an autumn in Los Angeles, but we get traces of it. There are some sycamores on my property so I do see leaves change. But let's face it, no one would take a cruise to see the fall colors here. Still, historically, October was a month when we were settled back into school, and the relentless heat was waning. And my birthday was coming. And then, Halloween. We elementary school kids were sent out into the night in our costumes. No adults came with us. No one harmed or hassled us. We didn't live in Mayberry, but compared to the surveillance millennials were under, it was a lot like it. There was so much freedom. We were always being dropped off by parents. At friend's houses, at the park, at the movies. We were little kids, but we knew not to get into anyone's car, to look both ways before we crossed the street, and to be home before dark. If something bad happened to a kid in Wisconsin or Rhode Island, our parents might read about it in the Los Angeles Times, but there was the perspective that not much bad was happening in Burbank, California. The only fears were that we might fall down a well or the Russians might nuke us. There wasn't much to fear in the neighborhood.

My dad called me punkin, from the time I was little. I was a rather round thing when born (though not orange). I never asked him how he came up with this nickname for me. Maybe it was because of my birthday, so close to Halloween. Mom sewed the costumes for our ice skating shows and they did double duty for Halloween. They didn't always hit the mark. Amongst the witches and hobos and ghosts, I would appear as a French maid or a Can-Can dancer. Oh well...

I really jumped the gun, making chicken stock last weekend in anticipation of chicken soup. But it's not too early to have apple cider in the refrigerator which can show up in a rocks glass mixed with dark rum with an even darker rum float on top. A cinnamon stick gets dropped into Irish oats as they cook. And the regular baseball season comes to a close. It's October. It is finally here, and my anticipation settles into the annual bliss of apples and pumpkins and corn mazes. Time for another birthday. Time for another year to begin to wind down. Orange isn't the new black, but rather the herald of another season passing. Summer is gone; fall has dropped. Call me crazy, but I am so ready for this.