Our Souls At Night, a Netflix original movie with Jane Fonda and Robert Redford. I absolutely loved it. I’ve loved these two together since Barefoot In The Park, which I’ve seen dozens of times. Their characters are written with warmth and dignity, and you won’t find any old people cliches. The older you are the more you might appreciate it, but the pairing of these two who fall together like perfectly worn gloves is a treat for anyone.

My glorious 60 year old face!

I'm often asked what skin care products I use, because I am blessed with good skin. I've always had good skin, never had acne or blemishes. As a teenager and young adult, I used the very harsh, feel good face product of the 60's and 70's, Noxema. The original, in the dark blue jar, complete with smell. I washed with it amd in the winter, used it as a daytime moisturizer. The commercial, often aired during American Bandstand said "tomorrow is the best reason to wash with Noxema today". There were not the plethora of facial cleansers then that there are now, it was easy to get, cheap, and felt tingly good. When I was 20, my cousin's wife, a dark haired beauty named Helen, who was 30 gave me great advice. She told me to start using a moisturizer (a real one) every day, not to wait till I was 30 or till I began to show signs of aging. I did. I began a real skin care regimen at 20. Moisturizers didn't have SPF back then, but I faithfully used a drugstore product every day and night. As the years passed, and the beauty industry went crazy, there were so many products to choose from, some featuring SPF. I began to use pricier department store products like Estée Lauder, enjoying the more luxurious feel and nicer packaging. By my early 40's I started alpha hydroxy acids like glycolic and lactic acids for anti-aging benefits. By my mid 50's I introduced mild retinol products, stepping it up by my late 50's to 2% retinol night creams and 2% hydraquinone gel on sun damage spots. The thing to remember is your weakest anti-aging skincare is found at the drug store. The mid range is sold at good department stores or beauty specialty stores like Sephora, and for the big guns, like retinol, retinoids and hydraquinone in the over 4% range, you need a prescription from a derm doctor or skin center. I am now, at 60, considering that step, but a tube of prescription Renova is $170.00 so I am not ready to take that plunge yet. Back to SPF, I stopped trying to tan 20 years ago. I would burn over burn, and eventually developed a very light tan, but never got the tan I wanted. I started using SPF every day, 365 days a year, and still do. That didn't stop me from getting a tiny basal cell carcinoma in 2001, near my right eyebrow. I had it removed, and thankfully no more skin cancer since then. I have regular derm checkups, and I use SPF of 30 on my face, neck, chest and hands every day, and step it up to 50 in spring and summer when I am outdoors a lot. At the beach, I do mornings and early evenings, wear a big, floppy hat and huge sunglasses, and never "lay out" without a beach umbrella. So, products and protection aside, here's what helps me. First of all, genes. Having unknown family history and no blood relatives older than me, I don't know if they aged well, but I imagine so. Then, healthy living. No smoking, good sun protection, little or no booze. Eat enough healthy fats, like avocado, nuts, coconut oil. Try not to go to bed with makeup on, although that's not always easy after a late night. Remove makeup, then cleanse and treat your skin before bed, since your sleep time is when skin cells repair themselves. A good serum and night cream work wonders. I have used plain old Vaseline on my lips every night at bedtime for over 30 years. Exfoliate, gently but often. I've used scrubs since I was in my 20's. Avoid the cheaper ones containing ground apricot pits or walnut shells, go for a sandy feel. If you can't afford a good scrub, make your own with sugar or oatmeal. Masks are great, and becoming more available all the time. Not necessarily the old green fave, Queen Helene, but if that's what you have, use it. There are inexpensive one time use masks everywhere now. Once or twice a week makes a difference, and they are tailored to your needs, from soothing to invigorating and everything in between, including collagen and hyaluronic acid. If your budget won't allow it, make your own. Take what's left in your avocado peel, scrape it out and put in on your face for ten minutes for hydration. Use a whipped egg white for tightening. Milk and organic honey for soothing. Whatever you use on your face, put the last bits on the backs of your hands. This goes for scrubs, masks and treatments as well as your day and night moisturizers. Final note, and it's a hard one for a makeup junkie like me: put your money into the best skin care you can afford, then into the best foundation. Don't throw money into eyeshadows and lipsticks when the biggest bang for your buck should go into (and onto) your precious skin.

Everything Is Possible - through a child's eyes

Having a child in the house is a game changer. A lifestyle alterer. A blind step into the vast wilderness of space and time where no one can hear you scream and perhaps it's not safe to go back into the water after all. Am I comparing having a kid in the house to having an alien or a shark take up residence? Yes, I am. It's not bad, just different. It's good, once you remember how to do it. You find yourself using parts of your brain that have been dormant for years. You realize that everything is possible, mishaps are probable, and you don't need as much sleep as you want. My ten year old granddaughter and her mother moved in with us three months ago. With her came at least 25 "stuffies" - stuffed animals from beanie baby size to a 6 foot long snake. Or is it a dragon with a really long tail? Barbies with homemade haircuts, tiny plastic shoes and hooker outfits. Some days Barbie just wears duct tape. Maybe she's researching alternative lifestyles. Not my biz. And then there's My Little Pony, which has gone from a few pastel colored rubbery ponies with candy colored manes to an entire enterprise. E-games, episodic web shows, books, stuffies, oversized ponies and ponies that could sit on a teaspoon. The pony world is huge and complex, with the pony hierarchy understood only by little girls and the odd phenom known as "bronies" who are adult men who enjoy pony culture. The thought of that is like me seeing my dad in a Hello Kitty t-shirt. And that which has been seen cannot be unseen. But I digress. Kids are noisy,they move around a lot, especially this one. They want your attention and are not afraid to say so. Up at the crack of the crack of dawn, at full speed within minutes, there is no easing into your day when you're there at wake up time. Eyes open- BOOM! It starts. And you'd better be present in the moment or they know. You can't shortchange a kid with only half of your attention and get away with it very often. There are only so many "laters" and "not right nows" that will work. These words are not get out of jail free cards, so use them wisely. When you haven't cohabitated with children for a long time, you see you've forgotten things. Their innocence and hopefulness. You really do see things through their eyes, which is beautiful. You've forgotten the fun, the magic, the silliness and the endless laughter. Then it comes rushing back to you bringing a lighthearted joy you forgot existed. You learn to pretend again, and to think of things in new ways. Bugs are apparently fascinating, dirt is not bad and resting is overrated. It's not all rainbows, though. Grace talks to me as if I were a fossil. She loves to make fun of my "oldness" and actually asked if I was born in B.C. She claims I don't appreciate sarcasm, but I do! Just not from her! She has a temper and can be sullen sometimes. A glimpse of what her teen years could hold, I guess. She admits she likes to wear people down till she gets what she wants. Her honesty is disarming. She's bright and funny, a whirlwind of movement, emotion and questions. At ten, she can accept "I don't know" as an answer, but is surprised that there's something you don't know because of your advanced age. Shouldn't you know everything by now? I hope her creativity never dims. She is a visionary, the very definition of thinking outside the box. Her artistic talents surpassed mine by the time she was four. By six, she drew better than me. By eight, she drew better than lots of adults. She has the talent to be a fashion designer, but I don't know if she will have the determination. She is mercurial, she changes like the weather. She brings a new vitality and a long forgotten turmoil to our lives. It's never dull. She brings an abundance of love and light. And a few dark clouds. It has been an adjustment, and will continue to be. I still miss my solitude, I'm more tired. But although I hate sitting on the hardwood floor with her, the grass is fine. You have to get on the floor sometimes to do stuff. I get that. I will never enjoy bugs or dirt. On these matters we agree to disagree. And in this, she is teaching me to stop and consider my answers before issuing an immediate "NO!!!" and to think outside the box. To explore, to worry less. She is a living example of hope and optimism. She's right. In the proper state of mind, everything is possible.

The Coat

It was 1982. I first saw it on one of my many lunch break trips to that magical, gargantuan Center City Philadelphia landmark, John Wanamaker. I lived and breathed for that store, as did my mother. I'd go at lunch. After work. I'd drag anyone I could with me. When I met someone there, usually my BFF Mark, it would be at the eagle. The huge eagle statue at the center of the main floor, where shellacked matrons sold Estee Lauder and the nightly organ concerts rivaled anything heard in a cathedral. One day, I spied the coat. Plum fake fur, which is now Faux Fur. Collarless, with those charming little hooks that real fur coats have. Three quarter length, perfect for my little shortness. Plush, glam, kind of punk rock looking. I adored it. It was outrageously priced as most things on the third floor were. I could never afford it, and I did not want my parents to but it for me, as they would have done had they known. I was an adult, divorced with a child. I had no business with a coat like that anyway. Not for the fashion, which was totally me! me! me! but for the crazy pricetag. I didn't even need a winter coat. I had my pea coat and my pretty, long, cream colored coat for fancy. But this coat took fancy to a whole new level. So, I visited it. Every few days, I'd try it on, prancing around in it, in my black pencil skirt and heels, or my very cool pegged pants, or.....hold on to yourselves....my parachute pants. After a few weeks it went on sale. A few more weeks and it was half price. ZING! I snatched that thing up like it was the last biscuit. Oooohhhhh how gorgeous it was! Lovely, luxe, and so "chi chi" as we said back then. I bought it a pair of matching suede heels, a plum silk blouse, a fuschia lipstick. These things were for the coat, not me. It was worth three times the price for the joy and pride it gave me. When I wasn't wearing it I would go into my closet and pet it. I'd love to say I still had it, or that I knew what became of it. I do know the lining eventually ripped. A few years later, it was gone. It went the way of the parachute pants, bowling shirts and clear jelly shoes worn with crazy colored socks. But when it was mine, wasn't I just "it"' and wasn't that fine?

CARS.....and what I don't know about them

I know nothing about cars. Less than nothing. We're talking about makes and models here. Of course I know nothing about the workings of cars, except where the key goes and where the gas goes and how to make the music come out. No one could expect me to know more. I've made a lifetime career of not knowing. I LOVE not knowing, so why start now?
     It's the identification of cars I am really rotten at. I know lots of women who know about certain cars, like them, want one. If I witnessed an accident the only things I could testify to in court would be the bumper stickers, and the vanity plate if it spelled out something cute or clever. I know a schoolbus when I see one, and I know a motorcycle, but very little in between. I know PT Cruisers because I think they're cool looking, although there seem to be less of them now. Fell out of fashion I guess. I know some Corvettes (Stingrays?) some old Mustangs and Cadillacs. I want to see a Buick 8 because of the Stepehn King novel, but would I know it if I saw it? Nope.
     I know my favorite ever, the HUMMER! I just love everything about the HUMMER. I would have one if I could. In black. Big, gleaming, scary black. Or the brightest most pristine paper white. Whenever I left somewhere to drive home in it, I would announce to everyone who could hear that I am taking my HUMMER and hitting the road. IN MY HUMMER. God, I love saying it. My first and only brand new car was a 1978 red Dodge Aspen with a cream vinyl roof. My parents warned us about the vinyl roof. 'The monkeys at Great Adventure will rip it up!' they said. Having been to GA only once, why did they think I'd be fraternizing with monkeys? Although the thought is a thrilling one, it is not one I had entertained.
Over the years, cars came and went. The old boat of a brown Oldsmobile named Dorothy. So named because when we turned the key in the ignition, she wheezed and whined, protesting so much that we'd scream 'Surrender Dorothy!' and disolve into shreiks of laughter.  A cute little pale gold Ford something, named Kitty after the 91 year old we bought her from. 8 years old and barely 14,000 miles on her. My white Thunderbird, the first car I bought myself, by myself, for myself.  A silver Skylark named Bubbles' The rotten little wreck of a disaster we bought two years ago and had for 5 months. Paid $1800 for it, put $2000 into it, jumked it and got $200 for our trouble, Even the charities that take cars didn't want it. Car had bad mojo.
So, would I know these cars, and the many others I've had if I saw them again? If they were in the color I had, yes. Other than that, no.However, I will know the glorious, gas guzzling, show offy, larger than life HUMMER when I am senile, half blind and in the home. Cause I just love that car, the HUMMER.

Blackbird Deconstructed

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird fly
Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
        This song, this two minutes and nineteen seconds of loveliness, was written by Paul McCartney in 1968, although it is credited to Lennon/McCartney. It's on the Beatles masterpiece The Beatles, known as The White Album. It begins with birdsong and tapping (Paul's foot) and features the sweetest melody imaginable.  Paul credits the J.S. Bach piece "Bouree" as the inspiration for the guitar accompaniment.  The lyrics were inspired by the Civil Rights movement in the U.S. as Black people struggled for the same opportunities afforded whites just by virtue of their skin color. I think of a time even further back in American history, the enslavement of African born men and women brought to this country and sold like livestock.
It was not until 2002 that Paul publicly discussed the meaning of the song and the symbolism of the blackbird. Puff The Magic Dragon was probably not about a fire-breathing beast, and 25 or Six to Four was not about the time of day. The Blackbird is someone held captive in a situation or a place. A fledgling, unable to take flight. The Blackbird is the beaten down, the battered, the hopeless.
This song inspires a lot of artwork, especially in tattoos. Maria has a beautiful backpiece picturing a blackbird and a part of the lyrics. She broke free from an untenable situation, the betrayal of a few lifelong friends. She never looked back. The tattoo is more than pretty ink, it's commemorative of a life changing event, a pivotal point in her life.
The light of the dark black night is freedom. From oppression, from the prison of our own making, from what we will no longer bear. We may not be able to see what's ahead, but it's better than staying
where we are. 
Blackbird fly. Into the light of the dark black night.

Singing

I have always sung. I was in every choir and chorale in school, as well as one of the lucky singers in our eighth grade Octet. I even sang in nursing school at Christmas. Then, singing in the Catholic mass, I had a solo and found myself so nervous my voice shook with fear. I had not expected that. That was the last time I sang in public till the Ren Faire. And then, I was not singing alone, although people could hear my voice and isolate it from others. Don't get me wrong, I never stopped singing. I'd sing in the car, in stores ( once in a drugstore at Broad and Chestnut in Philadelphia, a man in the next aisle over was singing "Chain Gang" with the store's radio, and I chimed in. We sang the entire song together and never saw each other ). I sang with my husband, with my child, with her husband, and to my grandchild. Maria and I sang at Sing Along Sound of Music, with 300 other people.   Two years ago my son-in-law asked me to sing on a project of his. It was a thrill singing into an expensive microphone, wearing headphones, hearing myself and liking it.

Then Maria brought me to karaoke in Delaware this past fall. She had gone before, and has a spectacular voice  and very little fear. She said I could do it. And so I did! We sang a duet, I told her to stand close to me and not let me fall. I expected to faint from fright. I actually took a Xanax that I had left over from an old prescription the doctor gave me for a funeral. I shook, I was barely audible, but I sang. Two weeks later, I sang by myself. Found my own Saturday night karaoke in PA and never miss a week. I sing duets, sing alone, sing lots of songs and lots of styles. I may or may not have one drink, never more, and still feel that I need to tranq myself to get the nerve up, but I don't. I am rarely nervous now. We went to a new place recently, I expected to have stage fright....never happened. I like singing harmony to someone's melody, or vice versa. I have always loved picking out harmonies that work, even as a child. I like singing "hard" songs, love a challenge, will not sing anything I consider too easy. I also love singing gut wrenching, emotional songs. Only Maria and possibly Michael can understand what it means to me to finally be able to let people hear me sing. I went to karaoke with friends once, 12 years ago, suffered through the drunk girl's anthem Girls Just
Wanna Have Fun. Cringed as awful singers banged out top 40 songs, wrecking every note, and never,
 ever said " hey, I can do this". I was too afraid. Now, I will tackle anything I have the desire to, and if I don't know a song 100% I'll run through it once or twice that afternoon, or in the car in the way, but I don't practice.  My new and lovely friend Lisa told me it's more important to feel the song than make sure every note and every breath is perfect. I have never been a technical singer, so that was great advice for me. 

It's very gratifying, especially after all these years of keeping it in, to get compliments from strangers
on my voice. As with other things in my life, I sometimes wonder why this happened for me at this age and not sooner. But, as a late bloomer, I know why. It wasn't time. Now it is. 
God respects me when I work, but He loves me when I sing! 

I'm Back!

It's been over a year since my last blog. Not because I have nothing to say. I always have something to say, or more specifically, to write. I have not had the technology. iPad acting wonky, Kindle fire even wonkier, laptop moving at a snail's pace, smartphone screen too teeny. After a weekend with Grace, my iPad works better than before. Not fixed, but working. And yes, she turned 10 a few weeks ago. So, I am hoping to blog regularly again, but if I don't, it's a tech thing.
Of course, the highlight of the past year has been the acquisition of our darling Jax, the smartest, funniest, handsomest pit bull in the entire universe. Months ago, I had planned that my return to the blogosphere would feature him only, and while that may happen at a later date, this one will be mostly catch-up. Another new development is that I am now able to sing in public.  And yes, that will get a blog to itself, later.
There are big changes with my work schedule, not of my own doing. My husband is now on disability. We are in a real financial crunch, but somehow surviving. My precious Maria and her husband Chris are now divorced. That was very difficult for me. Grace is smart and sassy, coming into what will be her personality. Funny as can be, older than her years, but still a nutty little squirrel.
As for me, I remain happy. I turned 59 last month. I like it.
I like who I am, I like my own company. I like life. 

Christmas Secret

     It was 40 years ago tonight, Christmas Eve 1972. I was 17 years old and a few weeks pregnant with Maria. Other than Sydney, a girlfriend from nursing school, no one else knew. I was afraid. Afraid of the pain of  childbirth. At that point in my training I had attended or assisted with about 30 deliveries, and I saw the agony of  laboring mothers. I knew things could go wrong. I had seen newborns with horrific birth defects. I was frightened of what I would have to endure, but never frightened of being a mother. While I was very aware of the responsibility I would have for another person for the first time in my life, I knew I could handle it.
     I was filled with a sense of awe. My tiny body was making a baby. My little 98 pound frame, which would soon be down to a pitiful 89 pounds would be developing, housing and protecting a baby! I already felt minute changes. Although the timing could have been better, I was happy. A month before, I saw a new mom reject her infant. She didn't want to hold or feed him. She asked me to dress him for the trip home from the hospital. She seemed to have no interest in him. I knew later that she was probably suffering a particularly bad postpartum depression, but then I found her cold and hard hearted and impossible to understand. I actually prayed that God would send me my own baby that I would love from the second of conception, and sure enough, He did.
So, that Christmas Eve, I sat on the floor by the Christmas tree. The feast of the seven fishes was about to start in the kitchen. The lights were glowing on the tree in the darkened room, and I was alone. I had a secret, a beautiful secret. Being pretty Catholic back then, I wondered what the Blessed Mother felt like when she was "with child" as they so delicately put it. I wondered if she was scared and happy at the same time, like I was. I wondered if she knew about me, if she would help and protect me. Did she spend hours imagining what her baby would look like, I wondered, or was she too busy living hand to mouth, traveling on a donkey and visiting with angels?
Mary, I whispered in the darkness, please help and guide me. You know my secret, you know what's in my heart. I know I'm only 17, but you were a young girl too. Please protect my baby, my body, my life.

An Orchid From Mr. Schley

Holiday memories are tricky. They can hit you  like a ton of bricks when it's your first Christmas without someone you love. They can sneak up on you and delight you, like when you see a scrap of fabric reminiscent of a long ago Christmas dress, or you get a whiff of a certain type of cookie only Aunt Rose made. 

       I have dress memories, cookie memories, and memories of a candle my mother lit once a year on Christmas Eve. I have fun memories of toys and jewelry, teapots, cameras,  wrong size blouses and wrong scent perfumes.  Maria's first Christmas,  her squealing joy over Poppin Fresh and Poppie dolls. Treasured memories of gifts from  Maria from her toddlerhood to her teens and beyond. The emerald cut amethyst earrings Michael gave me for our first Christmas together. 

Music memories.  Singing in my school Holiday concerts which were the highlight of my year. Memories of Midnight Mass. Memories of sharing the pretty pink or blue greeting card sized wafer of holy communion at the dinner table on Christmas Eve. We each took a piece, and everyone broke off a bit of everyone else's piece, which was not sacred  to me, it was fun! 

       When Mr. Schley and I were first in love, he was in the Navy in Florida. We were apart for a year, a long painful year. This was the very early eighties. No Internet, no cell phones, Skype, texting. It was Ma Bell and letter writing. When you are newly in love, a day is an eternity to be separated from your beloved. We saw each other twice in that year. As Christmas neared, the Carpenters song "Merry Christmas Darling" was my constant companion. I loved it so much that Maria bought me the record. A 45. Those lyrics were meant for us. "I can dream, and in my dreams I'm Christmasing with you". He called me on Christmas, it was short and happy and I was on cloud nine. Then New Year's Eve came. I was so blue, so sorry for myself.  Spending a quiet night at home with my little girl, watching tv, making special snacks. I felt alone on a night when the rest of the world was wrapped up in someone's arms.  I was missing Mr. Schley terribly. Then the delivery came. He had sent me an orchid. A beautiful, pale purple Cattelaya orchid. Not the plant, a cut orchid. The card read " Happy New Year, I Love You ". At midnight, he called. I cried and laughed and cried some more, and told him how much I loved him, loved the orchid, loved him. Although I thought I was so alone that holiday season, I wasn't. I was loved, cherished, I was in someone's heart, no matter how far apart we were. 

Maria is grown and making holiday memories with her own little girl. Mr Schley died in 1993. I still cry at Merry Christmas Darling, I adore orchids, and I still know that I am  loved and cherished. 

Thank you for the beautiful orchid, Mr. Schley.

Sean

Today was a bad day at work. Understaffed, overworked, unappreciated. Huge, troublesome changes at work over the past months have left everyone's nerves frayed. Working in a fast paced specialty physician's office may not be as hard as hospital work, but it is a tough job, and only the strong survive. Troubles at home, troubles at work, no place to really be happy except perhaps in my car these days. 

A new project I volunteered to head up, involving pages and pages of scheduled doctors appointments, over a hundred phone calls. Messages left, calls returned, phone tag. I was so irritated by 9a.m.  I was grinding my teeth. All of this, while still doing my regular job, my hardworking  coworker and I, the two of us at a three person desk where four would be even better.

When I got to Sean's name on the list, I left a message on his mother's cell phone, apologizing and explaining that we had to reschedule his checkup. Then I tried the home number. As I was leaving the same message, his mother picked up the phone. Carrie! I chimed, I just left a message on your cell, I'm so sorry to bother you but we need to reschedule Sean's appointment. Dead silence, then I heard her breathing hard. Then, quietly, she said "Sean died on the 11th". 

I felt my throat constrict, for a few seconds I had no words, nor the lung power to push them out. Finally, I said I was so sorry, so very sorry. Then I asked what happened. I didn't really know them, just saw them a few times a year, but I felt it was ok to ask. She told me he had croup, which turned into what was called para- influenza, which went to his brain stem, and he died.  He was seven years old. Again and again I offered my sympathies, empty words but well intended.  She said she was sorry, she should have called to cancel, but with everything that happened...... and her words trailed off.

I was nauseous for the next hour. I'd like to say that my day got better because I was reminded of what was really important, like our health, our families. I'd like to say that this mother's grief, her unspeakable loss shook me out of my own workday misery. I can't say that. It wrecked me for the day, the day stayed rotten, and I couldn't wait to get home to cry. For her, for Sean, for myself.

They say if everyone put their troubles out on a table, and everyone saw each others troubles, each person would take their own back.

That much, I can say, is true for me.

                       ***Sean and Carrie are not their real names***

My Day As A Man

It was Halloween. I decided I had to dress around my super- short hair. Although it's been very short for months, it's still a novelty. So, I decided on Buddy Holly. I've always been a fan, love his look, what could be more fun than trying to look like a six foot tall rock and roll pioneer who happens to be A MAN? Got the sport jacket, wanted a wild print. I got pale green. Got the geek glasses. White dress shirt, tie, skinny jeans with cuffs, tiny man shoes (Docs). Did my hair, no makeup or jewelry, went off to work. We usually dress for Halloween, and I was tickled to show off my look. My husband was both amused and distressed at my male drag, kindly said I looked just like Buddy Holly, sure I did! My friends were also amused, but as the day went on I realized I looked nothing at all like Buddy. I looked like a very little business man. A miniature insurance salesman. A tiny accountant.

It was great fun until I realized I had to stop at the supermarket after work. I worried aloud to my friends, what will people think, in this conservative town, of me in male drag? A drag king! But it's Halloween! they said. People will know it's a costume. So, to the store I went. And I got plenty of looks. I really think some of the people who gave me the stinkeye were unaware that it was Halloween. Double-takes, triple-takes, oh, they were looking, all right, and I just smiled and shopped. I kept wondering if the people who were obviously gawking at me thought I was a crossdressing lesbian making a statement, and an unfortunate one in my pale green sport jacket. Had I really been crossdressing, I would have looked much cooler for sure. 

I felt stared at, uncomfortable, and a little sad. I realized that this is how some of my friends have felt as they try to live their lives the way they are entitled to. My dear friend J, who always dresses, in her words, like a dude. My Facebook friend and professional drag queen V, who applies his makeup better than I do, but walks around just as comfortably as a man with a shaved head. I would never want to think of them feeling hurt, feeling the judgement, the unkind staring eyes, but they must. Every day. I realized how brave you have to be to be true to yourself. I wish I were that courageous.

The next morning, in my pretty skirt and sweater, my black tights and boots, my lipstick, earrings, my lace scarf, I presented myself to my husband. He smiled from ear to ear, said he was happy to have his girl back. I was happy too. 

Every Day is a Special Occasion

Today I am wearing a beautiful ring that I save for special occasions. I saw it this morning and decided that I should start really enjoying my stuff and stop "saving it for good". When my dad died and I went through his dresser drawers, I was amazed to find package after package of new underwear and socks. Gorgeous cuff links that were never worn, brand new dress shirts with the tags on them. None of his everyday stuff was ratty, it was all in good shape, but I wondered why he didn't use some of the brand new things which he'd had for a year or two. I have been trying, just lately, to use and enjoy my stuff. I'm not going to wear a $200 dress to the office, but I will try to wear some special occasion things more, and enjoy them more. If life is as short as I think it is, why are my amazing emerald cut amethyst earrings sitting in a velvet box? They were the first jewelry gift my husband gave me. Pietro the jeweler showed him the huge amethyst stone they were cut from. They're so special to me, but they're reserved for weddings and formal affairs. Why not wear them to Macaroni Grill?
Tomorrow belongs to no one. Wear your pearls and most expensive perfume today!

Aging and Beauty: DON'T GIVE UP!

Now that I've turned 57, I am grateful that I look younger. Most people guess me to be around the 45 - 47 range. At 45 I looked 30, at 30 I looked 20, and at 20 I looked 12. I must have looked like an embryo at 12. I don't know if I'm holding up because of genetics, or my devotion to skin care. I do know that it's an ongoing battle, as time marches on, all over my face! I also know that I won't give up. I want to be a pretty old lady, wearing makeup and fashionable clothes. I find it so sad that some women seem to give up by their mid 50's or early 60's. I see women who automatically let their hair go grey and have it cut into a unisex style. I recently sat behind a row of seventy-something couples, and you couldn't tell the men from the women from the back. Going grey can be a beautiful option, but you need color elsewhere to warm and liven your face. Amazing what a little lipstick or a bright colored top can do, or even an interesting piece of jewelry. A scarf adds color and interest, so even if you aren't the makeup type, you brighten yourself. My gorgeous friend Bobbi is sterling grey and beautiful. When we met for lunch this week, she wore a soft grey sweater, her trademark eyeshadow and eyeliner, neutral lipstick, and she looked amazing.
Last month I met two women. The first was 65, and between her steel wool hair color, her colorless sweatshirt, and her makeup-free face, she was almost invisible. Her entire appearance was greyer than a tomb. Then I met a vibrant 79 year old lady with pretty soft brown hair
(salon maintained), tastefully applied makeup, a lovely sweater in a soft red shade, and black slacks. She was obviously blessed with good genes and good health, but the biggest difference between her and the first woman was that she cared!
I adore makeup. It is never a chore for me, it's a delight, a hobby, a love. I know not every woman feels this way, and plenty of women look great without wearing makeup, but they know to add some color in another way. A color need not be a huge splash of brightness. A white, ivory or pale pink blouse or scarf brings light to your face. Black can be stunning, and earrings or a necklace stir things up. There are so many options, and they're fun!
I will not give up. And if I start to, it's my daughter's sworn responsibility to fix me or see that I get fixed. I began applying my mother's minimal makeup at 13, before I was allowed to wear it myself. She didn't know how to do her eyes, so I did it for her. If you're not a practiced hand and want to learn the basics, a Sephora sales associate will help you. He or she will do a simple makeup application on you, tell you what they're using, and you will not have to buy anything. You can even request a few samples so you can practice at home. If you don't want such up close and personal help, YouTube makeup instruction videos are an invaluable source. Not computer savvy? Books by Bobbi Brown, Kevin Aucoin, and other world famous makeup artists are available. Or ask other women shopping in the cosmetics aisle in the drugstore. Believe me, most women in that aisle will be more than happy to give an opinion! Or two!
Don't give up! Age like a fine wine, not like a flat soda!

Goodbye Davy

These days most celebrity deaths don't upset me too much. I may be sad to hear of their passing, or feel like they were stolen from me, in the case of Amy Winehouse. I may never again feel the inconsolable grief I felt when John Lennon died. When a celebrity dies from their own excesses, after the momentary shock no one is really surprised. But when a celebrity dies of natural causes it jolts us, because they're just like everyone else. Cancer, heart attack and stroke don't respect fame or fortune. The velvet voice of Luther Vandross was silenced by stroke. George Harrison had lung cancer. Both culpable because of their human weaknesses, Luther's a genetic predisposition to high blood pressure and diabetes, George's metastatic lung cancer from years of smoking.
And now Davy Jones. Still "boyish" at 66, a fit and active vegetarian, dead of a massive coronary. This one particularly stings, because he was one of my childhood crushes. His small stature and baby face made him endearing and non-threatening to young girls. He was a child actor long before he was a Monkee, known back then as a "song and dance man". He was simply adorable. Still performing, devoted to his family, his horses and farms, one here in Pennsylvania, he seemed to have either avoided or overcome the perils of celebrity. He did not surround himself with sycophants and enablers. I've heard he was a womanizer, which used to be called, more elegantly a "ladies man". How could someone so eternally youthful, charming and vibrant die of a heart attack alone in hs car like he were anyone else? Because he was human, with frailties like the rest of us. And when it was time for him to shove off this mortal coil, he was gone. Goodbye, Davy, from the seventh grade girl who wrote you all those letters. I always wondered what it would be like if you were a "real boy" instead of a tv star. Now I guess I know.

Parisienne Beauty

Françoise Sagan once wrote, “There is a certain age when a woman must be beautiful to be loved, and then there comes a time when she must be loved to be beautiful.”
Well, Francoise, French women are beautiful, even the ones that aren't. They make skin care and grooming a priority. The bestseller French Women Don't Get Fat is wrong, they WON'T get fat because they won't allow it. If they gain a few pounds, they immediately do what it takes to lose them. They eat and enjoy everything im moderation. Tiny servings. They do not, as a rule, go to gyms. They walk. They invest in good quality skin creams, they are not opposed to injectable or even surgical help as they age. French women take time for themselves, and their beauty routines may be simple, but they are committed to them. A common belief, and a worthy one is that too much foundation settles in the fine lines of the face. They use it sparingly, favoring a little blush instead. Lipstick, mascara, and maybe a neutral eyeshadow finishes the look. They work at maintaining perfect looking skin, so there's less to camouflage.
French women do not give up on beauty as they age as some American women do. Which leads me to the subject of my next blog: beauty and aging.

Night.

Night unfolds it's silky wings. There's a gentle rustling in the woods as the leaves whisper their secrets. Colors fade to shades of grey, the quiet settles . All may not be well with the world, but all is well with me tonight, and now is all I have. Night unfolds it's silky wings, and slowly I step in.

Bright lights, big city I love.

Last night, my son in law Chris and his band played a gig at a cool club in Philadelphia. We arrived at 8, got back to the house in the woods at 2 am. I guess I've been a country mouse too long, because coming into Philadelphia at night gave me a New York style jolt of excitement. The lights, the buildings, the people!!! The gig was in an upstairs room at the venue, there were lots of windows from which to enjoy the sights below before the band started. The hustle and bustle of 10 pm was even better by midnight. Where I live, if we had any pavements they'd be rolled up by 7 at night. A man playing the trumpet, people riding bikes, more cabs than cars, groups of dolled up girls walking fast with arms linked, onward to their next destination. Jefferson Hospital across the narrow street, lots of comings and goings. The rattle and hum of the traffic below, which would now keep me awake although it used to be my lullabye.
After the gig, we drove into South Philly to a favorite place of ours, still open and hopping at 11:30. The traffic was still crazy and so were the drivers. As a tiny sportscar buzzed around us when we were stopped at a light, I told my husband we weren't in Kansas anymore. It was good to come home to the country, so quiet you can hear a deer snap a twig outside, but boy oh boy, what a fun night in our beautiful hometown.

To Mine Own Self Be True

Having made no 2012 resolutions, I have decided on one thing. I will be truer to myself. I will conform less, ignore the dictates of fashion more, I will worry less about what people think of my clothes, my hair, my style. I have long been known for my shoes. Unconventional, adorable, little shoes for my little feet. Most of my shoes and boots come from the kid's department, especially my sneakers. Now, I'm not saying I'll start dressing like a child, although I do own several pair of white ruffled ankle socks. I'm saying I will stop limiting my "style" to footwear and designer handbags and start incorporating more of the pieces I love into a signature look. Layers, patterns, prints, ruffles, scarves. Pink, lavender, more pink. Vintage pieces, flowing pieces, maybe some lace. Vintage gloves!
Last year, when I started to tie a fancy handkerchief or small scarf around the strap of my handbag, people asked me why. Because I can, and because it's pretty! I'd like a tiny nose piercing, but can't have one at work. I want a streak of a crazy color in my hair, just a little touch of it in the front. I recently started wearing red lipsticks more, true reds and orange reds. I was never quite sure I could carry off the boldness of it, but suddenly now it seems right. I'm going to have more fun with fashion, jewelry and accessories. The only one I have to "dress to impress" is me.

I am not the answer to everything.

This will be a rant. Short and purposeful. I do not have all the answers. I barely have any. Today, for the third time in a week, my husband asked me where HIS alarm clock was. I don't know, I sez for the third time. I have two alarm clocks, I don't use yours, it's wherever you left it. No, he insists, you did something with it. I always leave it in the same place, it's not there. I DON'T KNOW I snap. He leaves the room, I go to his side of the bed, look under it, and lo and behold, there it is. He asks where his ties are, where his blue suspenders are. Gee, last time I wore your tie......
The uterus is not a tracking device. I don't know, I don't have to know, and I like not knowing. I don't know anything, I am just as helpless and dumb as you. Dumber, even. I am not, and have not the answer to everything. And whoever told you I do is wrong. Insert Samuel L Jackson voice here: I don't know a goddamned thing.
The End.