A Thing of Beauty

As previously mentioned in several posts, I am not a girly-girl.  I try to wear outfits and makeup that are at least within the realm of “normal”, but my hair and nails are two areas that always seem to be the least prioritized.  I used to get my hair cut and colored more frequently, but since my cash flow has slowed to a trickle, it was the first thing to get pushed to the back burner, which is probably why my hair now looks it was used to put out a grease fire.

But my nails have never been really important.  I like the colors and designs, but I am always fussing with my fingers or banging them into stuff, so nail polish lasts about as long as the car ride home.  Plus I’m usually so anxious at the end fumbling to get my card or cash out without messing my fingers up that any relaxation is quickly depleted. 

However, a soothing pedicure is different.  Since I live in Florida now and am constant wearing sandals, I do think it’s important that my feet look neat and pretty.  But I also love the experience of a good pedicure. I love the comfy chair, the warm soapy water, the lovely scented lotions they apply, and that nice massage they give your legs sometimes.  It is such a nice way to feel a little bit girly, a little bit luxurious, and a lot more groomed.   

This was the happy relaxed attitude I had when I arrived at the salon recently to join my friends Alejandra and Rachel for a little pedi-pampering.

I would not say I left feeling the same.

I walked in and immediately spotted the girls in their oversized chairs.  They had their technicians already by their ankles, prepping their toes.  I stood back for a few minutes, waiting for another technician to greet me but after a few awkward moments had passed, my friend Rachel finally broke the ice.

“The colors are over there,” she gestured to the wall of polishes.  I quickly selected one I liked and was then left standing around for a few more minutes.  I didn’t want to jump right into the chair if I wasn’t supposed to, but eventually the lady doing Rachel’s nails, and whom I took to be the manager, finally gestured for me to take a seat next to Alejandra.

I assessed the monstrous chair for a second, trying my best to find a dainty, lady-like way to lower myself into it, but I finally just sort of dumped my body inside. This thing looked like the Iron Throne in it's massive size.  Little did I know it would quickly become an Iron Maiden.

As the girls were talking, I decided to start my relaxation first by turning on the massage settings.  The remote looked like something out of Star-Trek; lots of unintelligible icons and arrows, but nothing that made a lot of sense.  Just as I was about to put it down and pretend I changed my mind, the manager mumbled something to me and nodded at the remote.

“To the left…to the left?  To the LEFT,” was all I could make out, so of course, I kept pressing every button on the left.  By now all four pairs of eyes were looking at me as I fumbled like an ape with an iPod, praying silently to middle-aged Jesus to please make this chair do something.   

And then, he granted my wish.

The chair suddenly whirred to life and no sooner had I breathed a sigh of relief and everyone turned their focus off of me, that I began to feel the chair compress and crush my back and legs.  Alejandra began telling me the latest with her as I felt the meat of my bones being shaken off while the chair angrily pummeled my spine.  It must have been quite the sight because the three of us began to get the church giggles and soon the two girls were trying to fiddle with their settings on their own chairs.  Thankfully, they also struggled with getting their massages just right, but finally we all found comfortable settings and were happily vibrating together.

Next, the lady finished up with Rachel’s nails and moved on to me.  She turned the water on in my footbath and it quickly filled up with steamy water.  I began to slowly dip my toes in, expecting the perfect temperature.  Instead, as soon as my skin hit the surface, it was met with the fiery broth of a witches brew.  I kept trying to get my feet acclimated, but they just recoiled in pain.  The tech came back and noticed my feet outside the bath and put her hand in.

“Oh!  Too hot!” she said.  She then drained it and refilled it with a much more tolerable temperature. 

After my feet had been soaking for a little while and I was lost in my gab with the gals, I noticed the tech bringing out the pumice stone. 

Now, like I said, I am not girly, I wear a lot of open toe and unsupportive shoes, and I run sometimes.  In other words, I know my feet are kind of rough.

*I should warn my readers- if you have a weak stomach, you may want to skip ahead (wuss).

I look down and see that she is scraping the calluses off my feet and what’s being left behind on the purple towel looks exactly like Frosted Flakes.  I begin to laugh and when I make eye contact with Alejandra, she looks down at my feet as well.

A horrified look spreads across her face.

“Oh my gawwd…” she says.  I whisper to her about my comparison to a certain grrrrreat breakfast cereal and she visibly gags and laughs.  “That’s sooo gross!”

I look down to meet the gaze of the poor nail tech at my feet and she gives me the wryest of looks, almost as if she’s saying, “Really…?  Do you walk on hot charcoal for a living??”

I try to apologize but she merely puts my now much softer feet back in the warm water for a few more minutes.

Finally she began to give my legs the rubdown, my favorite part of a pedicure.  I sat back, expecting a nice firm yet gently massage.  She took my leg and began to move up and down, slowly strangling my calf and scraping my shin.  I wince in pain but allow her to do her work.  After several agonizing minutes, it’s finally over.  My legs are sore, but also feel soft and sweet smelling.

Lastly, she applied the polish; a pretty, sparkly, dark purple, perfect for Halloween.  We waited for a few more minutes, talking and waiting for our polishes to dry.  When we thought it might be time to remove our foam toe-separators, the manager tech came back and stopped me from removing it myself.  In one quick yank, she pulled the foam from my foot, nearly taking a toe with her.  But still, the polish remained fully intact and undisturbed.

As we climbed out of our chairs and hugged each other goodbye, I looked down at my now softened feet and sparkly toes.  I may not be a girly-girl, but it’s nice to feel feminine and pretty once in a while, despite the pain and humiliation. 

I smiled and walked happily away, wondering if this is how those super-pretty girls feel when they walk out of their many beautification appointments, elegant and graceful, sexy and sassy.  I pondered that all the way back to my car.

And then proceeded to bang my toe on my car door.

Yup…must feel something like that.

Do the Poke-A

I’m not what you’d call “dignified.”  I tend to trip over my own feet, say the wrong thing, and make crude jokes.  Hell, even at my own wedding, at the precise moment I should’ve resembled absolute grace and beauty as I walked down the aisle, I ended up getting my veil stuck on a nail and nearly snapped my head back. 

So you would think I would come to expect Fate or God or Buddha’s giant celestial stick poking me at inopportune times and would therefore be prepared for its inevitable stab.

You would think, anyway.

But every time it happens, I am just as dumbfounded and confused as before, like a dog being taunted by a laser pointer.

Take for instance a big job interview I had a few weeks ago.

I had been agonizing and preparing for days, practicing what I was going to say and how I was going to present my writing samples.  Finally, it was the night before and all I had to do was get a good night’s sleep.

Then Fate swooped in.

At around midnight, just as Joe and I were drifting into sleep, his phone rang.

“It’s your sister,” Joe said to me.  “Hello?  Hi.  Oh….ok are you alright?  Ok, no problem, just let me know when you need a ride,” Joe said as he hung up.

“What happened?” I was completely awake now.

“Your sister cut her hand pretty bad so she’s in an ambulance going to the hospital.”

I panicked.  Joe insisted that I get some sleep and that he would take care of my sister but I was too worried.  I texted her immediately and found out they were taking her to Lakewood Ranch Medical Center.  As soon as I heard Joe fall back asleep, I slipped out of bed and drove to the hospital.  She insisted that I didn’t have to, but I knew she would’ve done the same for me.

I paced around the lobby waiting for them to let me in to see her.  After almost twenty minutes, I was finally allowed to go back into the emergency room and found her lying in one of the rooms.  Her hand was all bandaged but still showing blood.  I sat with her and tried to cheer her up, even accidentally banged my head on the computer keyboard (which brought her and the attending nurse much amusement).  Eventually the doctor came in and stitched her hand up, so then all we were waiting for was to be released.  I tried to maintain my joviality throughout the whole visit, but as I noticed the hours ticking by and my head beginning to droop, it took all of my strength not to turn sour.

At around 3:45 A.M., we were finally told we could leave but that we should make sure she had fresh bandages and pain relievers.   Since we were going to pass a 24-hour Wal-Mart anyway, I insisted we stop so she could get whatever she needed for the next day.

By the time I dropped her back off at her apartment and slid into bed, it was close to 5:30 A.M.  I had just enough strength to kick my shoes off and take a “nap” before my alarm sounded for work at 7 A.M.

I dragged my body up and out the door, making sure I grabbed my interview clothes and gear as well.  I somehow managed to get my work done but as lunchtime rolled around I needed to refuel.  I tend to skip lunch but seeing as how I would not appear the most competent candidate if I fell asleep during my interview, I forced myself into the cafeteria.  I ate a small salad and some pasta with chicken.  Perfect, I thought, some protein, carbs and vegetables would keep me going.

At last the time came.  I clocked out of work, changed into my interview clothes, and dashed out to the interview. Happily, I arrived early (a rare feat for me) and I was just beginning to relax.  Since I had a few moments, I decided to apply a little more makeup.  As I opened the bottle of liquid foundation- splat.  A big tan dollop of makeup landed right on my khakis.  I sat there for a few moments, in both shock and absolute fascination.  Who spills makeup on themselves minutes before a job interview?  If you ever saw that scene in “Me, Myself, and Irene” where Jim Carrey’s character Charlie suddenly cracks and becomes Hank…that was me.  I laughed.  I screamed.  I probably shed a tear or two.  

But then I snapped back into mission-mode.  I dabbed the stain with some water as best I could, straightened by blazer, and said “f*** it” to the giant poking stick.  I walked into the building and decided I would let my personality shine brighter than the stain, brighter than my exhaustion, and brighter than my personal doubts and fears.  I was introduced to the staff and warmly shook their hands and smiled as hard as I could.

I carried this same demeanor as we sat down and began talking more about the job.  I asked questions and offered my own thoughts, all while maintaining my air of professionalism and affability.  I even made them chuckle a few times with my wry wit.  And I just kept on smiling widely.

When the interview was over, I again shook their hands and expressed my gratitude at meeting them all.  They all smiled back and seemed to genuinely like me.  As I waved them goodbye and walked back to my car, I let myself take a big deep breath.  I had done well.  I had survived a long day and overcame a big challenge; all with little more than two hours sleep.  I called Joe immediately as I drove home telling him all about how the day went, about the spill on my pants, and about how I managed to rise above the personal humiliation and leave that interview with my dignity still intact.

I pulled into my driveway and there was Joe, arms open wide to give me a hug.  I stepped out of my car and just as I was about to collapse in his arms with relief and fatigue, he stopped me.

“You know there’s a piece of lettuce stuck in your teeth, right?”

So, dear friends, I have come to terms with my own ridiculousness.  There has to be some evolutionary benefit to constantly making a fool of yourself.  If for no other reason, it serves as a great source for amusement and reflection, my own included.  

And, of course, blog material.

Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost Ant

Houston, we have an ant problem.

I knew to expect bugs here in Florida and we have actually been lucky with the lack of spiders or roaches that have appeared in our house. 

But these “ghost” or “sugar” ants have turned out to be harder to kill than *insert over-used actor’s name*’s career.

It all began shortly after we moved in.  We were just beginning to set things up when Joe first noticed ants on the kitchen counters.  At first we figured it was just one or two passing by.  But once we started to see regular commuters, we realized something would have to be done.  It was our very first real homeowner problem.

So Joe looked up exterminators and found one he liked called “Good News Pest Control” and booked them.  Fortunately, at the time, I was working from home so I would be able to be there for them when they arrived.  Much to my surprise, when the truck pulled up, a woman hopped out.  I’m not sexist or anything, but when you imagine an exterminator you think of either a big hulking rotund guy or a teeny geeky pipsqueak.  She looked to be about 40ish with long braided blonde hair and a lean physique. 

She came in and after a few pleasant exchanges, I showed her where we were seeing the ants.

“Oh yeah,” she said, “these are ghost ants.  You often see them looking for water, so they usually show up in bathrooms or kitchens,” she explained, showing me the pinhole sized space the ants were coming from.  She then sprayed along the glass block and into every corner.  Finally she put out some traps.

“These are all natural and will lure the ants out like crazy, but don’t kill them.  You want them to take the food back with them to the queen.  And besides, if you kill them, the queen will only send more and to other places in your house.”

I was impressed.  I was getting a lesson in entomology along with my extermination service.  I asked more questions until eventually she began simply telling me about herself and her job. 

Then it got a little weird.

“That’s just the way Jesus Christ had it intended for us.  To follow in his light,” she said with half her body inside the cabinet we keep our garbage bin.  I nodded along in agreement, not really sure what to say.  I was a little thrown, but she was still very nice and informative, so I just shrugged it off.  If she’s happy in her faith and believes what she believes, who am I to say anything?

As the year went by, we booked the “bug lady” to spray the exterior of our house a few times to keep bugs away as a preventative and the ant sightings ended. 

Until about two months ago.  

I began seeing them running through our dishwasher, in our sink, and even in our bathroom.  When I began taking a double take at my moving quinoa, I knew it was time for another spray inside, so we booked the bug lady again.

She arrived and began spraying around the kitchen and bathroom, and once again we began chatting. 

And this time, the discomfort factor went up a notch.

“Are you a believer in Jesus Christ?” she asked.  Once again, I fumbled for the right words.

“Well, you know…I was raised Catholic…ummm…not really practicing anymore…” I was stammering to explain my religious affiliation as I straightened the pajamas that I was still wearing and tried to maintain my dignity.

“Well, you know…only when you accept Him as your supreme savior will you find the everlasting light and love.  It is only through him that we can achieve total happiness for ourselves and for others,” she preached as she continued her ant apocalypse.  I couldn’t help but be amazed at the irony.

So after she finished I thanked her profusely and saw her out.  After she left, I had a new queasy feeling in my stomach.  I’m still not sure if it’s because I didn’t have a better answer to her probing question or that chances are I’ll have to see her again when the ants, one day, rise again.

Something Old, Something New

Are you happy with your job?  Are you where you imagined you'd be in your professional life?  Do you wake up in the morning and, for the most part, excited to get to work?

I'm not.  But I'd like to be.

I look around at my friends and every one of them seems to have found their rightful place in the world.  Every one of them is making great strides at their respective offices, completing interesting projects, or making valuable and prosperous connections, and if they aren't, they are on their way to doing something else, boldly and bravely.

I, on the other hand, often say that I feel like a square peg stuck in a round hole.  I just haven't found my niche, my calling, my raison d'être.  And I know that it's purely by my own doing.  I take jobs that are easy or interesting at the moment but not long-lastingly fulfilling instead of pursuing something I'm genuinely passionate about.   And it's because I'm afraid if I fail at it, I'm failing myself.

I'm also terrified of what people will say if I tell them the things I'd like to do.  I feel silly and frivolous suggesting things like working in the health field or becoming a dog trainer.  I could imagine the thought bubbles emerging from their heads like in a comic book- 'You have no experience.'  'You'll lose more money than you'll gain.'  You're too old to start something new.'

Of course no one has actually said these things to me, and in fact, more likely, I am projecting my own fears and questions into the minds of others.  I know my friends and loved ones genuinely want to see me happy.  Especially Joe...

Before he left for his big trip last week, we decided to head out to a local brewery to toast his adventure and my birthday.  It was Friday night, and I was anxious to cut loose after another long week of putting in early mornings and late nights.

We sat outside and after we ordered a few flights of beer, he began excitedly talking about his day and his visit to the bank.

"There were all these pamphlets on small business loans.  We could totally do that!  Imagine us having our own store-front of vintage items, having a listening room for records or a playing room for old video games..." as his gaze extended well into our possible future, the light in his eyes shining with hopeful promise, my stomach churned.

I tried to change the subject, but he gently pressed to see what was wrong.  I kept telling him I didn't want to think about it and stared blankly at my half empty hefferveisen, trying to hide my fear.  Then, after we had volleyed a few empty comments back and forth, he took my hands in his.

"Look at me," he said.  I did.

"I have a say in your life now.  I have a say in how I can make you happy, because that's all I want to do for the rest of our lives.  Because if you aren't happy, I can't be."

My body shook, and not just from the progressively chilly, damp air now surrounding us-  I shook with the realization that he's right.  Being married meant more than just sharing a bathroom and a mortgage- we were partners in the business of making sure we were both happy.  Till death.

And it isn't enough to find enjoyment in our social lives; I need to find a way to be happy in my professional life like he had.  We tried to salvage the evening but his thoughts had lingered on my mind more than I realized.  Even after I hugged and kissed him goodbye in the middle of the night, I felt heavy.

The mood hadn't lifted, even when my friends came over for our book club meeting.  Joe's words and expression clung to me and I found it difficult to shake them off and be good company to my friends. After the book had been discussed we all ventured into the pool and began talking about the latest events in our lives.  When the subject of work came up, I felt compelled to finally get the thoughts out and see what the girls had to say.

They were supportive, of course, and helpful.  They listened intently as I described Joe's and my conversation and how I had yet to find what makes me happy.

"I thought about opening a store, like a record store...," I said.

"Or what about an antique shop?" Alejandra suggested.

"Yes!  I would love that," I blurted out without thinking.  It took a few seconds for my rational thoughts to catch up and actually consider this idea.  I don't know much about antiques or vintage things, but that doesn't mean I couldn't learn.  This thought became a tiny seedling of hope that I nurtured in the back of my mind the rest of the afternoon and by the time I went over to visit my parents, it had grown.

"Mom, wouldn't it be fun to open an antique store or a vintage shop?" I said.

"Oh that would be so fun!" my mom replied.  I recognized that same gleam of hope and excitement that had been in Joe's eyes that night.  It made me smile.

So the next day, the seedling had grown fruit, and I was able to chew on it as I did my work.  I came home and began looking up articles about opening and operating some kind of vintage shop.  I began coming up with ideas for getting our business noticed and non-traditional ways to buy and sell our goods.  I even forced myself to consider my own personal negative scenarios- dealing with rude customers, failing to meet sales goals and running out of money.  All terrifying to me...but not as terrifying as waking up at 50 years old and realizing your life has slipped past you because you were too afraid to try and take hold of it.  I have to try and save my life.  I have to try something- anything.

I can't say for sure this idea will come to fruition.  There's so much to still consider and plan out.  And  I'm not even sure this is what I am meant to be doing with my life.  But I have a feeling, surrounding myself in the artifacts of other people who lived and loved, touching the lamps or books or shoes that were loved enough to avoid a trash heap, I might gain a new outlook on my life- in an old, vintage outfit.

Worked Up

Recently, I was visiting my friend Rachel's house for the first time for our book club meeting, and after we had discussed the book, she guided us around on a little tour.  As we walked around, I noticed a picture on her wall.  It was a photograph of her surrounded by a bunch of girls with a stripper pole in the background.  

"Oh that was from my bachelorette.  My friends and I took a pole-dancing lesson," she explained.

Seeing that immediately brought back an old memory of my one and only pole-dancing experience.  It was years ago, back in Baltimore.  I was at a party hosted by a coworker and I began chatting with his fiancee.  We hit it off and eventually she invited me to join her for a work-out class.

"Just to let you know, it's a little bit different.  How do you feel about pole-dancing?" she asked.

I gulped.  I had tried a few of the group work-out classes offered at the college gym, and all I could remember about them was that I looked spastic in comparison to the slick moves and gyrating pelvises of my fellow exercisers. I promised myself I wouldn't subject myself (or others) to my uncoordinated movements.

Still, the idea of trying out pole-dancing intrigued me, and since she assured me it would be just the two of us and the instructor, I decided to try it out.  If for no other reason, I figured I would get a good work-out.

What I ended up working out was my frustrations and humiliations.

I arrived at the studio and walked in.  I had dressed in my typical exercise gear- sweats and sneakers.  But when I saw my friend, I realized I was unusually overdressed.  She was wearing a tight fitting tank top, short shorts and actual stripper heels.  I looked down at my scuffed up old Nike's and the exercise pants I bought off the clearance rack at the University Union, and felt ridiculous.  What the hell was I thinking?  I was purposely going to a class that was based around learning sexy moves, and I dressed like I was going to be moving a sofa.  

Besides helping to achieve a proper, sexy mindset, there is also a practical sense to dressing skimpily.  The instructor explained that you held a better grip on the pole using your own flesh.  So while my friend warmed up by slinking and draping herself against the pole, I tried hiking up my pant legs and smashing up my sleeves.  I thought my sneakers would still be OK, but the instructor told me I had to nix them and just try it barefoot.  I should probably mention that this was during the winter time, when a pedicure is not top-of mind.

So there I was, trying to match the instructor and my friend's seductive moves.  As they both slithered against the pole, I simply clung to it for dear life.  They clasped the pole with their thighs and elegantly bent backwards, and slid down.  I tried to do the same but lost some of my sex appeal as my thighs squealed and screeched down the pole.  I even tried to do a jump and twirl, but I didn't realize my own weakness and ended up swinging my legs around too hard, slamming my knee cap into the pole.  I slithered down it then, too- wincing all the way down.

Thus ended my pole-dancing career.  I thanked my friend for inviting me and for the memorable experience, but was certain I would never get a call back from The Hustler Club anyway.  I might try it again someday, but next time I'll make sure to pack some stripper heels...and Icy Hot.

For The Dogs

One of the best things about having visitors is finally having an excuse to try some things you've always wanted to do around your town but never got around to.  Joe's parents were here for a few weeks, and towards the end of their visit, we began trying to come up with some new things to do.

Last Thursday when we were on our way to trivia at Ed's Tavern, Barb, Joe's mom, and I began talking about something to do for Friday.

"You know what I'd like to do...," she began with a coy smile.  I wondered what she could have in mind.  "I'd like to visit the dog track."

I was intrigued.  I had driven by the dog track in Sarasota a few times and always wondered about it.  So while Joe was going to be out filming, his mom, dad (also named Joe) and I would take in a few races.

Now, the only racing experience I ever had was going to the horse track back in New Jersey at Monmouth Park.  We would go once in a while during the summer, and once I was old enough to gamble, it became much more exciting.  And while it's no longer the jewel it once was, it still had a lot of charm.

As we walked into the sparse building, illuminated with harsh fluorescent lights and cheap beer signs, I had to smile.  This was a place that had no disillusionment about itself.  It's a rough and ready place built for the enjoyment for those with small pockets in need of cheap thrills.  I like places like that.

Joe bought the program and we walked up to a window to place our bets.  With tickets in hand, we went in search of a spot to watch the races and grab a bite to eat.  We carefully ascended the wet outdoor stairs and came into a half-restaurant/half viewing area.  Tables were set into cornered off boxes and went up several levels.  We stepped up to the hostess stand and were met by an older woman and a waitress with a bloodied eye.  The older woman led us to a table right in front of the window that overlooked the track and she began telling us about her experience training horses for races- in fact, it turns out she worked the Preakness in Baltimore and even visited Monnmouth Park a few times.

She gave us some pointers on how to bet and then showed us where we could place our bets.  Barb and I went up to the betting window first.  I was already fascinated by the people we would see enjoying a past-time that seemed well past it's prime, but it was even more fascinating see the people that still made their living there.

We approached two old men sitting behind what looked like cash registers from the 80s.  I followed Barb's lead and went to the less frightening of the two.  I listened to her wording when placing her bet, but I decided to be a little less cautious.

"$2 for KB Oscar to place."

The grizzled old man scowled at me.  "Wha?"  So I repeated.  

"$2 for KB Oscar to place, please."

"I don't know what you're saying."  Feeling flustered, I practically shoved the program in his face, pointing to the dog's name.  When he still didn't understand, I simply said, "Number six...to place."

"Oh, six to place," seemingly less tense now that the misunderstanding had been cleared.

I walked back to our table with ticket in hand, but I couldn't understand why the man had been so confused.  I relayed the story to Barb and Joe and as we looked at the program a little closer, we realized why.

"This is the third race, not the fourth.  We've been betting on the wrong race!" Barb said.  We all laughed and groaned at our mistake.

After that, we began betting on the right races, and managed to all win a little something here and there.  But as we were waiting for the next race to begin, I watched as the dogs were led to the track.  Meanwhile the announcer described each dog.  So-and-so from someplace, weighing in at 60 pounds.  So-and-so from another place, 72 pounds.  

I noticed one dog sniffing the grass and suddenly squat to do it's business, and a funny thought popped into my brain.  Barb and Joe are some of the most relaxed and easy-going people, I so I thought I'd share it.

"You know what would be funny?  If the announcer saw that dog pooping and said, 'Number 4, weighing at 75- no, wait....72 1/2 pounds.'"

We both busted out laughing and after we shared it with Joe, we began to place bets on which dogs coming out were going to relieve themselves before the race.  

Yes, it was a classy night all around.  I don't know if I'll ever go to the dog racetrack again, but thanks to my in-laws, I can at least say I've gone once.  And I did love the low-down, laid-back attitude of the place.  You come to a place like that and leave your expensive loafers and pretensions at home, because when you're here, highfalutin is for the dogs :)