This was an interesting week, highlighted by sporadic blue notes of humiliation and glorious crescendos of joy. In other words, a typical song in the life of a middle-aged women.First came a serious visit to City Hall with my son-in-law to finalize some business documents. Of course, I wanted to appear serious and intelligent, but as I stepped from the car I noticed I was wearing my “chicken slippers,” a delightful pair of comfortable slippers with a perky chicken on the left foot and a cracked egg with a peeking chick on the right foot. I wear these slippers around the house because I am a recovering high-heeled-shoe addict with the bunions to prove it. In my haste to get to the meeting, I had completely forgotten to change my shoes. Was it a silent but sassy protest of city government bureaucracy? Probably not. Was it old age confusion? Perhaps.Another moment that ignited the wounded warrier within my aging soul happened on Saturday when I eagerly went to the Boise Philharmonic to experience the world premier of An Idaho Symphony. My perky mood turned as dark as the surrounding black-clothed patrons when the insensitive spawn-of-the-devil ticket taker asked if I wanted the senior citizen discount. Even though it was cheaper, I couldn’t accept the erroneous assumption that I was six years older. I stumbled to my seat and sat in total dispair until the orchestra turned my gloom to glee with a breathtaking rendition of Igor Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. Then the symphony to Idaho restored my elation as it captured the mood and magnificence of the state.My attitude greatly improved last night and I was reminded of one of the pure joys of living past five decades. I rocked and sang my year-old granddaughter to sleep and stared in amazement as she slept in my arms. At that moment, nothing else mattered and life was good.
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Today’s Cabernet
Tonight’s blog was fueled by a glass of 2004 Moon Mountain Estate Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon from Sonoma Valley. This satisfying wine is a smooth blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, Merlot, Malbec, and Petit Verdot. It’s about $30 a bottle. Costco is carrying the 2003 Moon Mountain Estate Reserve Cab for $24 a bottle, and it’s a bit different because it doesn’t include any Malbec grapes. You decide if the missing grapes are worth six dollars.
Midlife Cabernet: Attack of the Nipple Stickers
My health insurance was canceled so I scheduled multiple appointments for a full-body tune up and lube before the policy expires on December 31. In four weeks, I was pricked, prodded, flossed, scoped, and dilated as nurses and doctors scribbled notes and muttered in amazement that someone so old could be so healthy. My biggest regret, besides stepping on the scale, was that I didn’t bring along a full flask of Cabernet.
During the dreaded mammogram I concentrated on the escape window as a sassy young nurse handled my breasts while muttering “Damn, that’s a lotta skin!”
“You need to apply these nipple stickers first,” she said. “That’s so the X-ray technicians can identify their location.”
“I’m menopausal,” I replied. “They can find my nipples somewhere down at my waist.”
She wasn’t amused and handed me two little stickers will tiny steel balls in the middle. I was instructed to apply them in the exact area and wait for further instructions. I imagined being a geriatric showgirl wearing miniscule pasties in an old-timer’s burlesque show. The word “perky” wasn’t part of the performance. Finally she manipulated one nipple-decorated boob onto the plate and squeezed the clamp until my eyes watered. I watched in horror as my pummeled mammary oozed into the next room. I think I heard her cackle.
“Doing okay?” she chirped.
“Die, Wench!” I gasped between clenched teeth.
She tortured one side for several x-rays and then moved to the other one, efficiently stretching, molding, and positioning my breast as if she were a celebrated sculptor. My brain was flooded with fight or flight signals as I resisted the temptation to tip over the offensive machine, tie up the nurse with the flaps of my flimsy gown, paste nipple stickers across her face, and run screaming from the building. I had almost finalized the plan when she announced that the procedure was completed.
“You’re free to go,” she gushed. “And, don’t forget to remove those nipple stickers.”
She left me alone clutching my body with the swaying nipple ornaments. I ripped off the first sticker which immediately caused guttural groans similar to the sounds I’ve heard on the National Geographic Channel when a beast slaughters a wild hog. Some tender body parts aren’t meant to wear super-glued decorations. I focused on a spot on the ceiling – a technique I used decades ago during the pains of childbirth – and tugged at the remaining sticker. It wouldn’t detach.
A mild panic consumed my mind and body. Should I go into the lobby and ask for help? Should I just be tough, get dressed, and hope the sticker would fall off in the shower? Should I go to the nearest bar and drink a bottle of wine? I gave one last pull and the offensive nipple sticker came off, so I defiantly stuck it on the window, dressed, and hunched out of the office.
A few days later my cell phone rang with the good news. “No signs of breast cancer! See you in a year.” All the other medical tests came back positive, too, so I should be around to irritate people for many years. I am profoundly grateful for good health, but I’m still having flashbacks. My wee granddaughter recently asked if I had any stickers and I started to whimper. She’ll discover why in about 20 years.
Today’s blog was fueled by a $25 bottle of 2011 Frei Brothers Reserve Merlot from Dry Creek Valley, California. The label notes that the wine has excellent aging potential. Preventative medical procedures – including mammograms – will enable the same thing. Cheers!
Vunderful! Vunderful!
Saturday night I went back forty years via a rerun of The Lawrence Welk Show. My 80-year-0ld mother stayed overnight after her great-granddaughter’s first birthday party. The two of us feasted on chocolate fudge cake with ice cream as we watched the show. Oh yes, Mr. Welk appeared splendid in his canary-yellow suit, and the orchestra looked so festive in traffic-cone orange. Two dancers from the audience were dressed in identical orange and lime green outfits. We named every performer, and in moments of poignant reality, Mom could identify which ones had died.I used to love the live Lawrence Welk Show. It was right up there with Bonanza, the Carol Burnett Show, and I Love Lucy. I had paper dolls of the Lennon Sisters – Diane, Kathy, Peggy, and Janet. The Christmas Shows were delightful as the performers brought their children for the gift exchange. Watching the show was a Saturday night ritual.Somehow, I doubt that forty years from now my daughter and I will be watching reruns of American Idol. However, there is a high possibility that we’ll be sharing chocolate fudge cake with ice cream.
Midlife Cabernet: Teenage Girls Make Me Crazy
I’ll probably be “unfriended” by some teenage acquaintances and/or receive several emails criticizing me for being an old fart, but I can’t stop wondering and worrying about some of today’s young women. I’d like to subpoena a few of them, cloister them in a room under a bright spotlight, and begin with the following inquisition:
- Why are you so incredibly boy-crazy? Your Facebook posts magnify your desperate angst about (a) finding, (b) pleasing, or (c) losing a male. Then you repeat (a), (b), and (c.) Thirty years ago, women worked overtime and never took a sick day so we could prove that we were strong, independent, equal to men, and could use our skills to support ourselves and our children. Your woeful insecurity mocks our valiant efforts for self-reliance. Please know that the confident women of my generation never begged for a relationship because men were attracted to our strength and competence.
- What’s with the slutty clothes? Yes, I’m old and my body is waging a war against gravity so I can’t wear today’s hip fashions. Yet, I don’t understand why you think it’s appropriate or cool to wear clothes that accentuate muffin tops, camel toes, and flopping cleavage. Really, it is unattractive.
- Why don’t you know basic grammar? Some of you seem to be illiterate and that will hinder future job potential and prohibit any invitation to mingle with people who can communicate using complete sentences. In writing, you don’t know the correct usage of your and you’re or it’s and its. I cringe every time I read a post that slobbers, “Your the best!” I take out a hammer and smack my fingers so I won’t retort, “You’re the uneducated.”
- Why do you listen to music and watch movies that degrade women? I don’t want to be called a “Ho” over 100 times in some rambling rap, and I refuse to patronize a film that shows weak women craving the evil touch of an unfaithful, bloodsucking vampire. At least Hunger Games portrayed a strong, fierce female. Please, take archery lessons.
- Why don’t you celebrate your youthful glory? Enjoy life now before your body and mind turn into wobbly sacks of tepid mush. I exercise five days a week just to keep my boobs from falling below my navel. I do crossword puzzles so my brain will be alert enough to remember the ingredients for a BLT. And I read books – they are handheld, bound publications of pages with printed words that tell a story or give advice. Try them sometime.
I acknowledge that there are many intelligent, talented, and confident teenage women who will survive and thrive without my rants and lectures. I eagerly cheer them on their journey and ask that they shine as examples for those anxious young girls who don’t give a rip about their potential and only care about the latest cowboy who saunters into town. Show them that they shouldn’t squander the vibrancy and opportunities of youth or they could become bitter old women. Take it from an old friend: The best is yet to come and it’s well worth the wait.
Today’s blog is fueled by a 2009 Dusted Valley BFM red wine from Walla Walla. This moderately priced wine is another great find from Washington, and comes from the Wahluke Slope of the Stone Tree Vineyard. I really need a road trip to Walla Walla.
Midlife Cabernet: Little Beauty Shop of Horrors
My hair salon offered a holiday special that included a free upper lip wax with any regular service. Being in a festive mood after my haircut, I gleefully agreed and prepared for my face to be smooth as a baby’s butt. Instead, the pretty young hairdresser plastered enough hot wax to remove Geraldo Rivera’s mustache and when she ripped it off, the wax tore off patches of skin from my tender lip. I was left with bloody scabs just in time for important year-end meetings and jolly Christmas parties.
“I’m so sorry,” she gushed as she smeared Vaseline across the ravaged lip. “Your lip is so thin some wax accidentally smeared over it.”
So now she had inflicted bodily harm AND insulted my features. (I love my lip because it’s the only thin thing on my body.) I looked around for a hot curling iron to shove up her nose but my eyes were tearing too much to see clearly. Instead, I did what most women do: I said it was okay. Why in the hell did I say that? It wasn’t okay. I was in breathless pain and blood was oozing from my greasy lip.
She still needed to style my hair, so she handed me the latest issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine and offered a cup of coffee. I snarled no because I didn’t want to plunge my battered mouth into steaming hot liquid. She turned on the blow dryer and I anticipated she would set my hair on fire to make me forget the pain in my lip.
The perfect faces in the magazine only taunted my hapless predicament. I flipped to an article titled “52 Hot Crazy Sex Moves.” One suggestion to ignite my inner sex kitten was to spank my lover with a paddle that left heart-shaped marks on his butt. Why would I do that? To make him forget my abused mouth? My inner sex kitten would rather have some milk and take a nap, and Studley would prefer a sandwich and a cold beer.
Another provocative article discussed the serious topic of sex toys and endorsed a vibrator shaped like a candy cane. I often have small grandchildren running around the house so I immediately erased the image of them finding such a device and happily bringing it to the holiday dining table for all the guests to see. Turn the page, turn the page.
As a writer, I often wonder who writes the trash in women’s magazines. Some writer actually pitches a ridiculous story and gets paid to write it. Maybe I should submit an article titled “Hot Crazy Sex Moves for Those Over 50.” I’ll bet a month’s supply of iron tablets and stool softener pills than it would get rejected.
Cosmopolitan Magazine has been published since 1886 and has paid subscriptions from 3 million readers. It has 64 international editions printed in 35 languages and is distributed to more than 100 countries, including Mongolia. The temperature there is now -22 degrees. The natives are so bundled in warm clothes that a swat on the butt with a seductive paddle wouldn’t be noticed. Maybe I could write an article about how to get pleasure by sending your hairdresser to Mongolia. I’d laugh but that would hurt.
Today’s blog was fueled by a 2009 Lamadrid Malbec from Argentina. I think the best Malbecs are from Argentina – but I may need to sample other regions. My market research is never finished.
