The Smile Test

It’s been a week now and I’m still thinking about Mel.

Last Wednesday night, seven of us went to a jazz club in The Big City. We had a great time, ate tasty Greek food (including Rob who said the Mediterranean herb-infused hamburger was pretty good), and enjoyed the music and the eclectic collection of people sharing the experience with us. Although the music was fun and impressively delivered, what I still find myself thinking about is Mel the Drummer.

Mel is probably in his 60s. A slightly smaller-than-average guy, Mel was a hip cat in his brown dress slack, tan cashmere mock turtleneck, tweed suit jacket, and a couple of modest gold rings. But when I think of Mel, I think of his smile. Man o man, that guy could not stop smiling the entire time he was on stage. And it wasn’t a fake, performance smile. It was a smile of pure joy. It was a smile that made it clear he has found his passion and still can’t believe he gets paid to follow it. His full on Happy was only rivaled by that of the piano player. The two of them just beamed and beamed. All seven of us noticed and were in awe of what these two guys have found.

As I feel on the verge of beginning the next chapter in “What do I want to be when I grow up?” I now have a measuring stick, a tangible test to put each new idea to. “If I’m an X, will I smile like Mel while I’m doing it?” I still have a while before I can put anything to a real test (disability hearing with a Big Government Agency scheduled for early March), but Mel is my inspiration to dig deep and figure out what will make me beam, too.

So worth only 3 hours of sleep

Top 3 Best Desserts I've Ever Had in My Life, in chronological order:

• Lemon Mousse I knew I loved chocolate mousse, and I knew I loved lemons. I didn't know you could sort of combine them. I had this dessert at the Lark Creek Inn in Larkspur, CA on my 16th birthday. Smooth, creamy, fluffy, perfectly tart and acidic little parfait glass of heaven. It was admirably replicated at Savoury's in Mariposa, CA (near Yosemite) in April 2003.



• Chocolate Turtle Pie Served at MacArthur Park in San Francisco. I'm pretty sure the first time I had it was on my first date with Rob on March 10, 1990. Homemade buttery graham cracker crust topped with dense chocolate piped in a basket weave pattern, smothered in hot caramel sauce. One piece was never nearly enough.



• Spuma Served last night at an Italian restaurant called Pazzo in Portland. A volcano-shaped mound of frozen chocolate mousse imbedded with brandied cherries, dusted with cocoa powder, sitting on a lava flow of amaretto cream sauce. Rob stopped talking to me about half-way through when he realized I had stopped listening -- to anything -- so as to hone my senses on my tastebuds. If we hadn't been in public, I truly would have licked the plate clean. The sugary caffeinated richness woke me up at 2:30 this morning -- and I still can't sleep -- but my little spuma was soooo worth it.

Well, here I am

Today is supposedly a huge day, a day for reflection and mirror gazing and sizing up. At 4:15 this morning, I officially turned 40. Thanks to the cat, I was awake at 4:40 to commemorate the anniversary of my 25th minute of life. Riveted, I quickly fell back asleep.

So far, since I’ve had lots of warning today was approaching, I’m feeling happily Zen about the whole thing. Despite my planning personality, I never had any really big ideas about what my life would be like at this age. This, it turns out, is a huge blessing. Believe it or not, I’m actually ready to be 40. Not sure why, not sure I care why. I’m just grateful for the serenity.

Speaking of serenity, I got my first ever set of age-related gag gifts last week. A friend in her early 30s spearheaded a box filled with denture cream, calcium, hemorrhoid relief, Ben Gay, Oil of Olay Age Defying something-or-other, and the aforementioned bladder issue products. Ok, I’ll admit I was excited about the Ben Gay and the Oil of Olay, but everything else sort of left me befuddled. It seems a bit early to be teased in this manner. But then I remembered being in my early 30s and watching a co-worker approach her 40th birthday. She whined about feeling old. And to me, she was in fact old…and embarrassingly clueless about it. So, last week, wondering what to do with my new denture cream, I realized that no matter what age you are, there will be those who think you are old, and those who think you are young. And all of them are correct; it just depends on their vantage point.

Ommmmmm.

Some pointed comments

At some point we all decide, “What have I got to lose?” Last Thursday I finally got there on the subject of acupuncture.

I have a couple friends who also suffer from chronic pain. They shared my curiosity about acupuncture but weren’t ready to take the leap. Tired of popping pain pills and trying to ignore my mostly constant back aches, I decided to be the communal guinea pig and give a centuries old remedy a whirl.

Much to my surprise, our little town has a licensed acupuncturist with a whole bunch of initials after her name. She hides in an office building shared by a title insurance company. Chatting with her on the phone, she didn’t sound the least bit counter-culture, so I hope my surprise didn’t show when Laurie wafted out from a treatment room to greet me.

Laurie instantly reminded me of my self-image as an 8 year-old: a tiny stick figure carrying around a thick mass of curly hair. Of course, I didn’t wear Birkenstocks or batik muumuus decorated with peace symbols as an 8 year old. Or ever, really, save for the Birkenstocks (requisite footwear at my college). But indeed, Laurie did look like about every fifth person at the hippie college I went to in California. So it was a lifestyle look I had certainly seen before; just not one I expected to see in my cowboy town.

Laurie and I spent about two hours together. She asked me a lot of seemingly unrelated questions like “Do you run warm or cold? Do your eyes twitch? Do your legs cramp? Do you have dry skin? Do you have problems staying asleep? Where do you sweat?” On that last one, it turned out she wasn’t looking for “Uh, the gym?” She wanted to know a location on my body like my face, neck, palms, armpits. Gotta say, that was a conversation I had never had before.

After the questions, Laurie asked if she could examine my tongue. Gratefully, I was prepared for this based on my web research. She studied my tongue for a few seconds and then drew a picture of its underside in her notes. For the curious, the bottom of my tongue looks like a spotted teepee.

Tongue analysis completed, we moved on to The Needles. Laurie showed me the tiny disposable needles and explained how they work. I had imagined sewing or blood-draw needles were the tools of the trade. Instead, I decided “fibers” or “bendy metal things” is a more accurate description. They were small, flexible, and thin – sort of like a cat’s whisker. Not very scary at all, I’m happy to report.

Laurie decided to treat me on both sides, front and back, although not at the same time. She started by having me lay on my back. She inserted 13 fibers in my arms, stomach, legs, and feet. I know it was 13 because I counted when she took them out about 20 minutes later. I had really only felt about 3 going in.

The only way I could see Laurie's handiwork was to lift my head up. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see myself as a pin cushion, but after about 10 minutes I worked up the courage and curiosity to peek. It was a bit disconcerting to see these bendy things sticking in my stomach while not having any sensation of them at all. But after I got over the initial surprise, it was all good. At that point the endorphins must have been kicking in. (Yes, much like eating hot peppers, acupuncture releases endorphins. Score!)

I have no idea how many bendy metal things Laurie put on my back when I flipped over. I was too relaxed and didn’t care by then. I do know that she put one on the very top of my head to help ground me. Since I haven’t been struck by lightning, I can’t confirm that I am indeed grounded but I do feel more peaceful, even two days later.

Laurie warned that some people feel an increase in pain the day after an acupuncture session, with improvement the second day. I will say that yesterday I was in a fair amount of pain on the left side of my back. But I can’t reliably attribute it to the acupuncture alone. My increased pain could have been from some new exercises in my gym class Thursday morning, or from crawling around under a sink on Wednesday in an effort to learn how to change out a faucet (there’s no end to the learning opportunities at Woodhaven!).

I’m still undecided whether my chi is flowing any better today than it was on Wednesday. And after a good half-hour of web research, I’ve concluded I don’t have a magnesium deficiency despite what Laurie suggested. (I will be confirming that with my boringly traditional Western medicine doctor next time I see him.) But, I have decided that my calmer mood and slightly decreased pain today vs. my norm are good enough reasons to continue with the recommended 6-8 weekly sessions. Updates to come as warranted.

Not much of a Battle of the Sexes

Despite promises I made to my über liberal, feminist college self, it happened. In fact it happened pretty early, like in my late 20s after Rob and I had been in our first house for a year or so. Yes, despite vows to never allow it to happen, Rob and I have happily settled into stereotypical gender roles in our marriage. I cook and do dishes while he cleans gutters and mows the lawn. Last week we had some work done in our kitchen. Without thinking about it, we obediently fell right into our gender-assigned roles. Cool thing is, it worked out really well.

Last Wednesday, we had some new countertops installed. They are truly lovely things, all smooth and shiny and groutless and chip-free. Ceramic white tile, RIP!!! The installers were here for a full day, leaving behind lots of plumbing and gas lines that needed to be hooked up. Rob spent good chunks of both Thursday and Friday making occasional clanking noises with wrenches and clamps and gaskets and valves and stuff. He made the three requisite trips to the hardware store for additional/replacement/exchanged parts. He listened to sports talk radio and pulled up his pants when he crawled out from under the sink. He was a Man doing Manly things.

Meanwhile, I toured most of the county acquiring vital items such as a new rug, coordinating hand towels, chrome sponge holders, cream and turquoise placemats, a dark brown flower pot for the plant I’ve managed to keep alive for 2 years (!!), and the perfect red fruit bowl. I carried coupons and regularly reapplied Chapstick. I was a Woman doing Womanly things.

With Rob assembling and me accessorizing, we had our “new” kitchen in snazzy working order by Saturday. Rob was understandably relieved and pleased that no water came spraying out between joints when he turned the water back on. I was understandably relieved and pleased that the placemats didn’t clash with the flowerpot. And we are both relieved and pleased that we each seem to like different parts of keeping a household going, even if it's not how Gloria Steinem would have it.

Back to "Bold Blush" I go

Nobody has ever accused me of being trendy. In fact, in high school, I remember being quoted in the school newspaper as saying something along the lines of “I’m trendy, just three months late.” I thought I was SO witty, insightful, and ironic. Twenty-plus years later, I realize I was giving myself way too much credit on many fronts.

While browsing in Walgreen’s the other day, I decided to defy the increasingly hard to ignore fact that my days of being in my 30s are numbered. With a rush of youthful rebellion, I bought a bottle of Midnight Sky nail polish. As other “People” readers know, dark blue fingernail polish is Very Now. For $3.50, I decided I’d try on the title “Trendsetter” – or minimally, “Trend Lemming.”

The verdict: I’ve already given the mostly-full bottle to a younger, hipper friend. Goth is not a good look on experienced hands. Also, with the chips happening early and often, I quickly acquired a klassy Brittney Spears-ish look (anyone else notice her horrendous nail care? Did I mention I have a “People” subscription?). So instead of cutting-edge chic, my fingernails look trying-too-hard cheap. Tonight is Rob’s bowling night; I plan to busy myself with a redo home manicure in some sort of dated pinkish hue.

While we’re on the topic of fingernails, I’ll pass along a recently learned “Do” and “Don’t.”

• “Do” Revlon’s new ColorStay Nail Enamel does indeed last 10 days as advertised. The stuff is awesome. However, the fancy new technology that allows it to last so long effectively bonds the polish to your nails. Allow yourself a good 45 minutes and LOTS of acetone and rubbing power to get it off. Oh, and Revlon Customer Service is closed on the weekends.



• “Don’t” A helpful hint in a magazine to spray non-stick cooking spray on wet nails to help them dry fast must have been in the April issue. The joke was on me as I stared at my carefully painted nails covered in oily buttery droplets. Whatever time I saved with the nail drying was spent trying to get the slimy goo off my hands and kitchen counter. You think I would have learned my lesson not to try “handy beauty tips” after that olive oil conditioner fiasco back in my twenties.

Even more fun than Hot Dog on a Stick

While Rob and I were doing some shopping over the holidays, I got the sudden urge to satisfy a curiosity. Many times I had passed the store “Hollister” and many times I had seen various versions of teenagers proudly advertising the store’s name on their chests. Clearly, I am not their target demo so I obediently shop at old-fogey stores like Penney’s, Macys, and Nordstrom (thankfully, I have yet to be drawn to Christopher Banks). But, it being the holidays, I figured I had an excuse to venture inside the dark, shuttered teen fortress and see what excitement awaited.

What a ride!! I exited with the exhaustion and thrill of a whip around on Space Mountain. Truly, visiting Hollister was like a ride at Disneyland. If I had to pick the best analogy, I’d say Hollister is the Pirates of the Caribbean of mall offerings: dark, full of sensory input, and a whooshing feeling that creeps up on you. As we passed Suncoast Video, I clapped my hands and pleaded with Rob, “Can we go again? Can we go again??” It wasn’t until we were well past the Piercing Pagoda that the adrenalin glow had worn off.

The entrance of Hollister is designed to look like an island hut, with shutters and fake trees and dim lighting. And mannequins. One was wearing leg warmers (!), forcing an uncomfortable flash-ba-dance to 1983. The other was wearing jeans. That’s it. No shirt. A bare-chested, half-dressed mannequin is either a naively missed advertising opportunity or marketing genius; I haven’t decided which.

Inside, the store had little rooms, much like a house. Within each room were comfy-looking leather chairs and couches. It gave a cozy, hutty, Pottery-Barn-in-the-Bahamas feel, although nobody was lounging. One side of the house was the "Dudes" side; the other was the "Bettys" side. We unknowlingly entered through the Dudes door.

The music was unfamiliar and very loud and the lighting was very dim. Merchandise and furniture were staggered, requiring us to zig-zag from room to room. It sort of felt like being inside a pinball machine.

It quickly became apparent that Rob and I were invisible. We were too old, too uncool, too grey to be noticed by any of the target shoppers. We might as well been furniture. Frankly, I’m surprised a teen didn’t try to rest her Starbucks mocha on my head as she tried on a sweatshirt.

I’d guess at least half of the merchandise in the store had the name “Hollister” on it. T-shirts, hats, sweatshirts, shorts, cologne. The minimum value of the name “Hollister” is $20, judging from the Clearance price of flimsy flip-flops bearing the Hollister brand. Most amusing to me, though, were the shirts that said “Hollister Southern California.” Southern California?? Yes, Hollister is a town in California, but it is no where NEAR the southern part. No, Hollister is actually a dusty cow town in the central part of the state, miles and miles away from any beach, surf board, palm tree, or plastic surgeon. From my experience there, Hollister the town is waaaay less cool than the store that bears its name. But what do I know? I'm hardly a merchant of teen cool.

To round out the efforts to create a brand culture, up near the cash register were magazines. One called “Slap” caught my eye. I was too frightened to venture closer to figure out what the topic was. There weren’t any familiar titles as I quickly scanned the rack. Apparently “People” isn’t as hip as I thought. I didn’t notice if there was a "Hollister, The Magazine." If there isn't, they need to fire their Marketing Director.

Upon reflection, Hollister stores are a brilliant example of brand creation. Yeah, yeah, I'm geeky. But what a thrill it was to experience such unabashed target marketing. Still recovering, I exclaimed to Rob near Victoria's Secret that the only thing missing was a Tiki Room. Of course, no Hollister shopper would deign to enter THAT hut.