Farewell, old friend

My in-laws had a garage sale the other day. Personally, I'm not big into garage sales, but I'm also not opposed to getting junk out of my house, so the Hub, Daredevil, Drama Princess and I scoured our respective spaces for any trash we thought someone else might consider treasure.

Turns out we didn't have much. Oh, there's no shortage of useless stuff in our house. We just didn't have much that we thought anyone would be interested in.

So we hauled it all over to the folks' house early Saturday morning, and helped them set up card tables and boards atop sawhorses in the driveway. We arranged attractive displays of our merchandise, checked our supply of cash to be used for change, pressed a couple of lawn chairs into service, and sat down to wait for the crowds we just knew would be flocking to our transitory emporium.

It was a long day.

Like I said, I'm not really into garage sales, so I have no idea what I was expecting, but I'm pretty sure I thought we'd have to break up fights over the picture frames and holiday wreaths. I was convinced that at least two bodybuilder types would duke it out over the NordicTrack or the antique weight bench. No doubt one of Martha Stewart's faithful followers would find a use for the framed mirror or the practically-brand-new drapes.

Didn't happen.

I wasn't too worried about it. After all, we didn't want this stuff, so we shouldn't be too upset that no one else wanted it. I was completely okay with sitting on the edge and merely watching the whole thing, until a man put Daredevil's cello into the trunk of his car.

Daredevil had acquired that cello when he was in the fifth grade and decided he wanted to join the school orchestra and play cello, like a certain girl in his class. With a little help from the school district, we unearthed a somewhat battered cello. Not much to look at, but it was in pretty good shape and sounded okay, so Daredevil was all set.

He lasted two years. Maybe three--I really can't remember if he stuck with it in seventh grade. But once he decided he didn't like that girl any more, he also decided he was no longer interested in the cello, so it sat in his room, untouched, for something like four years. I didn't say anything when he decided to put it in the garage sale, but inside I was all mom-sad. I'm a singer and a lover of music, and I was really hoping there was a budding Yo Yo Ma in my boy. Not so much. So, I couldn't really protest when he decided to get rid of it.

But it was like watching a little piece of his childhood disappear when that trunk lid closed. I wasn't surprised to find my vision all blurred at that moment.

Daredevil got the proceeds of this sale, which was the agreement. My little heartbreak wasn't part of that agreement, but I have hope that wherever that cello has gone, there is a young musician filling his parents' hearts with pride in their own Yo Yo Ma. I hope he sticks with it.

Move over, Billy! Here comes Barbara!

I've been thinking a lot about my hair lately.

I know that sounds vain, but really, it's not. I'm just wondering what on earth to do with it. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about.

For starters, it's semi-long, reaching just below my shoulders. I kind of like the length, but I'm not afraid of cutting it off, either. In fact, I've had just about every kind of haircut known to man, and a few that I swear the hairdressers made up along the way. Just a year before my wedding, one gal cut it so short that if I dyed it white blonde and put a bunch of waxy-looking crud in it, I would have rivaled Billy Idol in the punk-look department. (Thank goodness it grows really fast. Would have given a whole new meaning to White Wedding.)

For another thing, it's changing color. My hair is dark, but I've got this very cool sort of Bride of Frankenstein thing going, with big shocks of white here and there, and then the requisite threads of white throughout the rest. I'm not worrying about that. I could color it, I suppose, and I certainly did that for years, but ever since I was a kid and glued myself to the TV watching The Big Valley, I swore that I would be Barbara Stanwyck when I grew up. That was one seriously magnificent cloud of silver hair! So I finally gave up on Preference by L'Oreal and have been going with Moosebane by Mother Nature ever since. So far, so good.

The problem is that as I get older, my hair gets drier and frizzier, which I hate. I've tried every product out there that boasts the ability to banish frizz. No luck. I drink water by the gallon. I have wonderfully soft, supple skin, but my hair is a wreck. It doesn't help that my white hair is somewhat wiry and difficult to smooth. Also, my hair is neither straight nor curly. It's very, very wavy, and you just try to find a good haircut for uber-wavy hair. Go ahead. Try. I've been searching for years.

I own two straighteners, four or five different sets of curlers, hot rollers, curling irons, crimping irons, you name it. It's all time-consuming and more trouble than it's worth. Fixing my hair takes forever, and I like to sleep too much to get up an extra half-hour early just to fuss with it. So I usually wash it and let it dry, sometimes adding a little mousse or styling lotion or some sort of oily stuff to control the frizz (doesn't work), and I end up looking like I did nothing at all. Sometimes when I'm feeling really ambitious, I wash it the night before, then straighten it in the morning. Again, no real difference.

So, I guess I'll have to go back to the hairdresser, hand her pictures of Billy Idol and Barbara Stanwyck, and tell her to do anything it takes to make me look a whole lot more like her than like him. I may even take a picture of the Bride of Frankenstein. Couldn't hurt!

Not so Famous Last Words

Over the years, I've had a number of memorable conversations about pretty much nothing. A few of them have been floating around in my head lately, so I thought I'd share them; I'm afraid that if I don't, I'll forget them altogether. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did!

Several months ago, I went into the public library near where I work. One of the attorneys from our office happened to be in there, standing at the checkout desk with a pile of materials. So being the smart-a$$ that I am, I rushed to his side and said, "I didn't know you could read." He and the librarian both looked at me and said, "Oh, these are books on tape."

Another attorney in our office--one for whom I actually work--once sent me an e-mail wherein he misspelled my name. In his message he asked me to have his estate planning file sent to him. I made the request for him, and then went into his office and teasingly said, "I hope that when you revise your will, you spell my name correctly." He replied, "Did I spell your name wrong in my will?"

Recently, the son and daughter-in-law of one of our senior partners (why do these stories seem to center on lawyers?) brought their four-month-old daughter into the office to visit Grandpa. Naturally, everyone in the office oohed and aahed and admired this truly beautiful baby. Later, her grandfather stopped by my desk and asked, "Who has the most beautiful granddaughter in the world?" I turned to him, smiled sweetly and said, "My grandparents."

Years ago, a young lady I worked with was planning her wedding. Like most brides, she regaled her co-workers with details of the upcoming event, and like most women, we all loved it. One day she made the comment that she really likes the song "Ave Maria" and wanted to have it sung at her wedding, but her mother flatly refused to let this happen. I said, "Why not? My sister had that sung at her wedding, and she's not Catholic." To which my co-worker responded, "Yeah, but I bet she's not Jewish, either."

When I was a kid, my granddad had a pickup truck with a camper shell on it--not one of those over-the-cab campers, just a shell that covered the bed of the truck. My sisters and I used to ride in there whenever we went anywhere. One time when we went out to dinner or someplace, we stopped and my sister BB went to open the door so we could get out. At the same time, my grandfather opened the door from the outside, and BB nearly fell flat on her face. My granddad said, "Don't hurt yourself, there." BB replied, "NOW you tell me."

I once asked my grandfather how you could tell when your gas tank was getting full as you pumped. He said, "When it starts making a gurgling sound, you know you're almost done." BB stared at him incredulously and added, "Or, when it runs over and spills on your shoes."

No Celebrity Necessary for Unsolicited Publicity

Several years ago, my in-laws were house-hunting. My FIL having been in the military, they had moved a million times and were not unfamiliar with the search for new digs and all its attendant problems and surprises. Nevertheless, I'm pretty sure that this one particular realtor caught them off guard.

The house was nice enough, I guess, but my MIL pointed out to the realtor that the master bathroom lacked a door. His response?

"Oh, you've been married long enough that you don't need a door on the bathroom."

Seriously. Not surprisingly, my in-laws didn't buy that house. In fact, I don't think they continued working with that realtor.

When did privacy become so cheap that a virtual stranger is comfortable telling you that you don't need a bathroom door? And it hasn't gotten any better.

Actually, it's gotten much worse.

I used to cringe watching sports on TV, knowing that the camera was at some point going to pan the crowd and zero in on some poor schmuck picking his nose or something. And I was always mindful of those cameras when I attended sporting events in person (not that that happened often). These days you might as well forget decorum; what fun is that? For every person who values his own little bubble, there's some intrusive idiot with a camera phone and a link to youtube, just waiting to pounce on the guy with the open fly or the lady with the bra strap slipping down her arm or the unfortunate soul tripping over his own feet or the weary mother dealing with a kid's temper tantrum. Is it not hard enough to endure these types of humiliations without having them displayed on the Internet for all the world to see? Beyonce couldn't escape it even after she begged her audience not to post her fall on youtube. (I once read a description of youtube as the evil genie that will never go back in the bottle. Got that right!) These are the same nincompoops who chat on their cell phones in the restroom, blissfully unaware that others in that same room really might not appreciate the sound of their bathroom activities being transmitted to the person on the other end.

And at whom do you aim the blame? There are all sorts of possibilities, but I think much of it should be directed at those who don't attach any importance to their own privacy, much less others'. Pam Anderson, anyone? Paris Hilton? In these days of out-of-control identity theft and predators trolling for victims on myspace, you'd think people would be a little more careful about self-disclosure. (Yeah, you'd think that, wouldn't you?)

And don't get me started on magazines that print pictures of dead people, or those "true crime" TV shows where you get to see the victims' bodies while listening to the detective brag about his prowess in solving the crime. How does this fall under the heading of "entertainment"? (Currently, my only exception to this objection is the pictures of the death camps in Europe following WWII. There are some things one needs to see in order that no one ever experiences it again.) I've never appreciated reporters shoving a microphone into the face of someone who has been on the receiving end of a calamity, either. What is wrong with people?

It goes way beyond not having a bathroom door. Some things just absolutely belong behind barriers! To my way of thinking, it's more than a lack of respect for privacy. It represents an assault on human dignity, and there is little enough of that as it is.

Check your phone at the door, kid!

Is it just me, or are other people's kids taking over the world?

I think they are. They're starting with my house. And they're very slick about it, too. The current nefarious plot involves sleep deprivation. It's better than anything S.P.E.C.T.R.E. used against James Bond.

I cannot tell you how many times in the past month I've been awakened by some friend of Daredevil's, calling at the most ridiculous times ostensibly to talk with him, although he's been asleep for hours. Surely they must realize that some people are actually not up at three o'clock in the morning!

Or perhaps not. Maybe I'm the one who's out of touch. In any event, I really did have the following exchange (or something very close to it; lack of sleep plays tricks with my memory) with Daredevil's girlfriend recently:

Her: Is Daredevil there?

Me: He'd better be. And he'd also better be asleep. Like I was.

Her: Oh, did I wake you?

Me: Of course not, don't be silly. I was getting up to answer the phone, anyway. Do you have any idea what time it is?

Her: No.

Me: It's three-thirty in the morning. It's only three hours since the last time you called and did wake me up. I just haven't been able to get back to sleep, knowing you'd call again. I have to say, you're very accommodating.

Her: Sorry.

Me: I have a rule. No calls to my house after nine p.m., and none before eleven o'clock in the morning on the weekends.

Her: Okay, I get it, I get it!

Me: [not quite sure what I said here, but it ended with a satisfying slam of the receiver into its cradle; I hope I gave the rude little brat a headache.]

My kids don't have cell phones, and all their friends do, which is how they're getting away with disrupting my sleep unbeknownst to their parents. Until now. Because now I, too, have a sinister plan. I'm going to forward all my after-nine-p.m. calls to their land lines. Beware, midnight caller! I've got your parents on speed-dial, and the minute I get rid of your obnoxious butt, I'm going to be just as obnoxious as you. I figure if they get mad, they can take it out on you, since I can't. Just remember, you started it.

Maybe if I make enough grown-ups stagger to the phone at some ungodly hour, they'll stop falling asleep on the parenting job, and we adults can go back to ruling the world.

Shopping: Not for the faint of heart

It's back to school time, and Drama Princess and I will soon be out scouring the countryside for this year's school supplies and new duds.



I'd like to say that I do this earlier and earlier every year, but that would be a lie and you'd all know it. (I say this about Christmas shopping too; every year I promise myself that next year, I'll buy one or two or three gifts every month, and have it all done before Halloween. But that's next year's project.) I take a little comfort in knowing I'm not the only one who puts it off. I've seen some pretty impressive fist-fights in the aisles at Target, but fortunately as kids get bigger, they also get better and better at making their mothers behave. I've been known to drag Drama Princess and her brother, Daredevil, into Wal-Mart at three in the morning, just to avoid the afternoon smackdowns that inevitably take place in the search for the elusive graph paper or dry erase markers.



The problem is that I'm that rarest of females, the woman who hates to shop. It's not that I'm cheap (okay, I am, but that's irrelevant). I just hate crowds, and noise, and narrow aisles, and rude customers, and rude salespeople . . . but most of all, I hate trying things on. And I'm pretty sure Drama Princess was born without the Shopping Gene as well.



Take the quest for the perfect swimsuit.



Now in her early teens, Drama Princess outgrows things faster than I can find them on sale, so before a trip she took back in June, it was necessary to find her a new swimsuit.



Now, Drama Princess is a tiny little petite thing (she got that gene from me, of course, although I hope she also got the gene which will turn her into Jabba the Hutt when she turns 40; it's only fair) and finding a swimsuit in the right size isn't easy. The Women's Department is completely out of the question. The Junior Department is iffy at best. Which leaves the Girls' Department.



Not surprisingly, Drama Princess had a load of trouble here. After all, she's not a little girl any more, and the swimwear for little girls is--well, little girlie. Not her size. Right size but wrong colors. Too many flowers. Stupid little animals all over them. Ten stores and three and a half hours after we began our search, Drama Princess was wailing, "They're all pink or flowered or monkey-infested!" Where were the grown-up looking swimsuits sported by those little pageant hussies you see on TV? Not at Kohl's!



And the prices! How does something the size of a pocket handkerchief with a bra hook cost fifty bucks? And while we're at it, who decided it was a good idea for young girls to dress in something the size of a pocket handkerchief? Don't get me going on bikinis. Drama Princess is mad enough at me as it is.



At long last, we found a place that had swimwear "separates." Mix and match, tanks and shorts and bikini tops and bottoms. No flowers, no pictures of Spongebob and, best of all, no monkeys. Ten minutes after we entered the store (and forty dollars later!), Drama Princess had the perfect swimsuit. She was happy with the way it looked on her, her dad was happy that it was modest, I was happy that the ordeal was over. For now.



But now that school starts soon, looks like I'll have to get back into the swim of things.

A Salute to the Silver Screen

I didn't get much sleep last night. DH and I stayed up and watched Mr. Skeffington, starring the inimitable Bette Davis and the equally inimitable Claude Rains. (The beauty of TCM is that the movies are uncut, the only drawback to that being the long wait for a bathroom break.) It was a very long movie, but so engaging that unless you were half asleep or starving to death before it started, you wouldn't really notice how long you'd been sitting there watching.

Which got me to thinking about movies in general, and classic films in particular. Mr. Skeffington was a black and white picture, which right away means that a lot of people I know are never going to see it, because they refuse to watch a black and white picture. I don't get that. Clearly they have no idea what they're missing. These same people are really big into special effects, too, and computer animation and so forth.

Good stuff, all of that. Star Wars would just not be the same without it. But give me a solid plot, riveting story line, fascinating characters, excellent dialogue . . . .

What better example of all those things is there than Casablanca? Nothing blows up. No 3-D effects. Just a truly moving tale of star-crossed lovers, a war that gets in the way, a husband who's even more in the way, and you have the recipe for the perfect movie. It doesn't hurt to have Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman bringing the story to life, either. And no color, I might add.

How about film noir? I could watch The Maltese Falcon over and over and over again and never tire of it. Nobody could touch Bogart as Sam Spade, and I defy anyone to recast the part of Joel Cairo; there will never be another Peter Lorre. And when Spade kept telling Brigid O'Shaughnessy that he wouldn't play the sap for her . . . well, now, that was manfully done! And it was manfully done in black and white.

For pure dialogue-intense joy, check out The Thin Man. No two leading actors played off each other better than William Powell and Myrna Loy, and there's no wife more devoted than the one who gets mad at her husband not because he hit her and knocked her out cold, but because being unconscious kept her from seeing him kick the bad guy's butt. And guess what? Black and white.

Like having the living daylights scared out of you? Give Bela Lugosi, the quintessential Dracula, a try. No gore, but if you put yourself in 1931, it's pretty freakin' scary! All those old monster films were: Frankenstein (also one of the scariest books I've ever read), The Wolfman, King Kong. The remakes don't even come close. Not even the color ones. If you prefer your chills to be more on the psychological than the physical side, try the following: Gaslight; Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?; Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte; Rebecca. Of course, Alfred Hitchcock provides a wealth of mind-jarring spook stories (and some of those are actually in color!) designed to scare the pants off the unsuspecting.

If you really must have eye candy, then Busby Berkeley is the guy for you. I don't even know where to begin here. The over-the-top stage productions in Dames and Footlight Parade and the various Golddiggers movies have to be seen to be believed. Choreography at its elaborate best. Don't be afraid to watch Million Dollar Mermaid. The early days of synchronized swimming.

I'm not knocking color pictures. Gone With the Wind is my all-time favorite movie and there's certainly no shortage of color there! All I'm saying is that those of you who refuse to watch black and white movies just because they're black and white are losing out on some really fine Hollywood offerings. And don't even get me started on people who won't watch silent films. One word for you: Metropolis. Okay, one more word: Wings. Clara Bow is reason enough to watch that one, boys!

I have a whole big list of great films I've seen, color and B&W, complete with plot summaries. Obviously, I don't get out much, but that's all right. I'm easily entertained. And for those of you who aren't--well, don't miss The Wizard of Oz. It's the best of both worlds.