La Vie est Belle

Oh, to be in France. Everything seems magnified there: richer colors, robuster flavors, even the language is more beautiful. I've had a love affair with France since I was a kid. My first trip was a heady twenty years ago this summer as part of a school exchange. Some memories from that trip have stayed with me, popping out for visits over the years... Here's a good one: we're in Paris in a shop buying a bottle of water and my classmate can't quite speak well enough to get that across. I commandeer the request and we're handed the water along with a "Tres bien" and a smile for me from the shopkeeper. Here's a better one: it's July 14th, Bastille Day, and I'm hanging out with my 'sister' and the other kids we'd met on vacation there in the French Alps where our family had taken us. We're marching along, arms interlocked, singing the French national anthem. I'm the only one who knows all the lyrics, thanks to my incredible high school French teacher, the Parisian Madame Gilbert.

Hmm, both memories involve me being better than others at something! Um, paging Dr. Freud...

Well here's the best memory. It's the last night of our stay, and my 'sister' Sandrine and her boyfriend Max and I and another boy, a cute one who's name I no longer recall, are hanging out. Sandrine is coming back to the States with us for the other part of the exchange so she is seeing Max for the last time in a while. They are off somewhere on their own. I am left alone with the cute boy - I'll call him Jean-Luc, why not? Jean-Luc and I are laying in the grass on our backs, watching the stars. There are shooting stars that night. The sky is deep blue and speckled with a sea of stars and some of them streak across as if to visualize the magic that I know surrounds me. It's beautiful, and peaceful. Jean-Luc rolls over and stares into my 16 year old eyes, so naive and trusting and hopeful. He brushes a piece of hair out of my eyes and leans down and kisses me. He doesn't say a word, just brushes his lips softly against mine, and I kiss him back.

If only. Really, though that is my favorite memory from that night - shooting stars, people! - Jean-Luc never kissed me. He remained on his back and I on mine. We were two nervous, insecure 16 year-olds whose hormones hadn't yet quite overcome the confidence hurdle. If he'd have kissed me, I probably would have gotten nauseous bordering on vomiting. Trust me, that's what happened when I did kiss a boy that Fall. So, all things considered, I suppose things went well as they stand. He with his patch of grass, me with mine, and all the stars in the world above us, dancing around and welcoming me to their magical world.

Grady

Today several people brought their dogs to work. All of them were small, some were very cute, and all undoubtedly were quite loving and lovable. They made me think of my dog. Or, my almost-dog, as I should really refer to him. I've wanted a cute little pup for many years now (like, ten) and finally a couple of years ago I was in a position to get one. I studied up on the breed (Maltese). I researched AKC breeders. I found my little guy, named Grady, and started getting very attached.

There was one nagging detail though: my apartment. My landlord only allows cats. I didn't feel right sneaking a dog in here - even such a sweet and tiny one! - so I decided to ask him if he would make an exception for a 5 pound fluff of love. He didn't say no. Actually, he said "Emphatically NO!" at which point I unexpectedly burst into tears. It was so strange! I was overcome with sadness, losing this little guy I didn't even have yet. My landlord was thrown off too. He apologized and explained the rules again. I didn't take the opportunity to remind him that some of my neighbors have cats weighing over 30 pounds. He clearly is a dog-prejudiced man. Sympathetic or not, he stood by his rule. I hung up with him, hyperventilating.

The sadness sat with me for hours, and then a couple days, while I digested what was in my heart and head. And ladies and gentleman, the truth hit me like a pink and blue clad ton of bricks. I want a baby. Not just a baby, any baby courtesy of any man... I want it all. The man, the marriage, the baby. I want it all and I don't have it. Grady was going to be my little substitution on whom I could shower all of the love and warmth and hugs and hope almost every woman with a ripened womb has at some point. I'm thirty-six years old. I have no idea when or if this is going to happen. It aches sometimes. Usually I live a very happy, content life... completely without thinking about any of this, naturally. 'Cause when I do think about it, assuredly I feel a bit glum.

Today I thought about it a bit. Those darn dogs...

So, bearing in mind the things I can and cannot control, I swear my next apartment is going to be dog-friendly. And when I live there, I will definitely bring home my own little fluff of love. He will be beautiful, sweet, and may even lick my toes a little. Just like my ex-boyfriend. Only, better. My dog won't leave the toilet seat up, harbor a secret addiction to porn or emit noxious odors and pretend I'm the only one who's lactose intolerant. My dog will be de-lovely.

Or a Quill and Parchment

I need a laptop. I am utterly uninspired by the view here at my desktop (behind the monitor: blank white wall) and long for the tranquil, beautiful space that is my living room (on the right). Or the bright, comfy feel of my bedroom. Both places inspire great thought. Sitting here, I'm thinking it's time to take out the trash. Slightly less grand. So I've started thinking about laptops a lot, even started checking them out online, and here's where it gets tricky. For the love of God, how many freakin' permutations can there be? Here's what I want, folks. A small laptop. A cute one, preferably pink or another fun color or pattern. One with long battery life. One I can read from a distant of, say, my lap to my face without requiring reading glasses. A keyboard big enough to fit my medium sized woman hands without feeling like I'm typing on the world's biggest BlackBerry. And I think a built-in camera and microphone would be a nice way to bring myself into 2009 by allowing me to try a Skype. Don't know much about it but hear it's good for communicating with those far away, kind of like telephones were before they invented mobile phones smaller than a breadbox. Something $400-ish.

Anywho, small, cute, enduring and practical. Wait a minute - I've just described myself! If only I was as inexpensive. Well to be fair, I have considered the alternatives. I have thought about going the spiral notebook/pencil route. These come in various shades of pink, small sizes, and would be an investment of $1.98 at the 99 Cent Store. Unfortunately, my hands start cramping when I write longhand now. I type faster and more easily than I write. I've even evolved to think better typing. So the spiral notebook is probably not the winner.

Weren't there plans for every child to have a laptop? What happened to that idea? I agree with it wholeheartedly. I also believe the government should grandfather the cause, gifting each former child with a laptop. That would solve my problem completely. I would gladly accept whatever free laptop they gave me, and I could certainly spruce it up on my own. Can of pink spray paint: $4.99.

Hanging With the Dlos

Years ago my mom was friend with a younger woman who used to call the old, character-y ladies she would see around the neighborhood Dlo. As in, O-L-D but D-L-O, to be nice I guess. Mom has taken to referring to herself over the years as a Dlo. She and Dad arrived yesterday for a brief visit on their way to vacation, using LA as a stopover in a long trip. As you can surmise from a previous post, my father is also a Dlo. And he opted not to go to a local barber ($15 for a cut, $20 for a fade, no senior discount) but instead was thrilled I have a buzzer so I could clean up his neck and the back of his hair.

Dad, while limber and quite willing, has probably slowed down a little bit. If I'm twenty-one, Dad remains somewhere between twenty-nine and thirty-three, contrary to what the light grey and white bits of hair that fell to the floor as I shaved his neck would indicate. Mom, on the other hand, has slowed down a lot. She is willing but no longer able to attempt the movement she used to take for granted. She can not walk for long without feeling pain in her back and legs. She used to walk all the time. Now, we sit around the living room discussing what we can do for fun that doesn't involve much mobility. She looks good, but...

It's hard to witness life speeding along so intently. It can be shocking. Certainly it's easier when you see a person every day, but when you only see him or her sporadically throughout the year, the changes are more obvious. The gait, slower. The hair, whiter. The ornery, ornerier.

I suppose the same can be said of me. I've got lines on my face that didn't show themselves ten years ago. And my back - it hurts when I've been standing or walking for a long time. Did it used to do this?

And why the hell does "Sunrise, Sunset" keep playing in my head?

We're all dying from the day we are born, as they say. I just wish knowing it wasn't sometimes so hard.

Genetics

Actual email I received from my father yesterday:

Hi Jan,

We'll have time Friday morning when we're visiting you... so... Do you know of a reasonable barber with senior rates near you?

Love, Dad

I think getting old is hereditary.

Suck This, AARP

30 Is the New 65

I can't complain about my day. It was long, but relatively nice. Good work. Good conversation. Good food. The one blemish on my day was my, er... blemish. The big one on my chin. The one the 2nd AD pointed out, saying "You have something on your face." In hindsight, I wish I'd played along with it and walked away quickly, wiping at my chin with a napkin. It would have been easier. Instead I said "Oh, that's a zit! Thanks!" with a deadpan delivery that left him mumbling and visibly uncomfortable. Me, it was no sweat. If I decided to dig a hole and crawl into it every time I have a breakout I'd be living in China by now. He however realized he'd crossed that invisible line whereby you do not refer out loud to one other's shortcomings. I.e., "Hi Bob, nice boil on your neck. Ingrown hair?" Kind of like when I asked the hairdresser how she was feeling and acknowledged her growing baby bump only to learn she wasn't pregnant. OUCH. (See future post on "Times I've Felt Stupid.")

What's a zit here and there? They come and go like the wind, or the tides. Cyclically. Time of the month and stuff.

Oh heck, why am I beating around the bush? No need to be modest here. The truth is I look remarkably young for my age. Seventeen, I'd say. I believe this even if my driver's license tells me it is impossible but for a grand act of God. I use my occasional adult acne as evidence of my youth and this is good enough for me.

So imagine my horror when I came home to find in my mailbox a piece of mail titled "It's Time to Learn About Medicare" from the AARP. The AARP! This stands for the Altogether Aged Retired People. What on earth are they doing in my mailbox, with my name on the front??! Oh good lord. Do they not know I have a blemish on my face, not wrinkles?! I am only seventeen, if only in my heart! It is really too soon for me to think of dying a pruney, forgetful death surrounded by other anachronistic relics who undoubtedly will be sending fear into home health aides everywhere by attempting to recall The Hammer Dance. Seriously, let's save the getting old for when I get old. Let me keep my zits, you can have the wrinkles, foggy memory and fragile bones.

On second thought and some quick reconsideration, as I already have a foggy memory, I am willing to advance my inner age to twenty-one. So I'll keep my zits and foggy memory. You can have the wrinkles and sprained hip. But I will not, repeat, will not join the AARP.

I do however reserve the right to change my mind should I forget my new age and become unable to resist the benefits of AARP membership. If I can get a discount on early bird dining, it just might be worth it.