Off to NYC!

Yes, we're going to the Statue of Liberty

 

Tomorrow, Claudia M. and I are off to New York City for a week.  Everyone I've mentioned this to is envious, but I--as usual--am in the throes of trip anxiety.  Excited but anxious.

I found this in my July journal, written just before Jerry and I went on the Alaska cruise:  "A bunch of things COULD go wrong, but they probably won't."

And they didn't, except for a delayed return flight.  Wasn't the end of the world.

(Hear how casual I am?  Maybe the cognitive behavioral therapy is sinking in.)

I'm going to write a travel blog here. Stay tuned...

 

Aging: We Don't Have to Take This Sitting Down



No, we do not!  We older woman are still alive (!), lively, and open to new things.  Including make-up and clothes, if we want to be.

I hesitate to write that because there's something vaguely shameful about vanity in women of a certain age, especially liberal women who are feminists.  Who live in Berkeley.

Oh, to hell with it! All women have the capacity to be fab, even glamorous.

Recently, I found a blog I'm minorly addicted to:  www.advancedstyle.blogspot.com    One stylish, beautiful older woman after another, chronicled by a young man who seems to roam Manhattan to find them.  And I mean older:  into their eighties.   Any woman over fifty will like this blog, and women over sixty will love it.

Is this why I bought ANOTHER bottle of nail polish this week? 

You mean you don't keep your nail polish in the fridge? 

 

 

And why I'm trying yet another eyeliner (still the "wrong" color, sigh)?  Why, before I go to New York next week, I'm going to use instant tanning lotion on my legs and upper arms? To look just a wee bit better?  Or to feel better?

In the allergist's waiting room this week, I picked up Real Simple for some tips on hair care (grab your wet hair into a ponytail and put cream rinse only on the ends) and eyeliner (apply dots in a row and then connect them).  Also,  I've been reading up on beauty serums and wish I'd started using them sooner.  And they're expensive.  Don't care.


Where do you cross the line from taking care of yourself to pointless poor values?  God forbid I should look, in my mother's words, like "mutton done up as lamb." 

Don't know.  My friend Val just spent $300+ on Perricone cosmetics, and I applauded her.

Because, in the meantime, well ahead--I hope--of the Grim Reaper, we might as well enjoy ourselves.

Altogether now:  We're here!  We're beautiful!  We're reveling in life! (Yes, I took my med today.)

That said, this is how my hair looks as I write this:

Hey, it's hot!

The Art Lark: Sifting Through the Shows to See in New York City

Mike Kelley's "Deodorized Central Mass with Satellites" (1991-1999), going on view at MoMA PS1 in Queens.  Thirteen-part hanging plush sculpture surrounded by geometric wall reliefs, plus chemical pine-scent.  (We'll miss it--starts Oct. 13.)

This morning after two cups of tea, breakfast, and an Extra Strength Tylenol, I was able to take on "The New Season: Art"  section of last Sunday's New York Times (felt very wrung out from an allergy shot yesterday). 

I leafed through it to check out what Claudia and I might want to see when we go to New York City in ten days. 

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A pal had alerted me that there's a big textile show opening at the Metropolitan Museum of Art  next week, so we'll go see that.

Detail of a coat, Netherlands, mid-18th c,, textile:  India, 1725-50, cotton, drawn and painted resist and mordant dyed.

Then there's James Turrell at the Guggenheim; that show closes two days after we arrive.  That's been at the top of my list for months:

James Turrell retrospective at the Guggenheim--an article I tore out of The New Yorker months ago

A full-age ad for the Whitney Museum caught my eye:  there's  show of Edward Hopper's drawings--love Hopper, love drawing.  Will have to consult with Claudia about working that in:




Study for "Nighthawks," Edward Hopper (1941 or 42); fabricated chalk and charcoal on paper.

And we're going to just miss a show at the American Folk Art Museum on three contemporary artists who look to American quilts for inspiration; quilts displayed alongside the work.  

Then again, you never know what you'll find along the way--things you never noticed in The Times. When that happens, I feel like less of a tourist, more like someone getting knit into the fabric of the city. 

More later.

Bras, Blog, and a Very Short Marriage

First, bras.

My friend Val found an article in the Huffington Post, "10 Bra Mistakes You're Probably Making (And How to Fix Them)".  These are the mistakes that caught my eye:

Wearing a bra two days in a row.  This is apparently a no-no, because the elastic needs to "rest" between wear.  Now this made me cranky--who's in charge here?  Do I have to pamper my bras?
 (Yes.)

Washing bras with Woolite--very bad (not that I've ever done it--Woolite is too expensive).  Wash in cold water, says a bra expert, because the "cold water shocks it."  See above.

I'm beginning to think bras are lazy.

Keeping bras too long.  Worn correctly, a bra should last only eight months. (At those prices?!)

Fastening your bra on the tightest hooks.  Those are for when it's stretched out.  When you buy the bra, it should fit comfortably on the tightest hooks.

Think you can wear one bra with every type of outfit.  Seamed bras aren't so good under knits, but seamless bras aren't enough support for certain dresses/tops.  Makes sense, but a hassle.

All of this is a hassle. How about going to Ross, buying something that approximately fits, and washing the hell out of it until there's no elastic left at all?

                                                                            2.

Next, the blog.

air mattress test

I'm going to revamp it,--not so much  the content, although I'm open to suggestions (one friend says the blogs that mention Jerry are the best).

I want tabs, for example, so readers can check certain topics, but I got to thinking about it, and the tabs on my blog would look kind of odd: quilting, travel, marriage,  insomnia, vanity, death.  Also,  First Ladies.  A blog of eccentricities.

Now I'm trying to find someone who's adept at designing personal blogs.  Most people are adept enough to do this on their own, but not me.  Any ideas?

With his camera case (since disappeared; he decided it was too foolish, I think)

                                                                             3.

And finally:

Today I read that a bride pushed her husband over a cliff in Glacier National Park in July after a week of marriage.  That was astounding enough, but then I read on. 

A friend of the groom's family said, "Nobody is shocked at all...She'd been telling people she knew she never wanted to be married, she just wanted to have a wedding..."

Wouldn't an annulment have been easier?

Out on the Bay, Etc.

Jerry and I were outta here on a moment's notice today when the Solano Stroll heated up to the point where I could hear drums and bands.

It's an annual PITA--pain in the ass--we've come to dread because it clutters up our narrow-street neighborhood with cars from outside the area, making it hard to get around.  Mobs descend so that people can stroll the 2-miles length of Solano Avenue, five blocks away.  Bands, drums, mobs--I am way too curmudgeonly.

I had a flash that we should take the ferry from Larkspur to San Francisco--a beautiful day and we could probably find something delicious at a bakery at the Ferry Building.  Jerry was game, so we threw ourselves in the car with two peanut-butter-and-marmalade sandwiches (all we could find around here for lunch) and drove over the Richmond Bridge in time for the 1:40 pm ferry.



 

Larkspur Landing, where we caught the ferry

 

Right on time,  we slid away from the dock, passed San Quentin (eerie), narrowly averted an oil tanker (not really), braved a very wet stretch of fog, and arrived at the Ferry Building 50 minutes later.

 

San Quentin: I tried to imagine being locked up in that grim place

 

 

On the way, we got a good look at the new eastern span of the Bay Bridge, which opened last week.



New eastern span of the Bay Bridge, with the old bridge in the background, now being dismantled.  Treasure Island in the foreground.



A fellow passenger

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In the distance we could see two ships competing in the America's Cup and scads of small boats in the on-water view zone. 

 

 

A pair of America's Cup contenders in the distance

When the legion of smaller boats dispersed awhile later, I noticed that one of the bigger boats was the Potomac, FDR's presidential yacht, commissioned in 1935 and now restored and docked at Jack London Square in Oakland.




The Potomac, Roosevelt's presidential yacht

We wandered around the Embarcadero, stood in line for gelato at the Ferry Building, and boarded the 3:45 ferry back to Larkspur.  Lots of fellow passengers had watched the America's Cup runs today--a country-club sort of crowd sipping cocktails.

Sign at gelato place in Ferry Building.  I have no idea what it means.  Cryptic?  Scary?

                                                                                  2.

My friend Claudia M. and I went to Nordstrom-Walnut Creek yesterday and binged on Not Your Daughter's Jeans (two pairs for me, one for her--that's a binge).

She and I are going to New York City in two weeks, a reprise of a trip we made when we were 25.  That would be 1975.  You do the math.

We have a pretty booked-up week, including Book of Mormon,  Kinky Pants, the 9/11 memorial, James Turrell at the Guggenheim, dinner at a jazz club, etc.  Travel blog to be called: "Two Old Bags Take on NYC." 

                                                                           

                                                                               3.

On the jean front:  NYDJ has played around with the sizes so much that I'm now wearing a size that's three smaller than the one I wore in high school when I weighed 20 pounds less.  Go figure.  Boomer flattery.  Thank God for stretch.   Claudia was a rigorous, helpful critic in the dressing room ("legging-type pants with no back pockets do not work on an aging bum.")

                                                    4.

Surviving football season--I've taken measures: a)  earphones for Jerry to wear in the living room so I don't have to listen to sports-talk;  b) loan of a small TV from my studio so he can watch in his study; and c) a new remote that has a closed captioning option for our downstairs TV.

We're going to one Cal football game, when the Bores play USC.  I love the bands and the feeling of belonging to a big group (fans much more reverent than I am).  It should all end by halftime, though. Goes on too long, especially in November at night.

                                                                               
  

Get over here, Clever!

A friend's daughter, a newly-arrived diplomat in Zimbabwe, writes:

"People here are quite sweet and gentle and have the most wonderful names. So far I have met a Talent, a Clever, an Obvious, two Innocents, an Okay, and several Shepherds. Also I am told that it is quite common for the youngest child in a family (boy or girl) to be named Nomore."

This heroic woman flew from San Francisco to Zimbabwe, changing planes twice, with a two-and-a-half-year-old and a nine-month-old.  I ask you!  And a very helpful, team-player husband.  When they arrived, an African nanny took over the baby, strapping her to her back.

                                                                           

Michael and Catherine, Dina and Clint!

Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas

They're all separating!  Or have separated!  I feel bereft.

According to Us magazine, Michael Douglas couldn't deal with Catherine Zeta-Jones's manic-depressive illness anymore, and that,  plus the stress and worry of his throat cancer and his son's drug problems, drove them apart. 

And Clint "fell out of love with Dina a long time ago," according to the first article in Us, and now may be dating the wife of the old friend of Dina's, whom she's dating, according to the second.

Clint and Dina

God!

At my allergist's,  the celebrity magazines are by far the most popular--you have to wait 30 minutes after your shot and you need something to page through.  The celebrity mags are in a separate stack in the waiting room, and everyone, I mean even the most mature, intellectual-looking patients, goes for them first.

Back to falling out of love:  What does that mean?  Did Clint fall out of Swoon?   That stage when you can't keep your hands off each other and it seems like you're on the same page on everything?  Who believes in that?

Not me, but I'm a curmudgeon, I guess.   Swoon was very, very fun for me and Jerry, but it was followed by about 15 years of coming down to earth and struggling to accept that all (most, anyway) it seemed to promise was a mirage.  Those years were hard, and we went to a couples counselor off and on, and then one day we gave up being mad and disappointed and became friends. 

But it was a struggle, maybe the hardest I've ever experienced.  All along I thought M&C and C&D were doing the same thing.   

Those couples seemed mature, at least one partner seasoned by divorce.  Surely those marriages would last?  What happened? 

Brilliant, Illuminating Flashes of Gratitude

While we were on our cruise to Alaska in July, I had a moment of stunning gratitude, a revelation, one that overrode the lingering sense I've had of experiencing a lot of sad things in my life. 

We were sitting out our balcony drinking prosecco, moving through in the calm, sparkling waters off Vancouver Island.  What could be better than this? I thought.  How many people get to experience this?

 Of course, I've known that I'm very fortunate, even privileged, but I haven't felt it, really felt it,  until that day. It took me surprise, and I was really grateful for feeling grateful.

Then, on Saturday, while Jerry and I were sitting outside a very tony grocery store in Piedmont eating ice cream bars,  I had another gratitude flash: How lucky I am!   Happily married, retired, with enough money to take some adventures.  Many, many people aren't that lucky.  For all the tragedies Jerry and I have witnessed in our families, we are lucky right now.

I reported this to Jerry, ending with "don't you think?"

"Not exactly," he said.

"What? How could it be better?" I asked.

"We have old cars.  I'd like a hybrid car."

"But we could afford a hybrid car," I pointed out.  "Even two, if that's what we wanted."

"I know, but I wouldn't trust it." 

(Time out for me to hold my head.)

"What else?"

"We don't take elaborate trips."

"What do you want,  a safari?"  I asked.

"No way," he said.  He looked alarmed--he's never liked the idea of Africa.

 He thought some more. 

"We don't fly first class."

"Do you want to fly first class?"

"No.  But we don't.  We're frugal."

Boing, boing.

The reason we were in Piedmont on Saturday was to visit the intersection where my grandmother, Daisy, was in an accident between the bus she was riding and a truck.  When the bus driver swerved to miss the truck, my grandmother was thrown to the floor.  She was rushed to Highland Hospital, where she died 10 days later of a severe brain injury.

I paced off the intersection and took pictures.  A leafy, pleasant spot,  with handsome old houses on three corners and a school on the other.  It was hard to imagine anything bad happening here.

The intersection of Oakland and Bonita Avenues, Piedmont, where Daisy was in a bus accident.

Poor lady.

This morning I found some photos of the ship Daisy traveled on,  the SS St. Louis, when she emigrated from England to New York in 1912.  She was 32-years old, single, with $50 to her name.

The SS St. Louis of the American Line

These were the accommodations in steerage, which is how she traveled:

Steerage accommodations on the St. Louis.  Is it a closet?

  




Stairway to steerage compartments in the depths of the ship

 

 

And how her granddaughter traveled to Alaska 100 years later:

 

 



I rest my case.

Teach Your Children Well

Last night our new neighbors, the renters next door,  invited us over for a drink, along with some other neighbors who've helped them out.

This couple, Mark and Lisa,  moved a houseful of furniture from a four-story Victorian in San Francisco and somehow fit it artfully into a smaller house--pictures on the walls, books unpacked--so that it looks as though they've lived there for years.

Their three kids started at Berkeley schools last week.   The younger two somehow got into the school closest to us, Thousand Oaks Elementary (often kids from this neighborhood are bussed across town).  They like it, but it's very different from the Catholic private school they went to in San Francisco. 

The fifth-grader came home and reported that everyone in the class had to describe their family, based on interviews each kid did with parents.  Then her teacher, known as Teacher Bob, talked about his family, which consists of his husband (also some pets, I think).

The mother looked delighted as she told us this.  Her daughter was a bit wide-eyed, she said, but accepting.  The third-grader has a teacher with multiple tattoos.  The son, an eighth grader, continues to pop in with spiders to show Jerry.