I Second That Emotion

In the past week or so I have been, by turns, happy, sad, bemused, frustrated, silly, upset – and, well, a bunch of other adjectives I could add to the list to capture my emotions.

Lest you think I have some sort of personality disorder, let me assure you that these are merely the moments that make up our lives. 

Or at least I tell myself that I’m completely normal. I mean, we all go through different stuff every day – don’t we?

Like, for instance, one moment you could be happy you received an income tax refund this year and the next moment you could be upset that your cracked tooth is going to set you back a couple thou in dental bills.

Or you could laugh at a photo one of your best college friends texted and the next moment be frustrated because you can’t get Netflix to work.

BTD (that’s Before the Dog) I was pretty even-keeled.  Right now, being the owner of a puppy is a learning experience for me and I am going through some growing pains. 

For instance, I was upset for about five minutes (at least) the other night when Twinks and Maggie Minx got into a hissing/barking match and it upset Maggie so much she piddled on the carpet.  That was not a happy moment for me, and I’m wondering how long it will be before our cats and our dog can be in the same room without mayhem ensuing.

But, on the whole, I’ve been in a pretty decent mood.  Some things made me smile. And some things even made me laugh out loud.

The other day I brought Maggie into our bathroom while I took a shower. Believe me, it’s easier than listening to her pitiful barks from the kitchen as if she has been utterly and forever abandoned.  I was praying she wouldn’t think the room was her personal potty (unless she somehow miraculously learned to use the commode). But as I was rinsing off, I looked down and with my extremely myopic vision, managed to spot a little red tongue licking the water that had accumulated under the edge of the shower door.  I burst out laughing, which scared the dog – and made me laugh harder.

Guess it’s the little things, eh?

I also had to smile when I opened Facebook and saw a photo my sister posted of her new Mini Cooper. She has wanted one of those cars for a while now and I was really happy that she finally got it.

But the thing that made me laugh the hardest happened just yesterday.  Well, first I was frustrated – but then I laughed. 

Not our actual dog.

Vince and I decided to give Maggie a bath in the kitchen sink – the first one we’ve given her.  (She was bathed when we took her to be groomed, but since I didn’t have to do the bathing, it doesn’t count.)  She was not, as you can imagine, thrilled with this activity.

When we were rinsing her off she was squirming and wriggling around trying to escape, and we apparently pulled the sprayer hose a little too far out from its socket, which disconnected something from under the sink. 

This meant that every time we turned on the water, there was a waterfall inside the cabinet under the sink. Consequently, we had to pull everything out from inside the cabinet and mop up all the excess water. I opted for the simple solution and grabbed some rags, but Vince went for the big guns – our wet/dry shop vac. 

Not our actual Shop Vac.

First, he sucked up all the water and then he ran the blower to dry out the cabinet.  Maggie, of course, was barking ferociously at the alien-like creature that was making horrendously loud noises in our kitchen.

The din from both the machine and the canine was deafening and I’m sure our neighbors were thrilled with our efforts at livening up their peaceful Sunday afternoon.

Maggie continued to bark while I tried to shush her and calm her at the same time.  Yeah, like that worked. 

Suddenly, Vince walked toward Maggie holding the blower from the shop vac – and blew air at her.  She looked just like the pictures I’ve seen of dogs with their faces out of an open car window.  It was a funny sight – and, plus, it shut her up. Not to mention dried her off after her bath pretty much instantly. Some blow dryer, huh? 

And then, because I was experiencing a hot flash after all that commotion, told Vince to aim the blower at me.  Ahhh. Instant relief!  As we were laughing about it, I said, “We just might need to keep this thing out all summer…” Simultaneously, we looked at each other, then down at Maggie Minx and then back up at each other again and said in unison, “…or maybe not.”  

And then we started laughing even harder.

Maybe we were just a tad hysterical by that point, I don’t know. But it broke up the tension we were both feeling over yet another calamitous afternoon.

Yep, I do believe it IS the little things that make those frustrating or upsetting moments bearable. And I’m glad I have someone by my side who can make me laugh even when things are not going according to plan. 

And, no, I’m not talking about the dog.

The “Mane” Thing About Getting Older

Earlier this month I turned fifty-five. Yes, I know, it’s amazingly hard to believe, considering I’ve been lying about my age for years. According to the Jane’s Domain calendar, this year I should have turned, oh, let's say, "forty-two."

But sadly, we can no longer fib about our age and get away with it. Former classmates with whom we went to grade school and who are now Facebook friends will out us in a second.

But I’m not really serious when I say I lie about my age. If someone has a “need to know” I will come clean with the correct decade of my birth.  But if someone guesses that I’m younger than I really am all bets are off. My standard response is, “Why, yes, that's exactly my age. How ever did you guess?!”

And then I change the subject.

But I’m seriously trying to come to grips with the fact that I’m no longer young. I understand that I have more years behind me than I do ahead of me. And it no longer startles me when a store clerk or server calls me, “ma’am.”

Things that looked okay on me in my 20s would look just plain silly on me now. I may have (barely) gotten away with the hot pink pants I wore back then, but now? Please.

And as for that dramatic cat eyeliner that made my baby blues pop when I was young? Nowadays – even if I could see in the mirror well enough to apply it correctly – it’d start melting into the wrinkles at the corners of my eyes before I left the house. This is partly due to the wrinkles themselves, but has more to do with the dreaded hot flashes that have started plaguing me lately.

 

When I neared my 40^th birthday, I remember my mother telling me the “rule” that required that women over 40 had to wear their hair short. I believe she was quoting the “Official Old Lady Handbook” but she has never given me a copy, so I can’t be certain.  And for fifteen years I’ve been happily ignoring that rule. But lately I’ve been wondering if I don’t look a little silly with my long blonde hair.

So for the past month or so, I had been mulling over the idea of cutting my hair. Nothing as drastic as a pixie cut or anything, but just something a little lighter that requires less time to manage. And it would be, as my mother would say, more “age appropriate.”

So I looked up some hairstyles online that I thought I could live with. I copied and pasted them into a file that I could show Alissa, my Hairstylist Extraordinaire.

And yesterday? Well, we did it.  Okay, so Alissa did it. I pretty much just sat there. When all was said and done, I believe she cut off about 19” of hair. No, not really. It seemed like it, but 3-4” was probably closer to reality. Alissa then expertly wielded the hair dryer and flatiron and – voila! – I had a fantastic new hairstyle.

That was yesterday. 

Today? Well, today, I’m dealing with shorter hair that I can’t seem to style to save my life. Currently, I have it pulled back. So, clearly, there is a learning curve here.

So I think I’m glad I made the decision. Vince was complimentary, but he’s a smart guy. He knows I can’t glue the hair back on and it will take a while to grow out if I don’t like it. 

So I’ll have to work with my new style and I’m sure I’ll get it figured out. Yeah. Probably around  the time I decide the heck with the “Official Old Lady Handbook” and decide to grow it long again. Maybe I’ll even try to find a pair of hot pink pants and experiment with that cat eyeliner look again.

Not really. While I’m not ready to completely concede to Father Time, I’m also not willing to make a complete fool out of myself.

After all, forty-two-years-olds do develop some level of maturity. 

Heh, heh. ("Why, yes, that's exactly my age...")