Making It Last Too Long

There are times when the humor of a situation overrides the embarrassment and a story just has to be shared. This morning I am experiencing one of those trying moments and here are a few others I have witnessed (or been party to).


I don’t know about men, but periodically in a woman’s lifetime she will experience extreme dismay, and probably embarrassment, at the whim of her underwear. It may only be once; it may be as a child or as an adult; but it will happen at some point. No one is spared this – ever.

Often the incident involves a garment that once fit well and no longer does, whether it is because our body has changed or with wear the garment has. Another frequent cause is the just the frustration of a fabric choice turning out to be uncomfortably wrong.

I am sure they exist, but I have never met any female that actually like cotton panties. While they would be cool and more comfortable than the prettier synthetic versions, cotton seems to have a mind of its own and penchant for grabbing on to any other nearby fabric. Marketing suggests that they sell well; I just don’t know who actually chooses to wear them. As preteens I think we all suffered from poorly positioned panties sticking to our slips, skirts, slack and jeans. But one acquaintance was determined to solve this problem. Every day when she arrived at school she exchanged the comfortable nylon panties in her locker for the cotton ones provided by her mother. And every afternoon she would switch back in to her torture garment before heading home. Eventually this got just too tedious and being the adventurous sort, she eventually just didn’t bother with wearing any at all, except when at home. But my free spirited friend was a bit too comfortable it seems once we were in college. One night, while rehearsing a scene where she was to slide down a fire pole, the entire cast and crew was treated to the knowledge that she preferred to go au naturale under her skirts. She completely forgot that her short costume was missing anything to cover her well-shaped posterior as it fluttered in the breeze on her way to the ground. Till that night I had wondered if anything was capable of flustering her, but her head-to-toe blush as she froze at the bottom of the pole proved her quite human. And it was a moment I think we have all remembered to this day.

Another case of baring it all for an audience took the more common accidental tuck of a hemline in one’s panty hose a step farther than usual. Instead of merely flashing a few people as you walk by with half your butt displayed, another friend managed to bare it all before a 40th floor window. In frustration over a slip with elastic that had chosen midday to give out completely, she stood in her cubicle, back to the window, watching down the aisle to be sure no one was approaching and yanked the slip out from underneath her skirt to dispose of it. Or at least that was the plan. She had forgotten that in order to keep the slip in place earlier, she had tucked the slip into the elastic waistband of her skirt. Suddenly she was standing at her floor to ceiling window with only her sheer panty hose on from the waist down. Luckily she managed to retrieve the skirt from the floor before any colleagues could respond to her startled gasp. But she always wondered if anyone in the adjacent office building happened to be looking her direction at just the right moment.

Another time expired elastic resulted in a most unique version of the Monty Python “Silly Walks” sketch. It turned out that the colleague walking so strangely to the ladies rooms was actually holding a pair of reversed panties in place. By reversed, we mean the elastic had expired completely and the waistband had fallen to mid-thigh. Only the failing elastic in the legs and her talented thighs were keeping the apparently demised things from falling to the ground. The talented lady actually made it safely through the accounting office, past the Vice President and his secretary, and into a restroom stall to discreetly dispose of the limp remains.

Are you are noticing a theme here? The real culprit is elastic. We are no longer in the days of lacing up garments or tying them around us to keep them in place. But in either an effort to conserve spending, or more likely just distaste for shopping for underwear, we tend to forget that the elastic we depend on so much actually does have a shorter lifetime than ourselves and it can disintegrate without warning. And to that end those who wear the more supportive undergarments, such as Spanx, need to bear this last anecdote in mind, and not wear them till they give out.

Having recently lost considerable weight, discovering that the previously supportive underwear now was loose was considered a pleasant discovery and once dressed, was paid no more mind. A few hours later, however, it felt as though the garment was mysteriously even looser, though still fitting snugly in the crucial waist and leg openings. Knowing there had not been a noticeable loss of girth in the course of sitting at a desk for part of a morning, there was cause to wonder if this had just gone unnoticed while dressing (being less than completely awake), or if it was just an exaggerated comparison to memory. Eventually, however, the morning coffee took its toll and we were off to the restroom. The garment did indeed feel a bit lose, if not limp, as I walked down the hall, but the discovery upon raising my skirt in the stall explained it all. When elastic finally gives up the ghost, it literally disintegrates, leaving little grains of the “rubber” dropping from the threads it once encased. Do you have any idea how much of this is in elasticized fabric? A shower of tiny latex beads was pilling from my panties and collecting on the inside of the skirt and inside the panties. I soon witnessed what looked like the world’s worst case of flakey skin or dandruff, except that it actually bounced before accumulating on the floor. Solution? There was a serious temptation to follow the example in the first anecdote and toss the mess in the trash; my skirt being long enough to have no risk of reprising Marilyn Monroe’s ventilation grate scene. But that still seemed a bit too risqué for the office. So rather than risk this continuing and an unplanned public release, a brisk rubbing of pilling fabric to pilling fabric was done over paper towels to dispose of as much “latex snow” as possible while still having undergarments to finish the day. Such an “amusing” start to the work week.

Buble vs Bing (Crosby)

Blake Shelton has a voice I could listen to anytime; it’s just tugs at me.  Even when I don’t particularly care for the lyrics he’s singing, and especially when he’s joking around, his voice just seems to caress the ears.

Rod Stewart, well for my generation, do you really think I can flip a TV channel past him?  Not hardly.

Michael Buble has is good vocalist with better than average stage presence, but I could nap through most of his broadcasts.   Talented, but nothing special for me.

So tonight, despite my almost life-long aversion to television Christmas Specials, as I sat down to decompress from work not much was on to compete with NBC’s nightly Xmas Krap and I just happened to power up the TV in the midst of a duet between Stewart and Buble.  So, I decided to force the reflexes into quiet down and try to enjoy this.

The duet was ok, even with Stewart coming across as the clearly more seasoned artist.  He was clearly holding back to give his host some of the limelight and it came across as very nice.  “Nice” not being a term I recall ever using in the same sentence with “Rod Stewart” before, but this was.   And the anticipation of Shelton performing actually had me looking forward to more.

The next segment was a technical delight, but completely unacceptable.  While the green screen production of a very realistic, comical banter between Buble and Bing Crosby, one step too far ruined all appreciation for the segment.   After the well edited skit, Mr. Buble proceeded to perform a duet with the recorded performance of Mr. Crosby’s classic “White Christmas”.   However, this was a bad idea both because even those of us with a severely limited appreciation for Christmas carols tend to hold that particular classic as inviolate.  Strike One!  Perhaps even worse is that as Buble’s voice began to overwhelm the recording of Crosby, it was clear that he has neither the vocal range nor the style of his predecessor.  In fact, his voice pales by comparison; even more so when the comparison is direct and simultaneous. Strike Two!

And this not being baseball, but rather a product of blatant mass marketing and hype of a holiday, there is no third try, Mr. Buble.  Simply, good luck with your career.  Luckily voice overs and background “muzak” pay much better these days than back in Bing’s day. 

To the RIGHT!

I tried unsuccessfully to delude myself into thinking the reason of a recent increase in a particular type of road hazard was in flux of visitors from the British Isles.  But truthfully what sane Brit would visit the broiling climes of North Texas in August?   No; it is far more plausible that my fellow drivers need to either respect each other more, or re-enroll in a Driver’s Ed course.

For some reason I keep encountering more and more oncoming vehicles in my lane ….. my right ….. their left.  Given the rarity of places where one drives a motor vehicle on the left side of the road, I see no excuse for this.  If the person behind the wheel was distracted by their phone, an unruly child, or a sudden medical emergency, I still would not appreciate them endangering me, but at least I would understand what was happening.  But I watch to see how best to avoid them, the drivers appear to be looking right at me.

There have always been those incapable of using only one lane to make right turns, those who drive down the middle of roads with no lane markers, and those who confuse their right and left.  I happen to be ambidextrous at almost everything except the use of pens and pencils, but I have no trouble to keeping the side of the road that U. S. traffic laws dictate.  So I have no tolerance for those who threaten to collide with we who obey the law.  

I would think it was just a spate of bad luck for me, but there has also been a recent increase of head-on collisions on the local highways caused by people entering highways via the exit ramps in order to drive on the wrong side of the thoroughfares.  In most cases these drivers have later proven to be impeded by alcohol consumption. 

Does this mean all these soccer moms and bubbas in white pickup trucks are drunk in the middle of the day, as the run errands between home and wally-world?  If so, that is even scarier than my daily encounters with one or two of them.

Armstrong vs. USADA

My blog posts are usually about things that affect me directly, but today this is out of sheer frustration over an issue that I really don’t have much connection with, just empathy.
This morning’s major news story, especially in Texas, is Lance Armstrong’s attempt to end his decade long ordeal with the USADA. With no interest in cycling, no respect for chemically altered athletes, but admiration for the work Armstrong has done in recent years with his Live Strong Foundation, my initial reaction was that is probably best that the issue be laid to rest and Armstrong move on rather than continue to deplete his time and energy in what seems destined to be a lost cause.

I was still incensed that an organization with only contractual authority (many forget that the USADA is NOT federal agency) could take away awards given by a foreign entity on the hearsay of other competitors. That smacks of what is now called McCarthyism, which plagued such notables as Charlie Chaplin, Dashiell Hammet, Lena Horne, Robert Oppenheimer, Paul Robeson and countless other who did not survive the unfounded public slander of Joseph McCarthy.

Then, when less distracted, a few more issues came to mind. I ditched the social commentary and abridged newscasts and sought more information….. the judge’s actual ruling on the case that brought about Armstrong’s resignation. By the time I finished reading it, I had a whole new perspective on the issues at hand.

While it is a well founded suspicion that the USADA will strip him of his medals, the hearing on the charges have not happened. The court case was to nullify the agreement signed to submit such issues to arbitration. Once again someone is facing impending damages because they either unwittingly or when left with no other choice, agreed to binding arbitration. If you have never been through that process, let me enlighten you. Binding arbitration is a tool of companies to avoid legal expense and public exposure when there is a disagreement between parties. Due process is loosely abided by, if at all, and the odds are always in the company’s favor, not the individual’s. The court case was predominately about Armstrong trying to even the playing field by having the court nullify the agreement. And as no surprise to most people, the agreement was upheld. What was surprising was the judge’s admission that the expense of further court costs was a factor in that decision. The USADA has been spending funds as if there was no limit on anyone’s financing, but the judge was concerned about more tax dollars being on spent on a judicial hearing instead of a closed arbitration hearing.

The other issue at hand was one of jurisdiction. At the time of the competitions, the USADA did not govern American cyclists competing in anything other than the Olympics and Para-Olympics. Since that time agreements between the organizations have overlapped authority in regard to eligibility. The court ruling pointed out that the governing bodies for this sport have not settled on how to handle this issue, and given that the case is already declined due to the arbitration issue, there was no reason to proceed further.

Now that is my totally laymen’s explanation, and you can read through all the legal technicalities cited in the ruling, but for me it is clear why Armstrong has decided to step back and let things proceed.

First, he doesn’t have much choice until the arbitration hearings take place. Then if the USADA proves to be as unethical as their track record hints at, he can take action. But the point is there has to be proof of infractions committed by the USADA before legal action can be taken. You cannot sue someone because you know in their heart they are about to screw you over.

Secondly, while Armstrong’s retreat from the conflict this morning fueled those already convince of his guilt, it also garnered sympathy from others for an individual who accepted that sometimes there is more to be lost in continuing a battle than by taking a chance with surrender. Sometimes you have to reconsider the cost, even when you thought you picked your battle wisely.



Aside from whether or not Lance Armstrong used drugs he shouldn’t have while competing, aside from whether or not the USADA is pursuing this because they need to reinforce their mandate to stop doping, there is another issue that I think needs to be considered.

Why do we fault athletes for human flaws more than we honor them for what they can do far better than we could ever dream of doing ourselves?
Jim Thorpe was destroyed over having played SEMI-pro ball in an era when it was doubtful he could have earned a living any other way and he certainly was not getting assistance or training that anyone would have considered to be on a professional level.

Michael Phelps is under fire for someone else prematurely publishing an advertisement he made.

I know many a competitive swimmer that has asked why they can work as a Life Guard at a pool and retain their amateur status, but not teach a kid to swim so they won’t need a Life Guard to rescue them.

In none of these cases was the athlete given an unusually unfair advantage over their competitors, which SHOULD be the issue at hand. Even if Armstrong did everything he is accused of doing while competing in the Tour de France, it was an even playing field because, as the witnesses themselves have repeatedly stated, “EVERYONE was doing it.” Which, to me, means that the medals were not given to the wrong person; if anything, the race itself was a farce.

Too distracted or just incapable?

Are you so distracted by your gadgets you don’t know what is going on around you, or are you so self centered you don’t give a damn about anything beyond your own person?


There have always been people who just don’t think beyond the immediate ONE absolute priority in their life at any given moment; whether it be crippling chest pains or that one strand of hair that has fallen out of place.

I seem to have been blessed with more of these obtrusive obstacles than usual lately. Is there an Oblivious epidemic that is more virulent than the West Nile Virus going around? Has the proliferation of distractions reached the saturation point? Or am I just too damned lucky?

Even I am guilty of being the person in front of the elevator that ends up having to step aside to let someone off before I can get on. We are all subject to the dumb luck of waiting on the same side that the only passenger happened to stand on. So I don’t give it second though when my own exit involves a side step. But three people elbow to elbow, 6 inches in front of the door? Really, people, how did you expect to all entered at one time, even if I hadn’t been waiting to step off. And don’t just glare at me – one of you has to step back. It’s logistics, people!

Then there are the people walking along looking at their latest electronic leash instead of where they are going. The walk way is wide enough for 3 – 4 people and has two way traffic. In the U.S. we drive on the right side of thorough fares, and most of us walk that way too, except where there are cars and pedestrians sharing the same one. So why, when everyone else in front of you are keeping to the right and there are others approaching on the left, do you move to your left as you get closer? Do I know you? Are you trying to stop me for a conversation? You are slower than those around you, so you are not moving left to walk around anyone. LOOK UP! Watch where you are going! Why should I have to dodge you? The phrase use to be, if you can’t walk and chew gum at the same time; choose. These days it’s, if you can’t walk and text (or even talk) at the same time you need to stop one or the other.

But my all time favorite reached a pinnacle this morning; inspiring this tirade. My own mother used to be one of those infuriating people who walks through a door and stops. Stops while blocking the door they just came through for anyone that might be behind them trying to do the same. Even in elementary school I knew never to do this. Not only does it anger other people trying to use the doorway, you are liable to get knocked aside by a door (if it’s one on hinges), or by something worse – someone without my manners, who just shoves you out of their way. At the worst, when blockaded by these people in their own little world, I just glare and stomp past them. But today, I actually put a shoulder in to a man. Intentionally, no, but without any regret whatsoever. This large mass of sub-par intelligence stopped for a call on his cell phone at the top of an escalator. He not only was still on the metal grating where the escalator meets the flooring, he had not even stepped to one side. One half of his mass was blocking one half of where I was required to step as the elevator reached the top. I started to call to him before reaching his level, but decided to just simply step around the moron. But I misjudged the clearance and my shoulder hit the back of his arm – hopefully the one holding the cell phone to his ear. I don’t know because I didn’t not even look as I continued past him as if nothing happened. Trust me; it was in his best interest that I pretended to be the oblivious one at that moment. No one wanted to hear the dialogue regarding his action that was coursing (and cursing) through my mind.

Please, if you are able to stand and walk, but doing maxes out your ability to multitask, please don’t push your limits in public. Choices are hard to make sometimes, but for the sake of the rest of the public, practice walking and talking at the same on your own – in private!

Impatience vs. Laziness

This classic battle has probably gone on throughout the entire history of mankind; between people and even within each person.

Recently my frustration with this conflict peaked and forced me to act. My mother always condemned my lack of patience, but these days I get praise for it. I would like to think that it was something I learned over time and acquired with maturity. But looking back over recent events, I question that. I accept that it is nothing I accomplished; intentionally or otherwise. Society changed; not me.

I am old enough to remember having to wait a week or more to hear from friends by mail. Having moved frequently I was very aware that it would take a few days for my letter to reach its destination, a day or two for a reply to be written, and then a few more days for their letter to travel to my new home. Today, even the mail only takes a fraction the time it did in the 1960’s to go from one side of the country to the other; on the rare occasions when we slow down enough to actually mail hand-written letters.

Not surprisingly the younger generations have come to expect immediacy – in everything. “Wait” has become an even fouler 4-letter word than those my mother threatened to wash out of my mouth with soap. But older generations have not been immune to the “NOW!” virus. We all wish “wait” was no longer even in our vocabulary at times, but making someone wait should not always be treated as a criminal act.

Savoring, creating, appreciating, understanding, all take time. They are valued largely because they take more time to accomplish. And because they require, time and patience, they are not easy and not everyone does them equally well. Taking the time to do something well should not be condemned as laziness or lack of commitment by those who must rely on others to accomplish such tasks. If they could do it better or quicker, they would most certainly have done it themselves. It’s just the way we are.

The impatient ones in our lives may not be solely to blame, though. We all have been lazy at times. I doubt anyone is unfamiliar with after having agreed to something, and then delaying because either we lost interest or actually disliked what was being asked of us. Because our pride, ego, or something else keeps us from speaking up and admitting we just don’t want to do something, others have learned to suspect this scenario any time things don’t happen as quickly as they expect. What the impatient person needs to learn, is to either ask if this is the problem, or accept that their time frame may not be the same as someone else’s and find a way to work with that; other than to lay blame and cause conflict.

Conflict, blame and misdirection wastes more time and effort than even the laziest person.

Old School Manners

A brief and casual encounter with a friend that I really am not that close to or know all that well made me truly appreciate what some have learned to ignore, or worse ridicule.


I have always had an intellectual appreciation for the customs, manner, etiquette or whatever you choose to classify what my English nanny taught me as a child. At the time, I was not very appreciative, except when bribed with tea cakes and scones. No five year old tom-boy wants to sit in a straight backed chair, with her ankles crossed (demurely, she would say) and juggle teacups and saucers destined to be spilled on the dress worn only for such occasions. Nor would those who know me well expect me to sit quietly smiling (“seen and not heard”) while the adults discussed the matters of the day; even at that age.

Perhaps it was this early implantation of a sense decorum that made my early encounters with Japanese culture so appealing. If there was anyone whose manners were stricter than a 1950’s British matriarch, it had to be Japanese women. Of course, in later years I discover that there were even more Asian cultures that elevated similar images of the serene and graceful side of the female nature. I also discovered that such reverence is a double-edged sword; the other edge being obedient subservience. It is true even in the more subtle cultures of the West, where that sword has dulled the fastest.

My encounter the other night was no philosophical analysis of society. It was a friendly discussion over dinner that bore none of the traits I mentioned above. And yet a gesture, a comment, and simple words that probably know one else noticed has brought a smile to me for days and spurred this commentary.

The days when men held a woman’s chair, helped her with her coat, or opened car doors for her on a regular basis are a distant memory for some of us; and almost a freak of nature for younger generations. There was a time when it was habit; even an unconscious reflex for older men. Today, if done at all, it is almost a grand gesture. It is often a calculated move to impress a date, or worse, done only because a man knows the woman he is with demands it at the price of civility.

As I was escorted to a seat for dinner, my chair was pulled out and held for me. No surprise, it was the restaurant’s manager. About the only time one can expect such courtesy is from the staff of nicer restaurants. I noticed it, but promptly forgot it once seated.

A few minutes later, I decided to remove my jacket. As if appearing magically, gentle and skilled hands were helping off with the jacket. Not only was the gesture a surprise, but also the grace with which it was done. And I remembered the night we met and went bar hopping, he did the same for me and the other women present. He has not abandoned the manners he was taught in exchange for disregard or laziness.

I noticed as he and the friend who had joined us were fully engaged in conversation, he continued to include me in the conversation with his smiles, gestures and comments. And I was more than comfortable to sit and just listen and watch, though I was the one who had broached the topic under discussion. As I was mentally acknowledging his conversational skills (which sometimes abandon me entirely), I realized that this same talent is why the last man to inspire me is so appealing

To keep from embarrassing either of them here, I will not mention names. But gentleman, your affable nature and well honed etiquette charm me whenever you are around. There is truly something impressive in your blend of old school ways with modern sensibility that I cannot help but admire. It matters not whether we are discussing business, delving into political histories, or just indulging in our mutual appreciation for good food and drink, I always enjoy your company.

(Hopefully, they recognize themselves in my reference.)

Failure to Communicate

Miscommunication happens; it’s a fact of life. It’s something we should make honest efforts to avoid, but also learn to accept that it happens, fix the problem(s) it caused and move on. Simple enough.

There are two contributors to this aggravation that seems to peak when ages or cultures mix, and for which there is very little excuse. When did we become a nation of mumblers? We have always been prone to not listening – the largest single contributor to the never ending plague of miscommunication – which we are all guilty of at times and need to work on. But not speaking clearly is inexcusable, unless you have some physical impairment.

I remember as a child having my parents tell me to “stop mumbling!” In my world that phrase was doomed to be followed by some sort of punishment. Not because of my failure to speak clearly, but because the only reason I ever mumbled was because I was admitting to doing something wrong. In my little mind I had the mistaken belief that said parent would hear only part of what I muttered and just let things slide. My garbled, but contrite confession would be enough, even if they didn’t know exactly what the infraction was. I can’t imagine where I came up with such a fantasy. To the contrary, the delay in understanding only irked the adult even more.

And today, as an adult, I have come to realize just how irksome it is communicating with someone who does not enunciate or whose voice is muffled, regardless of the reason. Not long ago I encountered this problem so many times in one day that I began to wonder if I might be losing my hearing. My days with rock bands and hours of cranking up bombastic symphonies over earphones certainly upped the odds for nerve damage. I admit that ambient noise is a problem for me at times. Certain machines have pitches that override my ability to hear human speech; just another fact of life for many of my generation. (And probably even more of an issue for generations to come.) It is also common as we age to begin losing the ability to hear higher pitches, such as women’s voices. Of course sometimes we women mistake selective hearing for this sort of hearing loss when it comes to the men in our lives, but that is another issue we may expound upon some other time. Taking all this into account and being one who has always endorsed preventive medicine, I made an appointment to have my hearing tested.

While I waited to have my ears checked I began paying closer attention to what I could or could not hear. I quickly realized the only time I could not hear something clearly, was when someone was speaking. I still listened to the TV at the same volume; even lower at times. When there was not a fan, copier or printer running between me and the rest of the office, I could hear almost everything. I also noticed that the clerks and others I had trouble hearing always spoke with their heads down. Not that I can read lips, but their voices were projecting downward, not toward me. More importantly, I was not the only one struggling to understand what they said. Other people were leaning closer, asking them to repeat, or even nodding and then turning to someone else for information. It was not my hearing, but their speaking that was inadequate.

With the thought of writing this, I asked myself whether I just notice this more because of my age or are people just not learning diction and projection anymore. Generations always criticize the next generation for what they perceive as shortcomings, so my aggravation is likely to have that influence, but I don’t think that invalidates the observation. The younger the person, the more likely they seem to not speak clearly. This is not because of difficulty with the language; their vocabulary and pronunciation is no worse than my generation and in some communities, it’s even better. But with the crunch to get more and more information into students and using writing and graphic illustration more than we used to for getting ideas across, instead of speaking to individuals and groups in person, I wonder if we are overlooking the practice speaking that used to be part and parcel to education at all levels.

When I am faced with someone fresh out of school, be it high school or college, and they do not speak clearly, I can’t help but wonder if I should dust off that certificate that says I can teach Speech (as in public speaking and debate) and see if I can’t make more of a difference in a classroom somewhere. I just wish one semester of Speech was required in order to graduate from high school, like the health and civic classes. One semester would enough to teach teenagers how to speak clearly and convincingly to others, without “gettin in their face”, so they could keep pace, once they are out in this place, called the real world.

My Review of Roku 2 XS Streaming Player

Originally submitted at Roku

Adds an enhanced remote for playing games, plus extra connectivity options.

Roku 2 XS Streaming Player

Rock Rocks!

By Taln SG from Dallas, TX on 12/28/2011

 

4out of 5

Pros: Compact, Easy to set up, High quality picture, Built in Wi-Fi, Video selection, Angry Birds, Easy to use, Reliability, Mahjong, Korean Dramas, Great value

Cons: Need more Asian channels, Want more video choices

Best Uses: Secondary TV, Bedroom, Living room, Primary TV

Describe Yourself: Movie buff, Early adopter, Netflix fan, Power User, Foreign movie buff - Asia

The basic model is still fine for my lazing in bed watching movies once the broadcast TV channels have all turned to Infomercial Central, but the 2 XS is for finally using my HDMI and indulging my limited interest in gaming.

As for service, it's always been good, but recently when Drama Fever's subtitles suddenly vanished, Roku was quick to check out the problem and work with the channel's techs to get things back in order, rather than leave me to deal with both companies separately.

(legalese)

Vote? ALWAYS! | Melissa Broadway | Blog Post | Red Room

Vote? ALWAYS! Melissa Broadway Blog Post Red Room

Now that I mentioned the new adoptees, let me say that I am not necessarily a cat person. It’s very dependent on the personality of the feline as to whether or not we become friends. I love dogs, but not enough to endure my allergy to them, or the treatment of it for very long. I play with everyone else’s pooches and then hit the shower. Same thing for some cats, especially ones with long or fine hair.




Recently I had a lapse where my emotional side overrode the logical and adopted these two fur balls without doing quite enough research about them, or their previous owner. As I mentioned in my previous blog they have both been spoiled by regular feedings of anything other than cat food. One is adjusting easily to the ready dish of what she should be eating, but the other seems to be in nearly perpetual begging mode. Fortunately the beggar is the sweet, affectionate and otherwise quiet one, so we humans will make allowances as she learns her new dietary rules. The one who doesn’t beg is actually the wild child.



Bitchy, once known as Betty, was renamed within hours of her moving into the house. Before you say it, I will. Yes, it takes one to know one, and this is test of who can be the bigger bitch. Given that it’s my house, I am many times larger than she is and I am the eldest, I will prevail ….. eventually …..somehow.



Miss B (the more affectionate of several other names she has acquired) is a cat rescued from the streets by her former owner. Thankfully she is not feral, but neither is she quiet tamed. She is clear to alert you when she thinks you have stepped out of line. A round of hisses is the split second alert that teeth are about to be sunk into your flesh. At least you are spared being shredde by claws as well, because the former owner had them removed. The least interference with what ever her plan or desire of the moment will trigger this action. We learned rather quickly that in the case of Miss B, rubbing up against your leg and meowing is NOT a request to be petted. Sometimes it is, but listen carefully as you reach for her so that you can spare your hand if you have misinterpretted her actions.



When she discovered the comfort of my bed (uninvited) I was informed, via puncture wounds to the thumb, that any disturbance of her hiney-ness without being given the approval signal (usually a headbutt) would not be tolerated. In turn, she soon discovered a swiftly moving foot under the covers was more than a match for her sprawled mass, and she found herself summarily relocated to the floor. Our ritual is now repeated at various times throughout the night. It would appear that I am winning this battle, except that she usually returns to stake her claim in less than 10 minutes, and I am the one losing the most sleep over it.



All cat owners that experience various forms and levels of power struggles with their oh-so-independent pets, so these experiences may sound familiar. Bitchy is not the first feline I have had skirmishes with. At least she is not 25 lbs. of pure muscle hanging from the grout of the bathroom wall by razor sharp claws, like my dear Louie the first time the vet insisted I bathe him. However, this blog was inspired by a truly unique experience Bitchy visited upon me this past weekend.



After a few swats from her paws and a warning hiss, I backed away from the Psycho-kitty perched on the corner of my bed and began some light strecthing exercises for my injured shoulder, before risking sutures in a hand or arm. As I completed the 20 reps of raising a piece of doweling over my head while laying on the bed for support, a rather docile, almost snoozing, Bitchy watched. When I finished I dropped my equipment on the floor and brought my arms down to my side for relief from the aching shoulder as Bitchy stood and stretched, seeming to be having a hard time rousing from her boredom. Then before I could defend myself she stepped across my face and slowly continued to the other side of me. I say slowly because her furry belly dragging across my face, that is so opposed to contact with fur, seemed to take far too long. In reality, given my response time, it could only have taken seconds. Thoroughly displeased with this stunt, I turned to shout my objection. Wrong move! I was now face to face with the base of her upraised tail. Repelled, literally and physically, I jumped back only to watch as she stayed motionless, ass in the air, tail straight up, apparently enjoying my comprehension of her commentary. Bitchy is the first cat I have ever known to clearly tell their owner to “kiss my ass.”

 Groovy - Her sweet, plaintiff, feed-me look......

Bitchy, the psycho kitty.....

Stupidly semi-permeable

I am not going to tell myself that “accidents just happen” and to get over it anymore - at least not anymore today. There are those that say the younger generation is too self centered, inconsiderate and down-right obnoxious. Maybe so, but guess where they learned those fine arts. You guessed it; from our generation. Or at least the slightly younger portion of my generation that I see during my daily commute to and from work.


A rainy day, even if I can’t lounge around the house to enjoy it, is usually something I find relaxing and refreshing. Ok, that’s odd to many of you, but maybe it’s my childhood in England coming through. However, today’s very welcome morning rainstorm was not to be one of those days.

An hour before the alarm roused me I was awakened by the rumble of thunder, but without a pause I smiled and just rolled over and snuggled deeper under the light cover. A moment later I was confronted by two loud and distraught felines. Now these are relatively new adoptees in the household so if a little thunder unnerves them, it’s understandable. But realizing the human was awake brought on persistent howling for not cat food, but people food. Thank you, previous owner, who seems to have hand fed these two from your own plate on continual basis. You risked their health, taught them bad habits and totally sabotaged any future human’s contact with these two beggars. Thank you for your lack of responsible pet ownership.

Leaving the whining girls to their full bowls of nutritious food designed for their species, I escaped to the car with the remains of my toast and tea and headed for the train station. By now the rain had stopped and the air was refreshing. It seemed as though the morning was going to right itself for me. Wrong! As I had driven barely a block from the house when I nearly ran over someone. Not the usual squirrel or stray pet, or even the occasional coyote on the prowl. No, this was an adult human jogging in the middle of the street, in the dark and dressed in a either a dark gray or faded black jogging suit. She was about as invisible as a moving, live body could possibly be ….. until she was between my headlights about 6 feet from the bumper headed right for me as if she couldn’t see the thing in the area with lights on – my oncoming car. I slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel sharply as she loped by, more attuned to whatever was blaring through her earplugs, than the environment she was moving through.

Once the adrenalin surge subsided, I continued my drive to the train station with an increased appreciation for the latter part of my route with copious lighting. But the invasion of idiots and insensitivity was not over. It was just gearing up for the final round.

Parking the car and finding my way to my usual spot on the platform to wait for my ride to work was unremarkable, unless you are traumatized by sporadic drizzle in the absence of an umbrella. Though sometimes compared with Dorothy’s Wicked Witch of the West, I am not related and I do not melt from contact with water and only torrential downpours are incentive for me to carry one. However, like most people, especially when dressed for work, I do not appreciate being unnecessarily splashed. Apparently there are those fellow travelers who feel that as long as it is not them being doused, all is well. More than once in the 10 minute wait I was treated to a sprinkling as someone shook their umbrella vigorously in my direction to dry it. Apparently they consider it better that I be wet than their accessory designed for use when water falls from above. At least making me dodge to keep from being gouged in the eye by the points of the contraption as they walked along in crowds, heedless of where they were aiming their portable shelter.

When the train arrived I hurried aboard ahead of those once again opening and shutting their umbrellas and found my seat. And it was this positioning that afforded me a view of the climax of the morning’s stupidity without being one of its victims. Closer to the door we board through, a man had taken one of the aisle facing seats and then set his cup of coffee down while making himself comfortable. The train lurched on takeoff and instantly the aisle and adjacent flooring of that half of the car was coated in a solution of hot coffee, cream and sweetener of some sort. Not exactly recommended for washing such flooring. You see this otherwise normal looking gentleman apparently thought (1) trains glide smoothly along the tracks, (2) oversized, top heavy paper cups are stable and unlikely to tip and (3) those covers provided at the coffee shop are just for decoration and to slow down your enjoyment of the beverage. Three stops later when I was departing the train, the hard working conductor had managed to mop that half of the car with all the available paper towels, why the six riders that would have been seated in area stood for their ride across town.

Ironically, when I finally sat down at my desk, I was greeted with a challenge to use the term “semi-permeable” in a sentence. There were oh so many options. Brains that were only semi-permeable to learning or common sense? No, it is my stupidity deflector membrane that must have been only semi-permeable this morning.

Me, a dancer?

Though dance is something that has been in my system since my earliest memories, a director once described my talent for it as “the innate klutziness of Ruby Keeler”. A definite back-handed compliment, I had to admit it was true. For all my love of movement to music I make no claim to artistry, only enjoyment. There was a good reason this technical person shirked required auditions when her university was producing musicals. My place was in the wings or the house, not on the boards.

These days watching So You Think You Can Dance and listening to the more serious critiques brings back memories of sometimes frustrating rehearsals, hysterical laughter as we neared exhaustion and the pure elation of an audience’s appreciation. Even more, I have begun to realize that I really was paying attention I was training in theatre and through later dance classes. How else would a rank amateur understand Nigel Lithgoe’s technical comments or the nuances of Mary Murphy’s insights?

I don’t know why my mother enrolled me in a tap class at an age when some kids are still perfecting just walking. All I remember of it was being unhappy about wearing mouse ears instead of Donald Duck’s cap in a recital that was interrupted by a small earthquake tremor. But I do know why a year later I was introduced to ballet. I was tripping over everything; even my own shadow. I was only in it for the pink shoes and the hour away from my very British nanny’s etiquette lessons. I didn’t like it, but surviving Madame’s incessant cane tapping out the battements and her screeching “relevé”, “entrechat” and “ligne, ligne, ligne” actually turned out well. Despite having no pretense of sharing my peers’ dreams of becoming ballerinas the ordeal was worth it. Without the grace of that early ballet training, I would probably walk more like a plow horse than a lady. I can say this because when trying to keep pace with my father later on, even the ballet training fell by the wayside.

Like most teens in the 1960s, I learned every dance shown on American Bandstand, Shindig, Where the Action Is, Soul Train and in the movies. Then, just before college graduation, my favorite professor decided to produce Dames At Sea. The theatre department majors rebelled, as we had no dance corp or even training, only to be sent to crash courses in modern dance and tap. Truthfully, I was happy about the free tap classes. It seems I am better suited to clogging or flamenco, with a penchant for noise making with my heels, but even so, my fellow students were even less suited to being light on their feet or keeping time with their toes. As the senior members of the department we were required to audition and shortly after the comment I opened this commentary with, most the dance numbers were edited out of the script. Three girls and one guy do not a chorus line make. Though before we all went our separate ways, a few of us invaded the local clubs and showed off our tap dancing inspired disco styles to bewildered, and thankfully drunk, patrons. If only we’d had Travolta with us back then!

Finally after a lull of over twenty years the body needed to move with music again, though the dance form getting all the attention was Break Dancing. Seriously, what woman over 40 would take that up after sitting behind a desk for over a decade? I have my crazed moments of “sure, why not?”, but this was not one of them. I hated most tango music, but the moves were fascinating. So I found an excellent Tanguero who was also the perfect teacher for me. Leonardo Kunkello, knew just when and how to push me past my comfort levels and I have been in love with Tango ever since. But that was only the beginning of my foray into Latin dance.

Mr. Salsa Dallas, Luis Delgadillo, was teaching in the same studio as the tango class I tried when Leonardo moved to Branson, Mo. It was only a few weeks before the music and his personality had me checking out Salsa and leaving the strains of the Argentine accordions for those of Mexican ones. (Yes, I like Cajunto music.) This also when discovered that perfection is not always needed for fun. One facet of Luis’ group classes is that everyone dances with each other. So students experience dancing with experienced and novice, smooth and clumsy, comfortable and panicked partners. It’s a great technique. Women learn to follow better and men learn to take an active lead.

Eventually it was while dancing salsa that I found what I had been looking for.

No, not the perfect partner - could there really be one?

I truly dance for fun. I don’t have to be the best on the floor. I don’t care to perfect flourishes and theatrical moves that wow other dancers. I just want to move to the music and enjoy connecting with the person I am dancing with. If it looks good to others, that’s great, but as long as I don’t hold back or embarrass my partner it just has to feel good to me. Maybe if I were better, I would teach; but I am not. I keep taking beginner level classes, not to show off, but because I enjoy helping Luis with the new students after they get the basics. But I am not good enough to teach, but I can be good enough for a novice to work on his own moves and not have his partner mislead or distract him. And I adore the look in their eyes when they realize they have mastered a step that had them baffled moments before.

So I will keep on dancing around the house, in the clubs once in a while, or maybe at another class, and I will watch shows like So You Think You Can Dance where I can appreciate the talent, drive and massive effort made to get to that level while feeling no urge to follow in those footsteps whatsoever. Though I listen to a lot of K-Pop these days and I know a Hip-Hop instructor........

Problems with Trinity Railway Express

This is out on Facebook, but I wanted to share it with anyone and everyone else who rides the TRE!
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Trinity Railway Express
by Melissa Broadway on Friday, 25 March 2011 at 15:07

It seems that despite being such a needed and well used service to the Dallas - Fort Worth community, Trinity Railway Express still has lessons to learn from its nearest kin. No matter how large or how exclusive a mass transit system is, it needs to listen to its riders and act in good faith to resolve issues that make riding less than it should be.

To begin, Trinity Railway Express seems to choose the least effective means of meeting face to face with its customers who truly care about its operation and actually ride the train daily. The vast majority of ridership takes place during the rush hours of roughly 6:00-8:00 AM and 4:00-6:00 PM. This is because many of us work between those hours Monday through Friday. TRE holds their semi-monthly business meetings mid-week and usually either around 9:00 AM or 1:00 PM when these same riders cannot attend. The most recent attempt to overcome this was to set up on the train platforms and converse with those in route at rush hour, which was only marginally more successful as most people do not include extra chat time in their schedule for getting to and from work. Several months ago there was a Facebook page for TRE, and there are still user-created ones, but their own has nothing but the Wikipedia explanation of who they are - no information for riders and certainly no means of communication between us and them. There have been evening transit meeting about expansion, but we need to communicate directly with those making decision about the day to day operations as a group, not with just a single phone line or email contact.

A more pressing issue for hundreds of TRE riders is what appears to us as a simple matter of how to expedite passenger loading and unloading the bi-level and tri-level coaches so that the trains can be on time and we can consistently make our connections to other parts of the DFW mass transit systems. After more than a year of inconsistent operation of the doors on the first car from the engine, it was just recently made clear to some of us by the conductors that a policy of not opening the forward doors of the car has been made clear to the employees.

Whoever made this decision is apparently unaware of its impact at major stations during rush hour. This failure to use both doors on the first coach, unlike all other coaches in operation, means that everyone must exit the same door in single file and then all those waiting on the platform for that car must board in single file. At most stations this is only a minor inconvenience. However, at stations like Medical Market Center, with more than 50% of the 123-152 passengers on that coach trying to disembark, this is a considerable delay. This is far too many people to accommodate through a single door with only 1 minute planned for the stop. The understanding and good judgment of a few engineers and exemplary conductors has proven over time that the forward door needs to be in operation, at least during rush hour.

This is also confusing for new and occasional riders at Victory Station and Union station that see all the other doors opening and wait by the forward door until other passengers explain to them that they need to use the other ones. This is often left to nearby passengers because this information is not provided by signs or announcements as the train is pulling into the station.

The current policy seems to prohibit it use except for those with handicaps requiring level boarding. Even so, there is no justification not to use the same door for able bodied passenger once other needs have been addressed. This has been done with success numerous times at Medical Market Center without problems.

Acceptable Bigotry ?!?!?!

To use Rep. Chris Smith' of New Jersey's own phrase, his bill 'No Taxpayer Funding for Abortion Act'—H.R. 3, is a bigotted attempt to deny women personal freedom and privacy, which most American consider basic, sacred rights. This is his own "acceptable bigotry" against women!

H.R. 3 would deny medical coverage for women who rely on the government for their health insurance, including federal employees, women in the military, Native Americans, Peace Corps volunteers and poor women enrolled in Medicaid. In addition, would effectively eliminate coverage for abortion in the private market by making it onerous for insurance companies to offer these plans and imposing new taxes on businesses and individuals that purchase them.
Even more troubling, H.R. 3 would allow public hospitals to refuse to provide a medically necessary abortion to a pregnant woman facing a life-threatening emergency. This is inhumane. Stray dogs would be given better care.

This bill is also fiscally irresponsible, as it would continue the onerous burden of unwanted children and women forced to leave the workforce on to the welfare rolls; draining our resources even faster than the cost of treatment for women under Medicaid. How could a supposedly responsible Republican be so short sighted when it comes to economic realities?!

Not only is it contrary to the stated economic aims of his political party, it is part and parcel to the heinous crime he is reknowned for working to prevent - human trafficking! He should investigate how many of the victims of human slavery start their lives. Many are the overlooked, unempowered, poor who as either pregnant women with no where to turn, or the unwanted child his Right To Life campaign aids and abets.

H.R. 3 must be stopped. It is yet another thinly disguised encroachement of women's rights to privacy and freedom by a minority faction in their fanatic drive to ban a sometimes necessary medical procedure that they, themselves, will never be forced to undergo.

“Testing ….. testing….. Are you paying attention?”

As if enduring a case of the chicken pox that was worse than any military doc at Wright-Patterson AFB had ever seen was not enough of a test of my patience and endurance, now, 46 years later, it just had to let me know it was still hanging around!

Yep, the body wasn’t satisfied by emphasizing that I am aging by afflicting me with a muscle strain that runs from the base of my skull to the tips of my fingers. It just had to add Shingles for my entertainment. So now one side hurts to move or seizes up in immobilizing cramps, while the other side wriggles with muscles spasms and taunts me with an itch I can’t scratch.

Ok, Karma, just who did I wish bodily torture upon that you are returning the sentiment for?
You and my corporeal being have pretty much my full attention now!

But hopefully, not for much longer.

Did you notice I used those brain cells to figure out what was going on and find someone to help?

Yes, I know their help will not fix things completely, but guess what dear OLD body, you are in for some amusement. Those drugs you don’t like me taking because they you turn you into an inert lump of flesh - Well guess what? You are in for a round of steroid induced munching, surface and internal muscle and nerve numbing, paint you till you are all chalky pink and spend the weekend with endless movies that you will miss chunks of because you won’t be able to stay awake.

I am going to dose you well and then leave you in control. I am not going to fight to be productive. I am not going to take you out to enjoy new experiences.

Maybe you should think about at least killing off this viral pox and letting me get back to my normal crazy self, huh?

A gift from another "Santa Claus"

“Please blog about your favorite holiday …” That was as far as I read before the mental gag reflex kicked in. “How about my most Unfavorite holiday?” “The blight that decends each winter.” “The one that ruins my favorite season for a few weeks each year!”

After that purge of building bile and venom, I actually finished reading the email message and calmed down; considerably. I can empathize with Ebeneezer Scrooge. Whether his disdain for the Season of Expense and sudden gushing of emotions hidden the rest of the year was for the same reasons as my own, is of no matter.

And yet ….. sometimes ….. even those of us so alienated by this annual tsunami of mercantile fury in the guise of a faith, unbelievably not shared by all, can appreciate a very special gift of the season.

True peace, quiet, and the splendor of creation can be experienced this time of year.

A wise man, ironically the unknown twin of Santa Claus, gave me this one cold December.

I was dating the living vision of the commercial, traditional, Santa Claus. Even without a red suit, and in the middle of July heat waves, it was not uncommon for strangers to comment on how much he looked like the jolly old soul. He would be polite and smile, but as he would thank the person you could see the aggravation in his eyes, cringing behind his spectacles.

Having no family anymore, his Christmas celebrations tended to be lonely, broken only by office parties and parties at friends earlier in December, so I had invited him to my cousin’s annual gathering on Christmas Eve. It was a party I enjoyed as the regular family renunion. He accepted, but I knew it was only because there was no acceptable way for him to decline.

A few days later, he added to the plan. From the party, we would go on a road trip. A great excuse for not visiting anyone on Christmas Day! Then on the 23rd of December, with my bags already packed, we agreed that with an earlier start we would have more time at our destination. I gave my regrets to the extended family and we headed out.

As the sun set on Christmas Eve the mild temperature began to dip into a cooler range and made me hope for snow as we watched the clouds cross the multi-colored sky. It was far more facinating than my neighbors’ blinking wire reindeer.

I awoke Christmas morning to a dry, but frigid, sunrise over the Chisos Mountains in Big Bend National Park. The songs of wild birds are so much more inspiring than carols. Though some would have disliked the cold (about 20 F), it brought back my childhood in England and the awe of winters there. It was a truly wonderful celebration in the beauty of nature. We even shared our Christmas feast with the havelina that had become accustomed to people and came like a wayward band of waifs begging for figgy pudding.

It has been more than a decade since we were two geeks without our electronics, enjoying a Christmas without the litter of TV commercials and internet spam! I have become a far more cynical curmudgeon when it comes to the subject of religious holidays. But this memory reminds me that there really is something of worth to be found beneath the sludge of what Christmas has become for far too many people.

I just observed a coworker go to three times the effort necessary to produce a document simply because of overblown pride and stubbornness; refusing to ask for, or even accept, help of those whose purpose in being present is to perform, or at least assist, with such tasks, Rather than utter one sentence to someone who is apparently disliked, time, effort and the office resources were wasted, to produce something that was, as a result, substandard.

Though part of me is amazed at the stupidity involved, another part is reminded of how pig-headed I too can be and how truly foolish that is at times.

Why is it that we humans have such a great propensity to “cut off our nose to spite our face”? What is it that drives us to stand our ground when the overwhelming majority is against us and the issue at hand is of little or no consequence? Is it this same obstinacy that binds our legal system to value precedence over common sense when society has evolved beyond the concerns of those who created the precedence?

Sometimes one has to face the reality that when we are being intractable on an issue and citing “principle”, we are really just unwilling to change or accept that while something may not be ideal, it causes no real harm in the long run and is the best way to peacefully coexist with the other unyielding members of our species.

Now, do I give up and drive in defiance of the parking lot’s One Way signs like so many others? Or do I continue to follow the ill-planned rules, and foul my mood twice daily as I slam on the brakes in the face of oncoming drivers who stubbornly refuse to change their own habits?

Favorite Authors

Dear Best Friends,

You know how I revere your works. And I know I am far from alone in my admiration, for you are the idols of us bookworms, but for once I am writing to you, instead of because of you.

Attempting to choose one of you as the one to whom I am most connected brings pangs of guilt for those not named. No matter who I might choose, I know the rest of you will speak up to question my reasoning.

“As if there is another whose words you quote; whose words banished adolescent thoughts of suicide,” comes Mrs. Parker’s reproach. Of course, Dorothy, I owe you much and someday I may still write your poem on my bedroom ceiling.

On my bookshelf, out of reach of careless hands, is the all to well worn first book I ever read. Though I could not have told you her name without looking it up, Allison Uttley’s images of little Fuzzypeg and his holey blue smock are a fresh in my mind as they were in 1957

Honore, do you think Mrs. Uttley’s tale of Fuzzypeg’s being led astray from school would have held attention on the Decameron? The shift in tone would almost reflect the shift I made from child to adult – abrupt - but the theme and personalities remain the same.

Monsieur De Maupassant, knowing the mere mention of dear Balzac piques your interest, would you favor us with a treatment of the story, changing the characters to people of La Belle Epoque? Or do you think one of your short stories already tells this tale?

Then, while your stories merge in my memories, another voice, more current , grows louder.

“The spirit of my words inspire your daily discourse with my countrymen and our symbols look down over you each morning and night from your caligraphy. Would you place poems and little stories you rarely, if ever, read twice before the inspiration my disclosures have given since the first paragraph of mine you read?”

I know you will forgive my dwelling in a bit of revelry, Jung Chang. As you say, I cannot turn my back on the quest for truth that you and Irwin Tang have set me on, nor still my voice that you so often bring to life. Thank you for giving expression and facts to what I somehow already understood, and for leading me to so many others whose words need to be known.

Getting Old?

Just like everything having a downside to it, everything has an upside to it. Do we call them “up” and “down” sides by accident or is it because it’s so easy to fall “down” and harder to climb “up”? Think about it. At least for a lot of us it’s much easier to realize the downside of a good situation, sometime presaged by the “waiting for the other shoe to drop” feeling, than to surface from the quicksand of a bad one to find the upside.

Growing old – good or bad?

Yep, there’s a laundry list for you. If you are over 40, I bet you were already naming the problems in your head before you read this sentence. Come on, if you are reading this after a long day (week?) at work, or while killing time waiting somewhere (doctor’s office?); you know your head filled with a seemingly endless stream of “issues”. Top of my list? (Or is it the bottom, if it’s the worst of the worst?) It’s a tossup between realizing I cannot physically do some of things I did 20 years ago, and dealing with people who think I can’t, or won’t, do those that are still possible for me. No, I don’t power lift stage equipment anymore. Nor do I really want to. Yes, I can dance till dawn ….. Are you a good enough partner to keep up? But why waste energy dwelling on this side of the ledger? There are plenty of people to do that for all of us.

The first good things about getting older that come to my mind are perhaps a bit vindictive. I get to deny my younger friends the excuse of “I’m getting too old…” when they don’t want to do something. It’s definitely one of my favorite moments, when I can turn “that look” on them with a resounding “You’re what?” And having justification for a bit of spite is another one of those benefits that comes with time, too.

Being on the lower end of the slope to 60, I have recently discovered that if I don’t want to dress up, put on make-up, and fix my hair to go to the local Wal-Mart, its ok. There is not a high probability that I am going to miss catching Mr. Right’s attention even if I looked my best, because he’s probably looking for a less worldly 20-something. It’s kinda freeing to take a quick shower, throw on jeans, a blouse and a hat, and hop in the car – no muss, no fuss. Which brings me to one of my not so infrequent delights of age.

Sporting seriously silvery white roots, except for one contrary dark forelock, and driving a typical unassuming, common, dull, adult sort of sedan, I find myself chuckling when the kid in the next car is looking around mystified as to where the J-Rock is blasting from. It just couldn’t be that “old lady”. The same goes for the young stud who floors it to pass me if I am only doing the speed limit because I saw the cop ahead that he didn’t. I got my share of speeding tickets years ago, before my Daddy stopped paying my insurance.

I have also found that if I voice my disagreement with clerks, salesmen, and various other people “serving” the public, they are either so stunned that I didn’t just go along with them, or scared of looking like they are mistreating an older person, that they tend to listen better than they did when I was younger. I don't usually have to point out to them that I earned this gray hair and it is not blonde. Of course, depending on the cultural environment you are in, it could conceivably be out of respect for their elders, but not where I come from.

Then there are the more comforting and amenable perks of age, especially when you keep friends half your age. Young men, who often forget their manners, except on formal occasions, actually pull out my chair when we are being seated, see that my order is taken and my drink kept filled, and treat me with deference to other younger women in conversation. Along with this preferential treatment there is rarely the implied demand for reciprocal favors that were always part of the exchange years ago. Though that is a two sided coin, because sometimes I feel more appreciation than a smile or hug conveys. (sigh) Sometimes I miss the days when there were more eligible bachelors for me, but then I crawl into my nice big bed where no one snores or hogs the sheets and drift off to sleep smiling. And no guy can tell me he actually enjoys sharing a bed on a regular basis where he can’t sprawl as he wants without being kicked.