My Kitchen, My Life

Earlier last week, Grace said she saw a cockroach in my kitchen. The thought of this stirred a repulsion so deep within me that I leaped into action. My kitchen needs lots of work, but one thing I have never seen in it is a roach. Spiders? Yes. Flies, mosquitoes, crickets? Sure. But never a roach.

When we lived in Van Nuys and the girls were just babies, we had an ant infestation that ended all others. They invaded our little home and would come like an army across the floor, onto the carpet and if you happened to be laying on the floor, they would just march like a stream over you. I am not kidding. I had never seen anything like it. Daily I would clean and vacuum and disinfect but nothing would stop them and so finally I called an exterminator and they came in and did the job. Ants gone. But in a matter of a month or two I noticed, for the very first time ever, cockroaches. And they were everywhere - EVERYWHERE - big and ugly and fast. I set bait, I cleaned, I scoured, I vacuumed. I swept, I poisoned and I prayed - and nothing, NOTHING would get rid of them. I had a friend who was a contractor and I asked him, "Tim, I'm going out of my mind. You build houses. You are well versed in home pests. How can I get rid of cockroaches?" His reply: "Get some ants."

Since then, I have been very careful with the balance of nature. If I see ants, I clean and make sure everything is dry and try to divert them. But I have little problem with ants. And up till now I have had no problem with roaches. So if it was true, if Grace did see one, I was going to beat it. To a pulp. Now.

Hence a 3-day gut clean of the kitchen. It started as a project that I planned to accomplish in a few hours. But it took hold of me and it became a HERCULEAN task. Ammonia, bleach, scrubbers, mops, sponges - lots of time on my hands and knees where I didn't just clean - I scrubbed to the bone and re-lined all the shelves with new paper - every cupboard, every door, every drawer, every knob, the pantry, the refrigerator, underneath the refrigerator, the floor, every wall, every baseboard, every inch. And I hand washed everything in each of the cupboards and drawers as well. And then I purged. I eliminated everything that wasn't absolutely essential. Even if it has cost me a lot of money initially. Even some things that we sentimental but lived in the back corner of a shelf - not looked at in years. And I found lots of stuff that had been missing. And in the end, between the paper towels, the thrown out food, Tupperware, broken dishes, appliances, and general crap - there were six full trash bags that went to the garbage. (By the way, through the entire process, I didn't find a single roach!) Then I took everything off the counters that we do not use every single day and put those items away. It is now clean, uncluttered, simple - even stark. And when it was all done, my mind went from room to room and I feel a month-long attack on the house coming on.

And while I was scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees, I began to see the whole process as a metaphor for my life too. I am living in a new world. One in which unemployment and insecurity have become the new standard for millions of people - including myself. And once again, I am feeling like a complete overhaul, a re-do, a gut clean is required to be able to see it through. Since beginning this blog I have been on so many interviews. And I have seen two jobs come my way, only to be unemployed again not because of my performance, but because of the economy. It is out of my hands in so many ways. But I need to start again. So a purse dumping is in order. Again.

In Honor of Bob's Birthday

I haven't gone this long without posting since I started this blog. To say that my life has been busy would be an extreme understatement. And with busyness comes lots of stuff to comment on but that will have to wait until the dust settles from everything I have finally completed doing.

In the meantime, in honor of Bob's 51st birthday - I thought I would share another memorable moment of hilarity - at his expense.

Among the many pieces of exercise equipment I have owned and never used was a fairly high-end treadmill. It had many settings and levels and lifts and and buttons and whistles - and it was a big, heavy-duty piece of equipment. Eventually it wound up in the garage, the graveyard for all things I feel badly for not using and too guilty to get rid of.

Bob spends a lot of time in the garage. He likes to play his guitar out there and practice his tap dancing. Generally it is a "Valri-free" zone; one in which he is not likely to hear me hollering for him to "knock it off". So the treadmill became his. And as Bob is a dancer, he is in fairly good shape which meant that he could set it on a pretty high speed and run (rather than walk) on it.

Good for him.

So one day, Bob - alone in the garage - got on his treadmill, set it on a fairly high speed and started to run. But as Bob is apt to do, he got distracted. Now it is important to note that the little belt that you attach to your clothing - the one that disconnects from the treadmill to automatically switch it off should you fall off - had long since disappeared. So Bob, unattached and distracted, began to run too close to the edge and finally shot off the edge. All within a matter of about 5 seconds, both legs flew back landing him on his knees. Reaching forward to catch his fall, his hands fell on the running belt which quickly carried both arms off the machine and back behind him - pinning his body into the "Dying Swan" position from "Swan Lake". With no hands for leverage, his forehead hit the running belt which immediately caused his head to shoot backward toward his body until his neck could not longer stretch.

And so, there was Bob, the crown of his bald head stuck on the fast-moving belt, being sanded like a piece of wood - on his knees with arms pinned back and no leverage to lift himself from this painful and humiliating situation. After a few, interminable, seconds, he finally threw his body sideways and escaped the treadmill that tried to eat him.

He was a bit battered and bruised and his head was scraped up pretty badly. But he lived to see another escapade - another story for another time.

And in spite of it all, and perhaps a little bit because of it, I love him.

And that looney photo above? Yeah, there's a story behind that too.

Happy Birthday Bob.

Did EVERYONE Miss the Typo?

Spelling is a thing with me. I don't always get it right but I do know the difference between "there", "their", "they're", "its", "it's" and in general most other words. So I was mortified to see that my last published blog said that Bob and I had gone to the "dessert". How that got by me for so long was embarrassing.

Bob and Valri Go to the Desert

Without the kids.

Yesterday, August 2nd, was our 20th anniversary. It is the first time in years that we even remembered it and, in fact, it marked the second time Bob planned a getaway entirely on his own (the first being a trip to Vancouver, BC when he was there touring with "Ragtime" about 13 years ago). I should also tell you that this anniversary trip was my birthday gift. (I'm still trying to figure that one out, but I digress). Bob made a big deal.

I need to back this up 20 years to explain why Bob felt he needed to make such a big deal about this. You see, 20 years ago, when we actually got married, I did everything. I got our friend Charles to babysit the kids for the short weekend we would be gone, I made air travel arrangements and hooked a business trip on to it so that we could write it off, I arranged for all the certificates, made the appointment at San Francisco's City Hall, made reservations at a boutique hotel that I loved there (The Majestic), I packed and planned and scheduled and all Bob had to do was arrange what we would do on our 2 day honeymoon. So up we flew to San Francisco, we rented the car that I arranged for, met my friend Cyndy (maid of honor) for drinks, went to his brother's where he and his partner Steve, made us a beef wellington that I still dream about. We got up the next morning, got married, had a lovely reception (thanks again, Rick and Steve), went to the lovely hotel (with upgrade!), and the next morning when we got up and I asked Bob what we were doing, his answer was: "I don't know. What do you want to do?" Ring his freaking neck was what I wanted to do but instead we got in the car and drove to Napa and visited some wineries (when I still drank) and had a nice time but it wasn't really different from a little day excursion you might do when you're bored and suddenly get inspired to have a change of scenery. I didn't complain. Afterall, I was a newlywed - but I haven't let him forget it since - so this time - he got it right. He booked a fabulous getaway to a resort in Palm Springs complete with a-m-a-z-i-n-g spa package, fabulous dinners, breakfast in bed, etc. Everything was scheduled and planned to the tee and it was very, very nice. Good job Bob.

But it was still us. So it had to be a teeny bit weird. Driving to the dessert, I noticed our conversation was a bit, well, disconnected. I talked about my feelings, he talked about the economy. It was sort of like dialogs from two different plays being spliced together. Made no sense. But then, that that's how we roll.

So first stop was the Aerial Tram which was nice, then the resort which was beautiful and a superlative dinner. The tuna tartare was so delicious I nearly fainted. Late night swim, a big misunderstanding with bruised feelings (gotta have one of those), long talk, got back on track, breakfast in bed, spa treatments, and off to dinner again.

Oh by the way, it's like 112 degrees outside. Even at night. With occasional bursts of rain. But we weathered it anyway and drove into town for a dinner at "The Tropicale". First of all, this is the coolest place in the desert. Not the temperature but the atmosphere. It is designed to look like it was built in about 1962. It succeeds. When you walk in you feel like you're on a set from "Mad Men" - complete with high backed, foam green circular booths, moody pink spotlights hitting the walls and vintage 60's wall ornaments, mid-century style cocktail bar (with blue sugary cocktail drinks loaded with alcohol) a piano and bass playing a repertoire of "swingin'"arrangements of Rogers and Hart songs - the kind that made stars of singers like Eddie Fisher and Vic Damone. Lots of rumba beats ending with a cha-cha-cha button. Groovy. And you know it is a great place to eat because you cannot help but notice the moment you walk in that the clientele is made of of two distinct, but discerning connoisseurs - wealthy senior citizen locals and gays. Bob ordered one of those blue

cocktails and I nursed my cranberry juice with sparkling water and we ordered an amazing meal. But Bob had been a grown up for nearly 48 hours and could no longer contain himself so he had to let the little boy out to play and I was relaxed enough to just go with it so I snapped a photo. I think the fact that we were fairly hidden by the high backed booths helped. It reminded me of so many times when Bob had to behave inappropriately just for the sport of making me want to kill him. But this time, I didn't.

Bob couldn't wait for the sun to go down entirely so we could see the place in full swing, but as misfortune would have it, a big chunk of Palm Springs suddenly lost power so we sat there in the glow of a single table candle until the waitress in her polynesian style bowling shirt came to us with a hand-written bill while we worked out payment in the dark. They were closing. And we were ready. By this time, without the air conditioner, sweat was pouring from our brows. At least we finished our dinner.

With all the enthusiasm of ourselves as newlyweds 20 years ago, we planned to see a movie, go back to the bar at our hotel for a drink and then for one last late night swim, but one by one, each plan failed to materialize and when we got back to our room and Bob started the search for his "TUMS" and I contemplated packing, we automatically rolled into bed with books and TV - early. We were sad that age had taken all the "late night party" out of us, but it felt good to be settled in. It was wonderful.

The Race of Time

In the early 90's, I was in a workshop production of a show called "Closer Than Ever" and it was a compilation of a lot of songs by Maltby/Shire that dealt with people at different stages of life. There was this song called "The March of Time", which at the time, in my very early 30's, I thought was hilarious. And I sang it without any idea how it really felt to be anything other than relatively young.

I've been quiet (something of an anomaly) for the past few weeks. I think it is largely due to the fact that a few weeks ago another birthday rolled over me. And so you don't misinterpret the metaphor, it did not roll over me like a floating balloon. No, not a floating balloon but rather a monster truck rally.

Its an interesting phenomenon this aging thing. I remember so well being 9 and not being able to wait until I was "double-digit". And then came the endless wait for thirteen. Sixteen. Eighteen. Twenty-one. And I had no problem at all with the passing of each year of my twenties - until of course, 29. That wasn't so good. But turning thirty didn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would. In fact, I hardly felt it at all. And my thirties were great. I looked fabulous in my thirties. There was a lot going on. Many pivotal events happened in my thirties. I got divorced. I got married. I became a mom. Instantly. I got hired by Disney. We bought our current home. And every year took its sweet time passing. I was in my thirties for a very long time. Like 20 years or something. Until 39. And about two months before turning 40, I started having anxiety attacks. Until I turned 40 and then they stopped and I was just fine. And I had a baby. I went to Hawaii. Again. I went to Africa. I went to the Caribbean. I went to Cancun. I went to Canada. And all was well. Until about 47 when time started to pick up speed. And try as I might, I couldn't find the control switch.

And then - then there was 50 - which was very weird. But I was a big girl about it. I still had all the kids at home and I was still gainfully employed and I was pretty good about chasing it from my mind. Except for that time switch - which moved itself to full tilt acceleration. And the older girls started college. And I lost my job. And then I lost another job. And then menopause. And then my youngest decided not to be a kid anymore. I remember in my teens being insanely jealous of my sister Linda, one year older, who got to do everything a year earlier than I. My only revenge was to to be able to say "but when I'm 49, you'll be 50". And here we are. Both past that. Way.

I look at my profile photo on Facebook and Linked in and realize: "I need to update my photo". I look at older photos of myself that I like - even back only a couple of years and think "I need a shot like that". And then I remember that I will never look like "that" again. Even with effort. Because I am on the other side of "that". Okay so maybe I can't look like "that". I guess I can look "different". And sometimes "different" is better. Well, occasionally sometimes.

Now before you think I'm whining too much, I'm not. I'm extremely grateful for everything I have in my life. The good, and in fact, the bad - because the bad keeps me dependent on God. And really, the bad hasn't been that bad. But I am sorely looking for the room that houses that time accelerator switch. I'd be grateful if it would all just s-l-o-w-d-o-w-n.

On Becoming a Man

There has been a lot of coverage lately of Chastity Bono's (daughter of Sonny & Cher) recent testosterone therapy and surgery to become Chas Bono, a man. A lot of money could have been saved had he just waited for menopause.

As I sit here, preparing for yet another birthday, I am considering the many things about my aging self that I, frankly, did not sign on for. With diminished levels of estrogen flowing through my body I have noted some unwelcome intrusions to my being that have just planted themselves and taken root like invasive ivy.

1. Tough, dry hands. Like men's hands since they rarely lotion. And like, overnight.

2. Thinning hair. I have always had a lot of hair - very thick. In fact, I still do. But I have noticed a small, little spot at the very crown of my head that requires a little more attention - teasing, product, and fussing with - to cover. And I am not amused.

3. Beer belly. Without the beer. I carry around a lot of extra weight but my waist has always been well defined. Except I am noticing the encroachment of what we women have always kindly referred to on our husbands as "love handles" - and this is very distressing. Because in truth men, there is no love for them.

4. Whiskers. Yes, I said it. You will not find many of us willing to admit it (because the thought of it brings on chest pains) but MOST women, after menopause, have this offensive thing happen to them. The soft unnoticeable peach fuzz on our chins can "switch sides" and randomly become coarse and dark, long - and sinister. And I have to learn to look for it daily. And I carry a tweezer in my purse now because the bathroom light is not reliable.

5. Sensitivity. Okay - this is not typically a masculine thing. I bring this up because it is the single feminine thing that most of us would gladly be rid of. But it has taken over my psyche like crabgrass and I cry over everything. And I mean everything. Like commercials that have pretty music. Or tough, dry hands. Or thinning hair. Or "love handles". Or whiskers.

Yes especially whiskers.

I'm Out of Elementary School

My youngest graduated from the 6th grade last week. At her little school, elementary school goes through 6th grade, as it did when I was growing up.

Her school always puts on a wonderful ceremony for the graduating class, which is never more than 25, in this case there were only 16. All 16 were dressed up and fidgety. It is a big deal.

My older three girls graduated from this school as well and each ceremony was truly memorable. I was proud of each of my three older daughters as they stood and gave a 3 minute speech they wrote and memorized, walked forward to receive a diploma - and I was equally proud of Grace as she did the same. But there was something different in this one. This was my last. My baby, wearing a new dress that didn't have a hint of "little girl" in its design, high heeled shoes and shaved legs, french tip manicure, dangling earrings in her newly pierced ears, a hair style for older girls, and her first make-up in public, walked up to the podium and out of grammar school and after nearly 20 straight years of having a child in elementary school, I walk out with her. So while this day was all about her, it was a marker for me as well.

Grace is particularly emotional. She cries on the last day of school every year (including preschool!) weeping at the passing of age so I knew she would be a mess this go around. I carefully instructed her on the way to dab dripping eyes that are made up with mascara (under the lashes to absorb moisture and not smear black under the eyes - lest we look like Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane"...) and watched as she sat on the stage with her classmates becoming an expert on tear catching.

After all the graduates had made their speeches and received their diplomas we moved to the reception room where we all witnessed all seven girls in the class sporting red, swollen eyes as they hugged and gathered and sobbed and let me tell you, the moms were right behind them. My throat was tight and and my nostrils flared as I tried to squelch what could have become big gobby sobs had I not been well versed in stifling such things. I was proud of my daughter. She looked beautiful. It was a big day for her. But it was a big day for me too. Both Amanda and Jennifer were in attendance and when Amanda reminded me that she had graduated from this school 10 years ago, I was instantly in that day, remembering what she wore, how she stood with her friends and received an award. The following year, both Christine and Jennifer did the same - with their hair piled high on their heads - all grown up and by this time, Grace had started preschool there. And while I was equally proud of all of them, in the back of my mind was that I had another 8 years at this school and I felt I would never be done.

But this day, I looked around the walls, looked at the staff, the building in the same way Amanda, Christine and Jennifer did years ago. The way Grace was looking at it now. There is sadness in the joy. My youngest is leaving that environment but so am I. And we shall never pass this way again.

So I am catching tears with kleenex carefully placed under the lashes.