Rock the Silver

My new tattoo

We were invited to a pool party for a bunch of people from work, and I thought it would be fun to show up with a tattoo. Not a real one, of course. A real one would have been easier and less painful.

I got online and looked for airbrush tattoo artists, thinking I would get someone who could paint my whole upper torso or even a fake sleeve. Wouldn’t that be cool? I only found “face painters” available for party bookings.

Next stop was henna. I contacted a local woman who does henna tattoos, but she called it mehndi. I don’t think calling it mehndi jacks up the price, but there seems to be a spiritual component, and I did not pass the test when I told her it was a prank for a pool party. Maybe some other time, she said.

Then I called an actual tattoo parlor. No one answered, and I was secretly grateful. This was a dumb idea. Ten minutes later my phone rang.

Strange Voice: Yeah. 

Me: Um, this is Donna, can I help you?

Strange Voice: Yeah, you called?

Me: Who is this?

Strange Voice: Tattoo?

Me: Oh! Tattoo guy! I didn’t leave a message!

Tattoo Guy: Caller ID.

Me: Yes, yes, of course. Well, you see, I was wondering if you do temporary tattoos.

Tattoo Guy: For what medium?

Me: What?

Tattoo Guy: Exactly, what do you want? What’s it for?

Me: I’m going to a party, and I would like a fake sleeve tattoo.

Tattoo Guy: I could do that.

Me: Really? Would it stay on if I got in the water? It's a pool party.

Tattoo Guy: No. Why don’t you just get a real one?

Me: I’ve thought about it, but I scar badly. 

Tattoo Guy: You didn’t tell me you wanted to cover a scar.

Me: I don’t. I was just saying. That’s why I don’t want a real one. 

Tattoo Guy: You want to cover it or not?

Me: No, I mean yes, could you? 

Tattoo Guy: It’s tough. Gotta punch through the scar tissue.

Me: Sounds painful.

Tattoo Guy: How old are you?

Me: 53.

Tattoo Guy: I ain’t punching no old ladies.

Me: I see. Well, thanks.This was helpful.

Tattoo Guy: Yeah, cool. Call back if you change your mind.

About what?  Getting “punched” by a crazed tattoo artist with compromised language skills?

I finally confessed to one of my colleagues about my plan. He said go to the Harley store. They have these mesh things that look real. I called first. Yeah, they had them. I stopped on my way home. Still dressed in my work clothes, looking a bit out of place at the Harley store.

About six guys in leather were sitting around and one jumped up to greet me. “You need help?”  By now, I’m done with explanations. Just give me the merchandise. I want the fake tattoo sleeves. Oh, he said, one of the girls in the back can help you. 

So, I walk over to one of the girls in the back, and I tell her I'm here for the sleeves. It felt like a drug deal about to go bad. “Oh," she says and then pauses ever so slightly, "You’re the one who called.”  Like you're the fricking idiot who called. She took me over to a glass case (these are quality fake tattoos!) and I had a choice of dragons and dragons, I think. I picked dragons. I noticed a nice Harley temporary tattoo and I said, oh, I could get one of those, too.  For a tramp stamp. 

Oops. 

“Or for your arm,” she says between gritted teeth.

I paid my $12 and I was outta there. I wore it to the party, as depicted in this actual pre-party photo, and I fooled two people before I got hot, took it off and jumped in the pool. 

The first person I fooled was nervous about my future at work. I tried to blow it off casually with comments like, "Oh, they'll just have to get used to it."  "I do what I want." She shook her head in disbelief.

The second person I fooled thought it made perfect sense. He asked me why dragons. I said I had a thing for dragons, and he believed me.

Later, after all was revealed, he seemed almost disaappointed. I had seemed like such a free spirit, he said. 

Read my blog, see my cat

I’m wondering if this blog is worth all the bother. Is it informative? Entertaining? Stupid? A blahg?

I guess if you spend a year cooking up Julia Child's recipes and blog about it and they make a movie later with Meryl Streep ... I guess then you know you're doing OK. My blog gets a fair amount of walk-in traffic. A tiny portion of the universe reads what I have to say. If I didn't care whether anybody reads this stuff, then I'd hole up with a cloth-covered journal and a greasy ballpoint pen.

Why read Rock the Silver? My cat is cute. Bruno doesn't have his own Facebook page yet, but you can catch him here for now. Next week: puppies.

The jury is still out on whether I should blog versus not blog, but I’ll be hanging around until I find a compelling reason not to. I'd hate to desert you so early in the game, I mean, it’s for you, isn’t it? It’s a service, right? Inspiring people to rock the silver and live an authentic life as they age?

Or is it just self-absorbed rambling such as one might overhear on cell phones at the mall?

Caller #1: Where are you?
Caller #2: I don’t know. Where are you?
Caller #1: I’m here.
Caller #2: Me, too.
Caller #1: Where you going to be later?
Caller #2: I don’t know.
Caller #1: Me, neither.

I’ve been thinking (danger, danger, Will Robinson).  Maybe blogging isn’t about you at all. Maybe it doesn't matter if anyone reads it. I only have to imagine that someone will. It’s a writer’s conversation – just bravely putting it out there, processing through the jumble of life. Kind of like dreams but way more public. So, even if it blows, perhaps I am better off for having blown. 

Listening to Leonard Cohen, Live in London. The lyrics from his song Anthem struck me as relevant. 

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

Happy Thursday! My hair is growing. Wearing headbands, for God's sake. Pictures to be posted soon.

Circling down the drain

A new study says gray hair is caused by stress. I mention this to my husband, who is thinking about U-boats and National Geographic specials on public television.

Me: It’s like hair DNA is under constant attack.

Him: By what?

Me: Ionizing radiation. I don’t know.

Him: Oh, you mean cellular stress!

Me: All I know is that bad stuff happens to your hair, and it craps out by going gray.

Him: Sounds like stem cells might have something to do with the way hair pigments.

Me: Whatever. 

Him: Damaged stem cells are probably unavoidable.

Me: Are you saying I caused this?

Him: Caused what?

Me: My gray hair?

Him: I thought you liked your hair.

Me: I do. I do. I’m just saying.

Him: Saying what?

Me: That it’s not my fault. It’s destiny.

Him: Stress or gray hair?

Me: All of it. Cellular stress, work stress, life stress. I’m circling down the drain.

Him: Work stress doesn’t make you gray. Just mean.

Me: Mean?  What is up with that?

Him: Hey, do you want a frozen Snickers? They're really good.

I read that men would do more with their hair if they could put their thoughts into words.  Really. 

Happiness calibration

A former boss called it the Cobbly Mobbly. Just kind of feeling down and out for no apparent reason. Not clinical depression but sort of a malaise from the grind of life. He could see you weren't your usual peppy self, and he'd say, "Take the afternoon off. Do something fun."

A lesson I learned playing golf -- if someone gives you a putt, take it. I was outta there. That was a pretty lax environment. My current place of employment is more challenging. If you get the Cobbly Mobbly here, it just means you aren't working hard enough! It's time for a happiness calibration. 

I am happy because it has been 10 years since I was diagnosed with a cancer most thought I wouldn’t survive. I’ve been disease-free since my initial treatment of surgery and chemotherapy. When the Cobbly Mobbly strikes, I just have to remind myself that I'm lucky to be alive. And that it's all good.

Here are 10 things I’ve done over 10 years to improve my life, lighten my load and bring the Cobbly Mobbly to its knees -- maybe there's a nugget in there for you. 

1. Vitamins and supplements: I’m not swallowing mega packs, but I boost my immune system with a good multivitamin, along with E, C and CoQ10 and low-dose aspirin. 

2. Exercise: I walk, run and lift weights to keep my keep my bones and muscles strong, weight down and heart healthy.
3. Food: Super-restrictive diets seem to be about a search for control. I love food, and I eat about everything within reason. I avoid processed foods and fake stuff and diet anything. 
4. Liquids: I don’t drown in it, but I drink at least a liter of purified water a day. I had one soda last year, and it was not diet. I like beer and red wine.
5. Humor: My husband and I find everything funny. We laugh a lot. Funny movies, funny books.  We even had cancer jokes. Part of my surgery included the removal of my omentum. After the surgery, he came in and said I’d never be able to dance again because I had no mo omentum.  Get it?  No momentum! We laughed for years.
6. Personal Style: Following my treatment, I began to explore new styles of clothes, new hair (now that I had it). I’ve gone fearlessly gray. Carving out a new look was like telling the universe I’m here to stay. 
7. Passion: I’ve always had to earn a living, but since I recovered from my illness, I found a new job, moved across the country, launched and sold a business, launched another business and started a blog. I am more than my work.
8. Fun: My husband and I like to scuba dive, go camping and play Wii. I’m a golfer. I also love more sedate activities such as listening to music, reading and watching cop shows on TV. The chores get done, but fun usually takes priority.
9. Flexibility: It’s like, whatever. I imagine a hot air balloon with negative junk in it, and I cut the cords and watch it go. It’s floating away! I can’t reach it! I do get angry about things, but I’ll feel it for that instant and let it go. I try not to be rigid about anything.
10. Self-awareness: Many cancer survivors say they want to live for their children or grandchildren, which is a wonderful motivator, but I also believe every person has something unique inside them ripe for development, and a great joy of life is exploring what that might be. I make a conscious effort to think about what I want, and how I can use my time on the planet wisely. Then I go for it.

I don’t know why I’ve survived as long as I have. It could simply be luck of the draw. Medicine and miracles. Or maybe I’m still here in spite of everything I do. I don't need further explanation. Like I said. If someone gives you a putt, take it. 

Swimsuit makeover

I look in the mirror, and I don’t see a freak. But I shopped for swimsuits yesterday, and excuse me a minute, uh, I think that’s the circus calling.

Magazines fill your head with swimsuit makeover nonsense about looking good no matter what your shape. It’s as though the PR people for the swimsuit lobby got together and said, well, if we can make women think it’s even possible to disguise their flaws, our work here is done.

It might be possible to look good in a swimsuit if your flaw is bulimia. A swimsuit is a pretty skimpy piece of clothing, and there’s not much you can do to camouflage excess. Booty got no where to run.

I like the approach men seem to have about their bodies. They don’t care. Interestingly, the men’s Speedo rack at Sports Authority gets a pretty good workout, and the guys I saw bore no resemblance to Michael Phelps. After a long day of trying on swimsuits that bordered on butt floss, I looked longingly at the blue mankinis. Oh, that's right. They are properly called bikini briefs.  

The fabric, presumably designed to hold on tight to what’s yours, is far more substantial that the wispy little bottoms I tried on at Target. And a drawstring! How clever is that? These bottoms aren’t going anywhere!

I waited until the crowd thinned and stared flipping through the sizes. I wear a 31 or a 32 in men’s jeans, and I love the way they fit. Why not a man’s swimsuit?  Unfortunately, the 32 looked like it would fit Peter Pan. I grabbed the 34 and the 36, tucked them between two girly-looking tennis skirts and headed for the fitting room.

Sometimes fitting room attendants make you hand everything to them so that they can count the items themselves. I said a silent prayer. 

Me: I’ve got four.

Her: Four?

Me: Four.

Her: Okay.

I made it! I’m in the inner chamber! I hope I’m not the first one to tell you this, but men’s bodies are different than women’s. The differences don’t show up so much in jeans, but all is revealed in a few ounces of lycra. Tight in the legs, big in the waist, narrow through the butt. All the features I don't need. With yet another failed experiment under my belt, I depart the fitting room.

Her: Any of those work for you?

(She knows!  She knows!)

Me: No.

I handed them to her and as she separated the hangars, I saw an eyebrow raise. Just one. I moved quickly and silently away from the fitting room and toward the light. She’s probably still standing there holding the Speedos and wondering what the hell that was all about.

Princess Camp

I frequently drive by a dance studio that advertises “Princess Camp” for girls. If I’m by myself, I do a quasi-sigh or even a minimalist shake of the head. But if my husband is with me, I say something profane about the snotty little darlings I assume go there in droves. And then I add that if I had kids, and one was a girl, I would send her to, “You Do That Again, And I’ll Kick Your Ass Camp.”

Just to get a laugh. It’s good to have an audience.

Not that I have anything against princesses. Represent the ruling class. Wave a magic wand. Wear a crown. Dress up in chiffon and dance the night away. I’m all over it. But I’m thinking that girls don’t need to be told they are beautiful and precious until they’re 50. By then you've earned it.

Little girls are cute and they’re the future and all that, so maybe we should spend at least some time encouraging them to toughen up. The right camps can help prevent serious errors in judgments and  otherwise prepare a young lady for success in life. 

I, personally, would have benefitted from “What Doctors Don't Know And Never Tell You Camp." I have a friend whose life may have taken a different course if she had known about “Why You Shouldn’t Dance On Tables Topless Camp.” How about some others?

• Fantasy 401K Camp

• Bitter Disappointment Camp

• Good Men/Bad Men: How To Tell The Difference Camp

• Sharing Household Chores Camp

Any more ideas?