Rock the Silver

Pudgy in pink paisley

It's prom season, and I have a prom story to share. Before I get started, let me get a tissue to mop up any loose tears. It's funny now, but it was sad then. Best to be prepared. There is a reason I have absolutely no evidence anywhere that this ever happened.

I was not invited to a prom at my high school. I was an old maid in prom years, when out of the blue came an opportunity too good to be true. My sister was dating a boy at college, and he had a brother, and wouldn't it be cool if we met? I'm like, sure! It was just like when the cute Mormon boys arrived at the door one day. You pray for boys, and you take what you get. Thank you, God!

My sister and the boyfriend arranged a weekend outing. They swung by from their college in Los Angeles, picked me up in Orange County and we drove to San Diego, where the family lived. It was all rather glamorous.

The parents were nice, and the brother was cute. Way cute. Tall, slim, athletic. We'll call him R. And at some point, R kissed me as I had never been kissed. That was the first time I actually woke up from my daze and thought, so this is what it's all about. Before we left, he asked me if I would come back and be his prom date. OMG. I was going to the prom!

Meanwhile, R won a hot red sports car in a radio contest. Really. He picked me up in the car on prom weekend, and we drove to San Diego together. His mother took me to a place to get my hair done, and even though it ended up looking kind of old-lady poofy, I was happy. She even went over manners with me for dinner. God knows, I needed that.

R looked awesome. I was thinking about those kisses. As we got in the car to go to dinner, he said something about not liking my dress. What? You said what? The dress was sleeveless pink paisley in a lightweight chiffony material with a gathered top, empire waist and long flowy skirt. Shawl to match. Very 70s, because it was, you know, the 70s?  Timing is everything.

I think it wasn't the dress as much as it was the body. I had weight issues in high school. When I met R, I had lost a good bit of weight and was looking like every other cute California high school girl. By prom weekend, I had gained about 20 pounds. Not rotund by any stretch but not the babe he expected to see on the bleachers waiting for him after ball practice. He was the star pitcher.

My hunky new boyfriend was pissed to be stuck with me. Thought he was importing some babe from the OC and got her chubby twin instead. Maybe even her evil twin after the comment about the dress. He was rude to me all night, ignored me at the prom (where I didn't know a single soul) and then wanted to go the the beach and makeout afterward.

You wanna do what? I was like, no way, you treated me like crap all night. I'm saving it for someone else, pal. We went back to the house and both stormed into our separate rooms. In the morning, he told his mother he had a terrible headache and would be unable to drive me back. His mother took me to the bus station, and I rode the bus home from my prom. 

Forgive me for not being sentimental about youth. On the bright side, we actually got reacquainted after high school, when I was hormonally involved with someone else. Oh, and tee hee, someone else just happened to be his best friend.

OK, let's hear some prom stories.

Nancy Pelosi and the Cloak of Invisibility

Left, Nancy Pelosi in 2005. Right, Nancy Pelosi in 2010. She turns 70 tomorrow.

I've posted pictures like this before, you know ... celebrities who have had some work done. And it might seem as though I am somewhat obsessed. I'm not really ... just undecided. Obviously, technology has advanced to the point where money and desire can buy you ageless good looks. I'm not necessarily opposed to enhancements, surgical or otherwise. If it makes a person happy, who am I to judge? Still, something about tinkering with the face bugs me.

I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think it has something to do with Harry Potter. Whenever Harry wanted to hide, he whipped out the invisibility cloak. Covered by the cloak of invisibility, he could go anywhere and do anything without being seen. Harry was no longer the dorky kid at Hogwarts ... he was a super-human sleuth who could penetrate enemy chambers with no one the wiser.

Nancy has her own little cloak. Hanging out with the boys in Washington, where it seems to me old women are eccentric or invisible. Old Nancy is invisible. New Nancy is hot and definitely not eccentric. Whether you agree with her politics or not, she's a powerful person in the chambers of Congress... a powerful 70-year-old woman who happens to look decades younger. No one's the wiser.

I worry that all woman pay a price for the vanity of a few. We are smarter and stronger and better than we've ever been, but are we irrelevant unless we cheat time? It doesn't have to go down like that. We all want to look our best as long as we can, but there will soon come a day when we will have to choose wisdom and authenticity over fading vestiges of youth. That's when we take the floor and shout, "This is what 70 looks like."

Then we kick ass. 

March is the cruelist month

Spring just makes me mad. Forget all that rebirth and renew stuff, I want warm weather, and I want it now. Spring seduces us with promises of rising mercury, but then you wear open-toed shoes and a lovely lightweight frock, and you spend the day freezing your ass off.

March is showy ... full of promises that are slow to deliver. We have fun outdoor activities scheduled and cute clothes to wear, damn it! Let's get on with this show.  

OK, so I have issues with March. Today is the 11-year anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. I have been fine and wonderful since my initial treatment, but it scares the crap out of me just the same. I will say this. Living through that ordeal frees you up to live a little large. I like it. Note to non-cancer survivors: don't wait to be invited. It's not a club you want to join. Live large anyway. Not Amy Winehouse large. Large ... with seat belts and air bags.

Finally, for a person who largely lives on the Internet, I was surprised to discover I can't replace Google. Keep the day job. But I learned two funny expressions as a result of real human interaction. You probably knew this, but I'm a late bloomer. If somebody says you're the shit -- that's a good thing. MDAL is mutton dressed as a lamb. By the way, that's not us ... at least that's not the look we're going for.

So, happy March. Keep moving, folks. Nothing to see here.

Calling it quits

Not the blog, sillies. But it has been a week for quitting.

I quit doing other people's work for them. I will never be one of those people who says, "It's not my job." I err the other way and end up taking on other people's stuff. A young colleague asked me to edit a white paper he'd drafted. The paper was poorly written and sloppy in presentation. Within the paper were seven or eight mini-profiles, so I edited three of them and sent it back with a note.

"I edited three of the profiles to give you an idea for how they might be improved. I would be happy to review your next draft once you've had time to work on the others."  He actually came over and told me I forgot to do all of them! "There are five more," he said pleadingly. I explained it was his task to go back and try again on the rest of them. Oh.  But he did it, we tweaked the final draft together and we both learned something. Regrettably, he called me ma'am.

I quit torturing my eyebrows. I really do not know the difference between $70 eyebrows and $20 eyebrows. I shape my eyebrows at home myself, so all I know is that magnifying mirrors and good tweezers are a dangerous thing. Note to self: you don't have to get every little stub.

I quit worrying about the yellow bags. The trash is picked up once a week (Wednesdays) in our neighborhood. No limits ... all you can drag out to the street as long as it's in a bag. You can buy yellow bags from the city (box of 10 for $5.64) and they will pick up those bags on Saturday. We've lived here almost four years, and a neighbor a couple of houses down has had at least one yellow bag at the end of their driveway every Saturday without fail. Every Saturday.

Lordy, I have squandered way too much time wondering what is so dang volatile that you have to pay extra for it to go out on Saturday. Why would you pay extra for the yellow bags? What's really in the bags? Would they mind if I took a tiny peek? Do they know Wednesdays are unlimited?  Are the trash people in on this scam as well? I would ask for your theories, but I quit worrying about it this week. 

Finally, I quit the Activia Challenge. I started 10 days ago for the all the reasons one might want to speed intestinal transit time. Plus, I wanted one of those flat bellies like you see on TV. I liked the taste and all that, but I didn't exactly feel like it was doing the Indy 500 through my digestive tract. In fact, it just made me gassy and bloated. Like the opposite of flat belly. So not liking it.