On a day when
almost everyone is wearing green, I went out in pink—hair that is. I get mixed revues on my do,
but this afternoon as I was filling the cargo hatch with groceries, a young guy
in a hoodie flashed me the peace sign, and stopped long enough to say, “I’m
diggin’ your hair. Stay rad, Man!”
Had he been into
the green beer? Perhaps. Was he a time traveler from the sixties? Possibly...but
I don’t care. It made me laugh. Evidently my crazy hair did something
for his spirit, and his compliment did something for mine.
Some weeks ago, Liza Fromer, a Toronto morning-show personality, asked the
following question: “Is it appropriate to give a stranger a compliment?” It
seems that on her way to work that day, our television host had seen a smartly
dressed woman on the street, and wanted to compliment her look, but felt shy
about it.
I say go for it. Show
your colours. Especially on St. Paddy’s
Day.
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As a nursing student in the 70’s I belonged to the glorious sisterhood known as Beta Sigma Phi, Nu Phi Mu level. In addition to selling game day programs at CFL games, one of our fundraising charitable activities involved runway modeling.
We were responsible to style the outfits with our own accessories, a task I would have no trouble with today, but back then I had no real stash of jewelry. I was able to find a cheap little gold lamé dog collar, made out of the same stuff as my shoes and clutch purse, to wear with this yellow tulle ballgown. (Those were the matchy-matchy days). I think I paid $5 for the choker, and took home the gold lamé purse and block-heeled sandals (how very 70’s) for another $25.
The only dog collars I own now are actually used by the dog, and the shoes are so out of style they resemble the vintage collectibles I now ask other people to model for the Mobile Millinery Museum. I do miss the blonde wig, which was one of my all-time favourite fashion items.
By the time I graduated nursing, I had left sorority behind. It was hard enough passing chemistry, microbiology, and psychiatry, without being tested on secret handshakes and the Greek alphabet. I became a mom and must have modeled a few good things, because all three of my children are wonderfully charming, accomplished, and caring people today. OK, Jim might have had a bit to do with that.
I know I modeled some not so good stuff too, and I hope they will forgive me for that. My new modeling career is all about how to do 60. Please wish me luck with that.
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You Facebook followers probably know that Jim went in for surgery yesterday—for an inguinal hernia repair. We arrived at and left at (pretty good), but by a.m. I was ready for an Earl Grey tea. (See how his pain and suffering becomes my ordeal?)
Anyway, the coffee shop in the hospital (Jo Brant) is a Tim Horton’s, so I lined up and placed my order for a travel-mug refill. I handed over the green plastic mug, but hung onto the lid.
The cashier told me I HAD to relinquish the lid, because of a safety concern (apparently, they can’t carry open hot drinks at that location).
I resisted because I’m fussy. Plus, I’ve never had this problem before. Never. Not at other Timmie’s, drive-thrus, William’s coffee shops, or Starbucks. But here’s the thing: I had seen the server sneeze, and you know what I was thinking,
Sure enough, she’s carrying my precious green comfort mug in one hand, and my home-sterilized lid in the other (yes, I’m that fussy) and the server sneezes into her arm. Anyone who has seen time-lapse photography of that scenario, knows where the shmutz goes.
I quietly told the cashier that that was the reason I wanted to hang onto the lid, and she shouts to her cohort, “This lady says you sneezed on her lid.” After that, they double-doubled me with rudeness. (Have they never heard of antibiotic-resistant bacteria and auto-immune disorders?) I grabbed my mug and left. I don't know whether I was more upset at the sneeze, or at being told I HAD to hand over the lid, but I didn’t drink the tea.
I’ve been a happy Tim's customer for years. In fact, I was at the grand opening of the first location. (Boy, does that admission make me sound old.) I was about 12 at the time, and my friend and I were as excited about meeting Tim Horton—can you believe it?—as we were about the donuts. We showed up, autograph books in hand, expecting to find our hockey player in a Leaf’s uniform. He was sitting with a bunch of suits, though, so we didn’t know who was who.
I left disappointed and too shy to speak up for what I wanted, on that day too.
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I attended with my husband at the hospital yesterday for his
pre-op exam. While he was getting an ECG, I staked out the gift shop and ran
into a former acquaintance of mine. Although I recognized her right away, (she
has the cutest little pixie face that would look awesome under a hat), I
couldn’t determine the context.
Our conversation began with, “Excuse me, do I know you?” We
progressed through the when’s and where’s, summarizing the last 29 years, and
ended up exchanging business cards.
That’s a lie. She gave me her card (it’s impressive), and I
dug through my purse but came up empty. If you’re not well organized by the age
of 59, will you ever be?
My former cohort felt she needed to explain the fact that
her email address contains the word ‘cougar’, so I got to thinking about how
much we worry about the impression we leave with others. After all, when she
knew me before, I was working as a nurse, and now I’m the pink-haired hat lady.
What must she think?
How much of ourselves do we reveal through our selection of
online monikers, blog titles, and Facebook images? And how much do we care? Are
we free to be playful with our internet identity? When I registered for this
blog, the titles I wanted—Hat Chat, FrockTalk, Vintage Verbiage—were unavailable. I considered Freelance Floozy, but what impression
would that leave?
I enjoyed re-connecting with my former acquaintance today; a
girl I knew from the days before retronyms like ‘snailmail’ became part of our
lexicon—back when the impression we made on others resulted from our day to
day, face to face, human interactions.
Does anyone else agonize over this sort of thing, or is it
just me?
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Auggie Doggie as a pupp (an anniversary gift from my husband )
Who says veterinary bills have to be high? We have just returned from the dog doctor and it only cost me $26 bucks! Better than that—Auggie, my Border Collie/ Australian Shepherd mix, didn’t require any treatment. It seems he took care of the problem himself.
Two weeks ago I noticed a small growth on my dog’s chest while I was petting him. It freaked me out (although not as badly as the time another dog of mine ate some carpet, and had trouble pooping it out. How do you put a dog in a cab when there are 18 inches of nylon coil hanging out of his arse?)
Anyway, I immediately put Auggie (short for Auggie Doggie) on a raw foods diet and budgeted for the worst. Although I worked as an RN for 18 years, I couldn’t bring myself to examine the area, so I had a friend (formerly a vet in Bulgaria) take a close look at this ugly black protruberance. He advised me to clip the hair around the area, clean the spot (it now looked like a nipple) and apply some antibiotic ointment twice a day for a week, after which he promised to take a second look.
That plan fell apart the first day. There’s no way Auggie would keep a cone on. Actually, I could only stand five minutes of him racing back and forth shaking his head, so I stopped with the ointment and let him lick the darned thing.
I found out on Friday that he could do more than just lick the area. I heard a yelp, and discovered he’d bitten off whatever was there. Bigger freak-out! I made an appointment with the veterinary hospital, (surely the base of this would have to be excised), but the doctor told me there is nothing left to remove or biopsy. Probable diagnosis: a wart. Let’s hope it doesn’t grow back.
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