As a guy, I am finding aging is not a bowl of strawberry sherbet. Well, unless you are 19 and are using a fake I.D. to get into a bar. That is not only fun but exciting. It is also good to be male and enjoy your 'Jesus' year: age 33. If you look swell the year of the double 3; it's a bonus. It is supposedly the high point in attractiveness if you sport a penis. After that, things start to careen down the slippery slope of added birthdays. The hair falls out. You wake up with diagonal ditches across your forehead. Wiry, hoary hairs sprout in places like your ears, nostrils and back. Eyebrows can suddenly look like John L. Lewis'. Musculature shrinks. The libido gets a headache more frequently.
I can only speak for the male population. Women generally don't worry about things like unwanted back hair unless they are of certain Mediterranean persuasions or possibly weight lifters. There are the usual aches and pains and increased disease susceptibilities. Lower energy comes into play...loss of eye sight, hearing and of course, memory. Patience starts to stunt. Curmudgeon mood swings surface more frequently. That "Get off my Lawn!" kind of attitude can infiltrate more easily. Easy breezy begins to dry and the smallest speed bump can ruin your day.
Yeah sure, the 'wisdom' thing is just great. You can pontificate about all you have learned and sit on your laurels (but not too long because the back goes numb) and sooth say until the cows come home. There can be a dignity and graciousness with your advancing years if you are lucky enough to keep your health and not need too much lypo.
Considering I am almost in my mid 50s, things could be worse. (That was a terrifying sentence I just typed.) The body is mostly intact and if I fall down I can usually get up. My wrinkles aren't cavernous and I can stay on the elliptical for 1/2 hour without having an asthma attack. All of that curly, dark hair I used to have is long gone so I shave my skull and it looks OK. Fortunately my head isn't shaped like the Hindenburg. The only particular that kind of bothers me and has become a challenge, is my beard. (Well, that, and uneven dry face patchiness, knee wrinkles and trying to remember why I just parked, walked into Publix and am standing in the bread aisle without a clue.)
In recent years, my beard has definitely gotten more and more gray. What used to be a beautiful auburn has dulled with speckles of snow and well, dirty snow. I allow the grandpa effect only up to a point. When too much white appears, I have to rub on the dye. I feel I have to because my opinion is that I get too washed out looking. If I was as tan as Charlie Crist, well, then, maybe....Raphael and a few friends like the salt and pepper but I am not ready to live with it just yet. I listen to the "Dye, baby, dye!" crowd....So.....
Usually I get a medium brown that I basically 'paint' on and leave for about 6 or 7 minutes. I then go and shampoo my face and hope I haven't left it on too long. There is that tricky period where if you go a minute or two over, it looks like you have dipped the lower part of your face in ash. One can end up looking like a pageant actor portraying one of Jesus' disciples in a Passion Play. I vary the 'depth' of darkness and often will leave some white here and there to make it less obvious that I am, indeed, dying my facial hair. If anyone is paying attention at all to my age they have to know that my beard is unnaturally dark. I do it anyway. It just makes me feel better (even if I end up looking like Billy Mays.)
Well, yesterday I thought I would be adventurous and try something different. Like I said, my original beard color was a rich auburn. After searching for a reddish/brown in the the 'Just for Men' beard dye aisle, I came up short. I settled on a woman's Clairol hair color that I thought would work. It was a deep sequoia color that looked believable on the box's picture. My friend Mookie had done something similar and said it sufficed. The directions indicated it would cover gray so I was set. I got home, put on the see through plastic gloves and started mixing up the concoction. It was way more complicated than regular beard dye. I had to squeeze a gooey solution into another bottle and shake it. Next came a slow, squirting process where I dabbed. It was runny and clumpy. Beard dye always has a brush that makes it easier to manipulate. This stuff was designed to be spread all over your head and rubbed in with your hands. It would also possibly plug the gulf oil leak.
Very quickly it became apparent I would have to be swift in my application. My artistic side would need to be tapped. While simultaneously blotting on an increasingly alarming burgundy, slightly red radish-like color combo, the dripping picked up steam. Skin bordering my hair follicles also was staining rapidly and turning crimson. I had to wipe with a wet cloth to remove the pigment from my skin while trying to even out the color throughout the beard. My juggling fingers somehow worked and I peered into the mirror. My beard appeared black raspberry and glistening. The trim line was even and clean from smears. The box said I was supposed to wait 10 minutes but the color was going Kodachrome / High Def in a way that was making me very nervous. After a minute or two, I jumped in the shower and washed it off. When I emerged to dry, it took all my courage to take the first peek in the mirror. Finally I looked. It wasn't horrific but the gray areas were lighter and kind of an eggplant/red licorice hue. The consistency was pretty even but it wasn't really a dense brick/brown. It was more like that beautiful deep burgundy/garnet mix that is seen on the fancier pillows at Target. The ones that are satin with tassels and are tossed into a harem. Not feeling that exotic, I decided to deepen the shade with some of my regular brown, beard dye and stepped back in the shower.
After my second attempt, I determined my appearance normal enough that I could go out in public and do a few errands. I would wear a baseball cap so the contrast of my shaved head wouldn't look so alarming. I stopped at a UPS store to fax some documents. No one seemed to look at my face with alarm or amusement. So far so good. I stopped for a coffee. I ran into a friend. We chatted a bit. At first he wasn't looking directly at me as he conversed and perused a hook up website on his computer. Later, he gave me his full attention and I caught a quick widening of his eyes. Though subtle, I could tell he had done a quick visual intake of my lower face...kind of like when you notice a person has a piece of sun dried tomato caught in between teeth. He didn't say anything but it was apparent something gave him pause. Yet, no one was talking in hushed tones and looking my way. It was hard to say what the truth was. Perhaps denial had settled in. The real test would be what Raphael says when he gets home.
The door opens an hour later. I am at my computer. Raphael appears and walks toward me, smiling and carrying some stuff from his car. ( seven chocolate cupcakes to be exact, but I digress.) As he nears me, I can see his expression stiffen, then stretch back as in a wind tunnel and then finally fall. There is that 'Oh Christ...what have you done?' look. Immediately I say "Is it too much? I was trying for my original coloring......" He just sighs and looks away and says "Yes. it is too much. It looks like you applied henna to your face." All I could think of were those Indian girls with tattoos on their fingers and suddenly felt a spiritual link.
I immediately knew I would have to change the color. I trusted Raphael's opinion on this one. After a few "It freaks me out when I look at you" comments it was time to cover it with my usual dye. The first attempt didn't work and it just took it down a shade. The second time I plastered on a kind of chocolate mud concoction and it seemed to do the trick. Of course, now my skin was burning from several applications and the beard would be so intensely dark that its appearance might possibly be more obvious than the red. I didn't care. This was my fourth application of dye in 6 hours. My face felt like a hot sidewalk and I was looking rather sinister but the Leaf Erickson look had disappeared.
The beard ended up the color of raw umber mixed with dried blood. All I need is a powder blue leisure suit and a lot of gold jewelry and I could sell watches at a flea market out of my mini-van. It seems a lesson was learned. If you are going to amateurishly betray youth, at least have a back up plan like two weeks in Costa Rica where no one will know you. Maybe I should try extensions next. They would at least cover the creases on my ear lobes and distract from the gray that will eventually reappear in my beard. A monocle might be a nice touch. I could add a tam. Either way, I would welcome some white hairs back on my jaw line. It is distracting as Raphael talks to me while his eyes dart back and forth from my eyes to my blackened facial growth. I feel bad for him. For the next several days he will be waking up next to Kevin, the community theatre actor face. Aging be cursed!
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
To Corolla with love
I got my car painted.....
It needed it. The exterior was looking p-r-e-t-t-y bad. The hood was uber oxidizing and the back bumper was cracking. I had gotten the trunk and top 'spot' painted at different times in the last three years but the fade and breakdown was taking over almost everywhere.
When I bought the car in August of 2006, the body inside and out were in very good shape. An elderly woman from Century Village had owned it. The car only had 14,000 miles on it! It was a 2001 and looked brand new. She literally only drove it from her complex to Publix and back. The engine was spotless. I had just totaled my 96 Saab in a smashup and I had to act fast with the insurance money available. When I found her car it seemed like the practical thing to do. It was not glamorous (it's the most basic Toyota Corolla ever made.) The only extras were a cup holder and a little dash bin where I could keep toll change.)
The insurance check paid for it in entirety and I haven't had a car payment in almost 4 years. The vehicle purrs like a top and is virtually maintenance free. The only problem has been that the previous owner let it 'bake' in the Florida sun. She never waxed it or protected the interior from heat and exposure. Consequently, the deterioration of its exterior was hastened. I tried to stay on top of it but there had been too much early damage. The molding along the interior door jams succumbed to solar stress from almost the beginning. It started pulling away within months of my purchase. Headliners don't do well in this climate either. Material began hanging and pulling loose. I no sooner got it fixed when the door upholstery shrunk from its confines and started peeling off. I had to pin it. Luckily the dash never cracked and I am amazed at its resiliency.
For almost a year, the car's exterior has accelerated its bleach. Wax jobs helped a tiny bit but within days the oxidizing looked like Rorschach test blots. It was apparent I would have to get a total paint job at some point. I was also becoming increasingly embarrassed. To add insult to injury, my headlights were getting that filmy look and getting increasingly cloudy. In short, I was somewhat humiliated to be seen in my car. K Bruce was officially driving a 'beater' and my ego was taking a pounding (no pun intended.) Every time I pulled into a spot next to a shiny car of any caste, mortification welled up. I felt like a shabby old goat cart on radials.
The first time I picked up Raphael for a date I made sure it was dark with little street light. I was worried what he might think a 52 year old was doing in such a vehicle. It would take a while for him to completely understand what a gem this car was. It did look like something a uni-bomber would park in front of his double wide. My persuasive abilities eventually proved to him this car was an Infinity in homeless car clothing. I think the Corolla's incredibly efficient air conditioning convinced him first. His is just OK in his 08 fancy Beetle.
For most of my adult life, I had always had an attractive car or at least an interesting one. I prided myself in what I drove. The Corolla had been bought for prudent reasons and nothing else. It was basic, bland and dependable. I was going to be really responsible and not go for image. I succeeded. One time I parked it at the Ft. Lauderdale airport garage and ran in, not paying close attention to what level and color I left. When I returned, it took me over an hour to find my car. There were at least 10 that looked exactly like it. It was one of the most anonymous autos ever produced. I think I could drive it across the White House lawn and no one would notice.
In a single day it is possible to see at least 50 gray, 'custom' 2001 Corolla sedans on any piece of asphalt. Their utilitarianism is pervasive. They are like the practical shoe of the car world; a pair of colorless Crocks with a steering wheel. This is both good and bad. The good is proof that this car is still running and a gazillion drivers continue operating them. The bad is that their generic appearance makes yours hard to spot in a Target parking lot. Sometimes there might be an identical three parked in a row. I can't tell you how many times I have tried to get in the wrong one and cursed my key for not working. Now I know what Vespa operators must have felt like in the Rome of the 1950s.
In the past I have owned the previously mentioned Saab ( a beautiful quirky, convertible but that constantly whined with ills), a handsome silver Passat, a cherry red Mazda MX-6 ( I loved this one. It was sexy and ergonomic), a sharp and nimble Bronco II, a vintage red and white 1959 Edsel station wagon that was in pristine condition (it was like navigating the Carpathia), a Fiero two seater (adorable but probably not too safe if a semi had hit me) and a sweet, little 74 crimson Mustang II. In college I had a Vega station wagon. It was cute but the clutch went out on it twice in six months. I think it was one of the cheapest cars every produced. Prior to that was my first car: A 69 VW Beetle that was white with a red interior. I truly loved this car even when I had to push it to get it started towards the end of my ownership. The Bug was even a bit fancier than my Corolla. It had a sun roof.
So, given I have owned more alluring cars, none have been as dependable and trustworthy as my current Toyota Wonder Machine. It may be boring but it is a fabulous piece of engineering. I can honestly say that it continues to be the most reliable car of my life. That is why I invested in its paint job. And, I am not stopping. Plans are to continue with some other cosmetic improvements like wheel covers and upholstery fixes. The car costs me nothing and as long as I change the oil and do yearly maintenance; who knows how long it will last. I would be a fool to sell it and get something newer and more luxurious. It only has 42,000 miles and is 9 years old. (Kind of likc Noah Cyrus without the knee high leather boots. (See www.rightcelebrity.com and gag....)
Eventually I will tire of my prudent wisdom and want to move onto something more satisfying. Even then I may keep the thing and use it as a back up ride. This little car of the masses continues to prove its brilliance. Abandoning it too soon would be harsh. I respect its undying cooperation.
Slapping on a new coat of dawn gray was the least I could do for it. Never has there been a more faithful servant with cloth seats and a cup holder.
It needed it. The exterior was looking p-r-e-t-t-y bad. The hood was uber oxidizing and the back bumper was cracking. I had gotten the trunk and top 'spot' painted at different times in the last three years but the fade and breakdown was taking over almost everywhere.
When I bought the car in August of 2006, the body inside and out were in very good shape. An elderly woman from Century Village had owned it. The car only had 14,000 miles on it! It was a 2001 and looked brand new. She literally only drove it from her complex to Publix and back. The engine was spotless. I had just totaled my 96 Saab in a smashup and I had to act fast with the insurance money available. When I found her car it seemed like the practical thing to do. It was not glamorous (it's the most basic Toyota Corolla ever made.) The only extras were a cup holder and a little dash bin where I could keep toll change.)
The insurance check paid for it in entirety and I haven't had a car payment in almost 4 years. The vehicle purrs like a top and is virtually maintenance free. The only problem has been that the previous owner let it 'bake' in the Florida sun. She never waxed it or protected the interior from heat and exposure. Consequently, the deterioration of its exterior was hastened. I tried to stay on top of it but there had been too much early damage. The molding along the interior door jams succumbed to solar stress from almost the beginning. It started pulling away within months of my purchase. Headliners don't do well in this climate either. Material began hanging and pulling loose. I no sooner got it fixed when the door upholstery shrunk from its confines and started peeling off. I had to pin it. Luckily the dash never cracked and I am amazed at its resiliency.
For almost a year, the car's exterior has accelerated its bleach. Wax jobs helped a tiny bit but within days the oxidizing looked like Rorschach test blots. It was apparent I would have to get a total paint job at some point. I was also becoming increasingly embarrassed. To add insult to injury, my headlights were getting that filmy look and getting increasingly cloudy. In short, I was somewhat humiliated to be seen in my car. K Bruce was officially driving a 'beater' and my ego was taking a pounding (no pun intended.) Every time I pulled into a spot next to a shiny car of any caste, mortification welled up. I felt like a shabby old goat cart on radials.
The first time I picked up Raphael for a date I made sure it was dark with little street light. I was worried what he might think a 52 year old was doing in such a vehicle. It would take a while for him to completely understand what a gem this car was. It did look like something a uni-bomber would park in front of his double wide. My persuasive abilities eventually proved to him this car was an Infinity in homeless car clothing. I think the Corolla's incredibly efficient air conditioning convinced him first. His is just OK in his 08 fancy Beetle.
For most of my adult life, I had always had an attractive car or at least an interesting one. I prided myself in what I drove. The Corolla had been bought for prudent reasons and nothing else. It was basic, bland and dependable. I was going to be really responsible and not go for image. I succeeded. One time I parked it at the Ft. Lauderdale airport garage and ran in, not paying close attention to what level and color I left. When I returned, it took me over an hour to find my car. There were at least 10 that looked exactly like it. It was one of the most anonymous autos ever produced. I think I could drive it across the White House lawn and no one would notice.
In a single day it is possible to see at least 50 gray, 'custom' 2001 Corolla sedans on any piece of asphalt. Their utilitarianism is pervasive. They are like the practical shoe of the car world; a pair of colorless Crocks with a steering wheel. This is both good and bad. The good is proof that this car is still running and a gazillion drivers continue operating them. The bad is that their generic appearance makes yours hard to spot in a Target parking lot. Sometimes there might be an identical three parked in a row. I can't tell you how many times I have tried to get in the wrong one and cursed my key for not working. Now I know what Vespa operators must have felt like in the Rome of the 1950s.
In the past I have owned the previously mentioned Saab ( a beautiful quirky, convertible but that constantly whined with ills), a handsome silver Passat, a cherry red Mazda MX-6 ( I loved this one. It was sexy and ergonomic), a sharp and nimble Bronco II, a vintage red and white 1959 Edsel station wagon that was in pristine condition (it was like navigating the Carpathia), a Fiero two seater (adorable but probably not too safe if a semi had hit me) and a sweet, little 74 crimson Mustang II. In college I had a Vega station wagon. It was cute but the clutch went out on it twice in six months. I think it was one of the cheapest cars every produced. Prior to that was my first car: A 69 VW Beetle that was white with a red interior. I truly loved this car even when I had to push it to get it started towards the end of my ownership. The Bug was even a bit fancier than my Corolla. It had a sun roof.
So, given I have owned more alluring cars, none have been as dependable and trustworthy as my current Toyota Wonder Machine. It may be boring but it is a fabulous piece of engineering. I can honestly say that it continues to be the most reliable car of my life. That is why I invested in its paint job. And, I am not stopping. Plans are to continue with some other cosmetic improvements like wheel covers and upholstery fixes. The car costs me nothing and as long as I change the oil and do yearly maintenance; who knows how long it will last. I would be a fool to sell it and get something newer and more luxurious. It only has 42,000 miles and is 9 years old. (Kind of likc Noah Cyrus without the knee high leather boots. (See www.rightcelebrity.com and gag....)
Eventually I will tire of my prudent wisdom and want to move onto something more satisfying. Even then I may keep the thing and use it as a back up ride. This little car of the masses continues to prove its brilliance. Abandoning it too soon would be harsh. I respect its undying cooperation.
Slapping on a new coat of dawn gray was the least I could do for it. Never has there been a more faithful servant with cloth seats and a cup holder.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
An'glow' Saxon
Yesterday Raphael and I went to the beach. It was a beautiful, breezy, blue experience. The water was clear and vibrant aqua. The sand reflected the brightness of the shining, expansive sky. Palm trees swayed elegantly as muscled bodies jogged to and fro in front of us along the waterline. It was the perfect day to lay on a towel and tap your foot as the latest GaGa streamed into your earbuds.
When we arrived it was quite windy. I had a hell of a time trying to get the umbrella pole stationed into the sand. People all around smiled politely as they internally laughed at my clumsy attempts. I looked like a frazzled Roald Amundsen in flip flops trying to lay claim to this part of the beach. Finally, Raphael did some kind of 'drilling' technique with the collapsed umbrella pole. He tamped around the base and pushed open the flowery canopy. Voila! I was in the shade. Neighboring beachies returned to their books and lost interest.
I positioned my chair as Raphael spread out his towel. We settled in with our Ipods, magazines, cooler of Coke Zeros and veggie chips. Stripping down to our swimsuits, we again gained notice. One of us was olive and not working as a solar power alternative. The other was, well, working as a solar power alternative.
Digging into bags, out came the sunblocks. Raphael had a very sophisticated system of 'numbers' for various parts of his body: The SPFs ranged from a 15 for his face, 4 for his legs and arms, 30 for his shoulders and any other assortment concerning various appendages. It was like watching an Australian Gold sponsored skin cancer symposium. He replied stoic-like without looking at me; "Don't knock it....it works." I had no doubt. When I met him last fall, he looked like he had just driven to my place from Ipanema. Over the fall and winter his tan had faded because of weather obstacles and work related time constraints. His spray-on technique would have him looking luminous by dinnertime. I could envision him all carmelly as he tossed the salad while I still looked like a saltine setting the table.
As he rubbed in his sun potions I broke out my Sunblock with an SPF of 70. White paste was spread onto my arms, neck, face, legs and all over. I felt like I was applying window caulk to my skin. Every inch of exposed body had to be covered. If not, a literal hot pink results. I burn like a Southern California brush fire and have to take extreme precaution. My redheaded Welsh/English mother is responsible. I didn't get the freckles and ginger locks but pretty much everything else that comes with my inherited epidermis. In short, I don't tan. Absorbing UV rays and frying is my specialty. My back could be utilized on the 4th of July for various meat and poultry dishes.
A smiling Raphael spread out on his towel and contented himself in a shower of sun. Positioning my chair just so, I huddled under my umbrella. I was clear of direct beams except for the first three toes on my left foot. Reaching forward, I slathered them in cream and lay back in exhaustion. My whole outer layer had been sealed. I should have just put on a hazmat suit. The plan was to stay in the shade for at least a half hour and then do a quick little splash in the ocean for less than 10 minutes. If I kept my exposure to a total of less than a half hour, a crimson skin should be kept at bay. I opened up my Vanity Fair and read about Tiger and the waitress from the Orlando Perkins. Speaking of exhaustion...how did he have the energy to keep all these women in order? But, I digress.
30 minutes went by and it was time to test the welcoming ocean. Raphael was bopping to Mary J Blige and smiling as I mouthed "I am going for a dip." Jumping up, I trekked down to the water. It was surprisingly cool. I stood and tried to get used to the temperature. The fahrenheit was in the 80s but the water had not warmed. I took little steps in the sand and moved farther toward the waves. There was a gorgeous clarity below me as I pushed against the foamy tide. I turned and waved at Raphael who was applying #8 to his neck.
He doesn't know I can't swim. I haven't gotten around to telling him. It is enough of a chore to get me to the beach let alone it's watery depths beyond. The few times we have gone he has never asked why I don't plunge and float like he does. I guess he'll find out when he wants to go snorkeling in the Keys. The truth will eventually come out. In the meantime, wading around in the shallow areas and bobbing a bit will possibly give the impression that I have no aquatic fears. It is tough living in Fort Lauderdale and having to admit you can't swim. People's mouths drop open and can't believe it. They tell me how 'easy' it is to learn. They don't know what they are talking about. I can't stand to stand underneath a shower head. I hyperventilate. Water in and around my ears makes me panic. It is a hard thing to explain to a swimmer. It's like trying to defend not sleeping to a cat. They don't get it and I am fatigued with giving the reasons for my phobia. I tried dating a marine biologist once. It was an impossibility.
After some safe and light bathing, I trudged back to my beach chair. All eyes are on me as they privately converse as to whether I'm an albino or Canadian. Many reapply their sunglasses to prevent the harsh glare. I could never walk on this beach at night during the sea turtle nesting season. The balance of nature would be seriously screwed. (people in Florida will understand this reference.)
Plopping down into my shade, I settle back in its coolness. Raphael offers me a chip. He has already darkened two shades and re-established his Brazilian roots. We peruse the scene and silently shake our heads at old men in thongs, young studs running in unison, giggly girls in bikinis and young children fearlessly charging the water with aghast parents in hot pursuit.
The day is exquisite. It is a beach day extraordinaire. My discomfort with feeling out of place is lessening. The warm skin tones and hazy brightness feel less threatening. A salmon square on the side of my left foot has appeared. Somehow I missed that spot. I pull it out of the sun. The lapping sea lures me into sleepiness and I don't care. I let go.
Just as I slip into a nap I hear Raphael in a lowered voice: "Look! Someone whiter than you!" I smile, shut my eyes and drift away to a land where pale people rule the pool.
When we arrived it was quite windy. I had a hell of a time trying to get the umbrella pole stationed into the sand. People all around smiled politely as they internally laughed at my clumsy attempts. I looked like a frazzled Roald Amundsen in flip flops trying to lay claim to this part of the beach. Finally, Raphael did some kind of 'drilling' technique with the collapsed umbrella pole. He tamped around the base and pushed open the flowery canopy. Voila! I was in the shade. Neighboring beachies returned to their books and lost interest.
I positioned my chair as Raphael spread out his towel. We settled in with our Ipods, magazines, cooler of Coke Zeros and veggie chips. Stripping down to our swimsuits, we again gained notice. One of us was olive and not working as a solar power alternative. The other was, well, working as a solar power alternative.
Digging into bags, out came the sunblocks. Raphael had a very sophisticated system of 'numbers' for various parts of his body: The SPFs ranged from a 15 for his face, 4 for his legs and arms, 30 for his shoulders and any other assortment concerning various appendages. It was like watching an Australian Gold sponsored skin cancer symposium. He replied stoic-like without looking at me; "Don't knock it....it works." I had no doubt. When I met him last fall, he looked like he had just driven to my place from Ipanema. Over the fall and winter his tan had faded because of weather obstacles and work related time constraints. His spray-on technique would have him looking luminous by dinnertime. I could envision him all carmelly as he tossed the salad while I still looked like a saltine setting the table.
As he rubbed in his sun potions I broke out my Sunblock with an SPF of 70. White paste was spread onto my arms, neck, face, legs and all over. I felt like I was applying window caulk to my skin. Every inch of exposed body had to be covered. If not, a literal hot pink results. I burn like a Southern California brush fire and have to take extreme precaution. My redheaded Welsh/English mother is responsible. I didn't get the freckles and ginger locks but pretty much everything else that comes with my inherited epidermis. In short, I don't tan. Absorbing UV rays and frying is my specialty. My back could be utilized on the 4th of July for various meat and poultry dishes.
A smiling Raphael spread out on his towel and contented himself in a shower of sun. Positioning my chair just so, I huddled under my umbrella. I was clear of direct beams except for the first three toes on my left foot. Reaching forward, I slathered them in cream and lay back in exhaustion. My whole outer layer had been sealed. I should have just put on a hazmat suit. The plan was to stay in the shade for at least a half hour and then do a quick little splash in the ocean for less than 10 minutes. If I kept my exposure to a total of less than a half hour, a crimson skin should be kept at bay. I opened up my Vanity Fair and read about Tiger and the waitress from the Orlando Perkins. Speaking of exhaustion...how did he have the energy to keep all these women in order? But, I digress.
30 minutes went by and it was time to test the welcoming ocean. Raphael was bopping to Mary J Blige and smiling as I mouthed "I am going for a dip." Jumping up, I trekked down to the water. It was surprisingly cool. I stood and tried to get used to the temperature. The fahrenheit was in the 80s but the water had not warmed. I took little steps in the sand and moved farther toward the waves. There was a gorgeous clarity below me as I pushed against the foamy tide. I turned and waved at Raphael who was applying #8 to his neck.
He doesn't know I can't swim. I haven't gotten around to telling him. It is enough of a chore to get me to the beach let alone it's watery depths beyond. The few times we have gone he has never asked why I don't plunge and float like he does. I guess he'll find out when he wants to go snorkeling in the Keys. The truth will eventually come out. In the meantime, wading around in the shallow areas and bobbing a bit will possibly give the impression that I have no aquatic fears. It is tough living in Fort Lauderdale and having to admit you can't swim. People's mouths drop open and can't believe it. They tell me how 'easy' it is to learn. They don't know what they are talking about. I can't stand to stand underneath a shower head. I hyperventilate. Water in and around my ears makes me panic. It is a hard thing to explain to a swimmer. It's like trying to defend not sleeping to a cat. They don't get it and I am fatigued with giving the reasons for my phobia. I tried dating a marine biologist once. It was an impossibility.
After some safe and light bathing, I trudged back to my beach chair. All eyes are on me as they privately converse as to whether I'm an albino or Canadian. Many reapply their sunglasses to prevent the harsh glare. I could never walk on this beach at night during the sea turtle nesting season. The balance of nature would be seriously screwed. (people in Florida will understand this reference.)
Plopping down into my shade, I settle back in its coolness. Raphael offers me a chip. He has already darkened two shades and re-established his Brazilian roots. We peruse the scene and silently shake our heads at old men in thongs, young studs running in unison, giggly girls in bikinis and young children fearlessly charging the water with aghast parents in hot pursuit.
The day is exquisite. It is a beach day extraordinaire. My discomfort with feeling out of place is lessening. The warm skin tones and hazy brightness feel less threatening. A salmon square on the side of my left foot has appeared. Somehow I missed that spot. I pull it out of the sun. The lapping sea lures me into sleepiness and I don't care. I let go.
Just as I slip into a nap I hear Raphael in a lowered voice: "Look! Someone whiter than you!" I smile, shut my eyes and drift away to a land where pale people rule the pool.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Art and goodbyes
Yesterday I dug into some old portfolios and boxes full of my art. It is quite amazing how much I have saved over the years. It appears nothing was thrown away. The record of my creations include everything from early pencil sketches resembling paleolithic scrawls to slick, computerized renderings from the last decade. My creative hand evidently has a link to my artist hoarding brain. Some of what I found is just ridiculous: Half finished pencil renderings of some Victorian building in Key West....... ruined cartoons with ink splots....... bad paintings I did in high school that would embarrass the best of any white trash flea market sale. You can trace my artistic evolution from about 1959 on.
Over the years I have found it increasingly easy to get rid of more and more things. Simplifying my existence has become more of a priority. Letting go of my art has been much harder. I don't know what it is. It's like giving away one of my organs. I become fiercely possessive. These were expressions of my brain. Releasing them causes a certain pain. However, having your tonsils taken out hurts and we don't really need them either. I guess I need to have an appendicitis attack purging of some old art filled revelations.
When I used to have a lot of shows there was a part of me that kind of hoped certain pieces wouldn't sell. It was as if I was hawking off the best of my children. Of course, after a framed whatever was gone, I was usually fine with it. It is just the process of releasing a piece into the unknown that is unsettling. If I do allow the throwing away of certain pieces; I just want to know that its demise is a comfortable and painless experience. It would also be nice if the garbage man gets a glimpse and admires my efforts one last time.
Of course, this all comes down to ego. An artist always hopes that he or she will become famous. Saving even the most trivial creation could be worth something for the collector. Posterity calls for a complete collection of the artist's every, scattered thought funneled into a pencil's mark or a paintbrush. It is a silly notion, for sure, but I am not alone. Most artists are just like me. We think we are more significant than reality suggests. We want that 1966 charcoal drawing of a horse with poorly proportioned legs to be available for exhibition when the lifetime perspective is unveiled on our 85th birthday. The rendering somehow showed an altered and inspired perspective of the brilliance to come. Wait. No it didn't. It was just a bad drawing of a horse with short, oddly muscled legs. No matter. It goes into the box and there may be a distant great nephew who may desire it at a later time.
The truth is, I AM going to toss some stuff this time around. As I go through and make good and bad piles, there will be tiny, private exhibitions for Raphael. This will help in legitimizing my keeping so much for so long and one last look can occur. It won't be just me in my single, pathetic observations of my artistic contributions. He and I already had one last night right before bed. He seemed to enjoy the show. He fell asleep immediately when I finished. Either my creations relaxed him or worked as an anesthetic. The cheap red wine in plastic glasses and finger sandwiches might have been too much.
My best find so far is a satiric treatment involving a few pages of International Male catalogue. I almost got the drawings published in a national magazine. About the time it was to happen, my art editor contact got fired. The story of my life. Maybe I should resend it along with my sketched out conception of a ski resort/ discotheque/ condo complex from 1971? There may be that one person who really gets the genius of my inspired vision. However, only a photocopy can be sent. I MUST keep the original.
Over the years I have found it increasingly easy to get rid of more and more things. Simplifying my existence has become more of a priority. Letting go of my art has been much harder. I don't know what it is. It's like giving away one of my organs. I become fiercely possessive. These were expressions of my brain. Releasing them causes a certain pain. However, having your tonsils taken out hurts and we don't really need them either. I guess I need to have an appendicitis attack purging of some old art filled revelations.
When I used to have a lot of shows there was a part of me that kind of hoped certain pieces wouldn't sell. It was as if I was hawking off the best of my children. Of course, after a framed whatever was gone, I was usually fine with it. It is just the process of releasing a piece into the unknown that is unsettling. If I do allow the throwing away of certain pieces; I just want to know that its demise is a comfortable and painless experience. It would also be nice if the garbage man gets a glimpse and admires my efforts one last time.
Of course, this all comes down to ego. An artist always hopes that he or she will become famous. Saving even the most trivial creation could be worth something for the collector. Posterity calls for a complete collection of the artist's every, scattered thought funneled into a pencil's mark or a paintbrush. It is a silly notion, for sure, but I am not alone. Most artists are just like me. We think we are more significant than reality suggests. We want that 1966 charcoal drawing of a horse with poorly proportioned legs to be available for exhibition when the lifetime perspective is unveiled on our 85th birthday. The rendering somehow showed an altered and inspired perspective of the brilliance to come. Wait. No it didn't. It was just a bad drawing of a horse with short, oddly muscled legs. No matter. It goes into the box and there may be a distant great nephew who may desire it at a later time.
The truth is, I AM going to toss some stuff this time around. As I go through and make good and bad piles, there will be tiny, private exhibitions for Raphael. This will help in legitimizing my keeping so much for so long and one last look can occur. It won't be just me in my single, pathetic observations of my artistic contributions. He and I already had one last night right before bed. He seemed to enjoy the show. He fell asleep immediately when I finished. Either my creations relaxed him or worked as an anesthetic. The cheap red wine in plastic glasses and finger sandwiches might have been too much.
My best find so far is a satiric treatment involving a few pages of International Male catalogue. I almost got the drawings published in a national magazine. About the time it was to happen, my art editor contact got fired. The story of my life. Maybe I should resend it along with my sketched out conception of a ski resort/ discotheque/ condo complex from 1971? There may be that one person who really gets the genius of my inspired vision. However, only a photocopy can be sent. I MUST keep the original.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Memory trip: Some roads closed...
Currently I am going through lots of boxes and trying to condense my life. The amount of saved statements, receipts, Post-it Note phone numbers (and well, notes), business and holiday cards, random photos and other detritus is daunting. Yesterday I filled a giant garbage bag and readied for shredding an amount of paper that could build a good sized vacation cabin. I could have supplied the confetti for a ticker tape parade. I thought I would never finish sifting.
One thing I found odd was how certain names and phone numbers either immediately rang a distinct bell or were extremely vague. Specific individuals were conjured up in an almost holygraphic image while others appeared foggy and gray. Why certain people left more of an indelible impression is curious. I am still trying to figure out who in the hell some of these people were. It is unsettling. Did I sleep with them? Do they owe me money? Did I share sushi? It makes me feel a bit amnesiac. Has my middle aged memory gone so soft that people I interacted with 5 to 10 years ago can no longer be recalled? I used to pride myself with remembering details about people. It's like I had a life that compares to an ongoing convention of lost name tags I collected. Luckily most of them came back to me . Some are lost forever other than the fact that I have evidence he or she spoke to me and took the time to give me some contact info. And those are just the bar, business cards and random scribblings I came across. The receipts were even more strange....
Why did I buy a jumping robot picture holder? I don't own a jumping robot picture holder. Did I buy it for the mysterious Lance who is listed on a pink sticky note of whom I have no recollection? If so, did I give it to him and did he thank me? Was I present when he opened the box and did I see the delight or embarrassment on his face. I guess I could call the number he wrote down for me except that it is blurred by a water mark. I can't tell if the '4's are '9's and vice versa.
My bank and savings statements were depressing. I used to have a lot more money. I don't want to remember that!
At least with the photos there is evidence that something took place. So far I recognize everyone and it looks like me if I appear in a picture. The one of me peeking around Pikachu in a Tokyo arcade is especially fetching. Luckily I do remember being in Tokyo and playfully hiding behind his (her?) large, yellow head. I think my ex took the picture but it could have been Lance. He might have snapped the shot right before I handed over the robot to him. It is hard to say at this point.
I certainly had a lot of massuer business cards. I found this quite interesting since I have only had two massages in 10 years. The car detailing and upholsterer cards were frequent too but I used these services often. Some things fell into place.
The thing that is really scary is that this is only the beginning. I haven't even gotten the bulk of my stuff out of storage. That happens tomorrow. There are boxes of items I have not looked into for several years. Maybe this will be proof that I really am the Audrey Rose of Broward County. Perhaps the preponderance of multiple personality evidence will be too staggering. Fine I say, as long as something leaves a trail to a forgotten trust fund or long lost Park Avenue, flatted parents. I am up for anything. Bring on the memories both vibrant and non existent!
One thing I found odd was how certain names and phone numbers either immediately rang a distinct bell or were extremely vague. Specific individuals were conjured up in an almost holygraphic image while others appeared foggy and gray. Why certain people left more of an indelible impression is curious. I am still trying to figure out who in the hell some of these people were. It is unsettling. Did I sleep with them? Do they owe me money? Did I share sushi? It makes me feel a bit amnesiac. Has my middle aged memory gone so soft that people I interacted with 5 to 10 years ago can no longer be recalled? I used to pride myself with remembering details about people. It's like I had a life that compares to an ongoing convention of lost name tags I collected. Luckily most of them came back to me . Some are lost forever other than the fact that I have evidence he or she spoke to me and took the time to give me some contact info. And those are just the bar, business cards and random scribblings I came across. The receipts were even more strange....
Why did I buy a jumping robot picture holder? I don't own a jumping robot picture holder. Did I buy it for the mysterious Lance who is listed on a pink sticky note of whom I have no recollection? If so, did I give it to him and did he thank me? Was I present when he opened the box and did I see the delight or embarrassment on his face. I guess I could call the number he wrote down for me except that it is blurred by a water mark. I can't tell if the '4's are '9's and vice versa.
My bank and savings statements were depressing. I used to have a lot more money. I don't want to remember that!
At least with the photos there is evidence that something took place. So far I recognize everyone and it looks like me if I appear in a picture. The one of me peeking around Pikachu in a Tokyo arcade is especially fetching. Luckily I do remember being in Tokyo and playfully hiding behind his (her?) large, yellow head. I think my ex took the picture but it could have been Lance. He might have snapped the shot right before I handed over the robot to him. It is hard to say at this point.
I certainly had a lot of massuer business cards. I found this quite interesting since I have only had two massages in 10 years. The car detailing and upholsterer cards were frequent too but I used these services often. Some things fell into place.
The thing that is really scary is that this is only the beginning. I haven't even gotten the bulk of my stuff out of storage. That happens tomorrow. There are boxes of items I have not looked into for several years. Maybe this will be proof that I really am the Audrey Rose of Broward County. Perhaps the preponderance of multiple personality evidence will be too staggering. Fine I say, as long as something leaves a trail to a forgotten trust fund or long lost Park Avenue, flatted parents. I am up for anything. Bring on the memories both vibrant and non existent!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Relocation
Moving is a hard business.
Not only does your body and material wealth change location; your spirit and soul gets uprooted and replanted. It takes a stressful, agonizing toll.
R and I rented a U-Haul for phase one. As we pulled away from the rental location we noticed a whistling sound coming from the passenger window. The faster we drove, the louder it got. It was like that eerie noise you hear in the rafters during an intense wind storm. The driver's side door also didn't close properly and I could see daylight through it. Later we found a leak inside the cargo area. I must say that the radio worked splendidly.
When we arrived in Miami the first drops of rain began. We looked at each other as if to say "Don't say it." R's loads were to be taken down an elevator, through a parking garage and to the truck on an adjoining street. It was a bit of a trek from his 20th floor apartment. By the second load, the rain was pummeling us. A comforter was thrown over everything and sopping wet. As we finished loading, the rain stopped. Again we looked at one another: "Don't say it."
As we drove back to Fort Lauderdale to drop his things and prepare for my move, the rain increased. The skies opened up and a monsoon exploded. The street was flooding in low spots.
We waited for a break so we could rush to my place and load items. Friends were on standby. Finally the skies were only misting. There was a mad dash to the truck. We jumped in. The truck wouldn't start. The "Don't say it" look washed over our faces except this time it was a bit more pronounced. The beginnings of werewolf characteristics formed. The rental company people were of little aid. Our landlord jumped the truck with some very old and somewhat precarious cables. A half hour was lost but we were off. As we pulled out, the rain returned to Victoria Falls water levels. The only thing to do was to proceed in silence and numbly focus on what lay ahead. We didn't even try to look at each other.
Let's say that the experience of getting possessions from my old apartment to the new was similar to an episode of 'Sea Hunt.' My friends Mookie, Don, Angel, R and I were drenched to the marrow by the time we got everything in the truck. Somehow we managed to keep most of my stuff dry during the transfer. Conditions could not have been worse, short of a hurricane. Our helpers left and swam to their cars. R and I shared a cup of hot tea as we dripped and shivered on our shiny, tile floor. After a tasty pizza and a hastily prepared bed, we slept comatose until the following morning. A challenging day had been conquered. (I was especially proud of myself for not flying into a fit of rage and drowning.)
But that was just the 'literal' move. As I said, one's whole being takes abuse during relocation. There is a sort of malaise that intrudes. Being overwhelmed with details, timing, costs, trying not to fight plus the persistence of endless boxing. Your body aches in places you didn't think it would. Hating yourself for a life of collecting pushes you to realize you wish you only owned a toothbrush, bed and maybe your IPhone. The life you inhabit transforms into this insidious monster that consumes you for a week or so. My psyche felt like it had an ulcer. My inner being was both paralyzed and running a marathon. In short, sanity was dangling precipitously close to the edge of a very tall cliff. It was taking all my strength not to back up the dump truck and shuck it all into some very dark and deep canyon.
It's amazing what a good night's sleep will do after a satiating pizza and a hot shower. The reprieve was temporary. There is still a daunting amount of work to be done (I haven't even gotten my stuff out of storage. That comes this weekend but I have movers....) However, the unearthing and reestablishing of K & R has been accomplished. All that rain we got a few days ago just needs to go into the watering can. Sprinkle it on and let the new life sprout.
Also, try not to think about moving again for a very long time and definitely "Don't say it."
Not only does your body and material wealth change location; your spirit and soul gets uprooted and replanted. It takes a stressful, agonizing toll.
R and I rented a U-Haul for phase one. As we pulled away from the rental location we noticed a whistling sound coming from the passenger window. The faster we drove, the louder it got. It was like that eerie noise you hear in the rafters during an intense wind storm. The driver's side door also didn't close properly and I could see daylight through it. Later we found a leak inside the cargo area. I must say that the radio worked splendidly.
When we arrived in Miami the first drops of rain began. We looked at each other as if to say "Don't say it." R's loads were to be taken down an elevator, through a parking garage and to the truck on an adjoining street. It was a bit of a trek from his 20th floor apartment. By the second load, the rain was pummeling us. A comforter was thrown over everything and sopping wet. As we finished loading, the rain stopped. Again we looked at one another: "Don't say it."
As we drove back to Fort Lauderdale to drop his things and prepare for my move, the rain increased. The skies opened up and a monsoon exploded. The street was flooding in low spots.
We waited for a break so we could rush to my place and load items. Friends were on standby. Finally the skies were only misting. There was a mad dash to the truck. We jumped in. The truck wouldn't start. The "Don't say it" look washed over our faces except this time it was a bit more pronounced. The beginnings of werewolf characteristics formed. The rental company people were of little aid. Our landlord jumped the truck with some very old and somewhat precarious cables. A half hour was lost but we were off. As we pulled out, the rain returned to Victoria Falls water levels. The only thing to do was to proceed in silence and numbly focus on what lay ahead. We didn't even try to look at each other.
Let's say that the experience of getting possessions from my old apartment to the new was similar to an episode of 'Sea Hunt.' My friends Mookie, Don, Angel, R and I were drenched to the marrow by the time we got everything in the truck. Somehow we managed to keep most of my stuff dry during the transfer. Conditions could not have been worse, short of a hurricane. Our helpers left and swam to their cars. R and I shared a cup of hot tea as we dripped and shivered on our shiny, tile floor. After a tasty pizza and a hastily prepared bed, we slept comatose until the following morning. A challenging day had been conquered. (I was especially proud of myself for not flying into a fit of rage and drowning.)
But that was just the 'literal' move. As I said, one's whole being takes abuse during relocation. There is a sort of malaise that intrudes. Being overwhelmed with details, timing, costs, trying not to fight plus the persistence of endless boxing. Your body aches in places you didn't think it would. Hating yourself for a life of collecting pushes you to realize you wish you only owned a toothbrush, bed and maybe your IPhone. The life you inhabit transforms into this insidious monster that consumes you for a week or so. My psyche felt like it had an ulcer. My inner being was both paralyzed and running a marathon. In short, sanity was dangling precipitously close to the edge of a very tall cliff. It was taking all my strength not to back up the dump truck and shuck it all into some very dark and deep canyon.
It's amazing what a good night's sleep will do after a satiating pizza and a hot shower. The reprieve was temporary. There is still a daunting amount of work to be done (I haven't even gotten my stuff out of storage. That comes this weekend but I have movers....) However, the unearthing and reestablishing of K & R has been accomplished. All that rain we got a few days ago just needs to go into the watering can. Sprinkle it on and let the new life sprout.
Also, try not to think about moving again for a very long time and definitely "Don't say it."
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Panic of the Pedic
For the last few years I have been sleeping on a futon. It was only going to be a temporary fix. When I last moved I didn't take the mattress/box springs. The futon had been the guest bed and I thought it would suffice as my sofa/bed in my studio apartment. For a while this was true. It was well made and had not been used all that much. However, after about three years of use there were signs of a diminishing support system. The mattress was flattening. A slat broke unexpectedly and I had to duct tape it back into place. Still, if I lay on one side, it was acceptable.
Then I met Raphael.....
It was becoming increasingly clear that the bed was showing stress with two people on it. The duct taped slat was on his side of the bed. It needed more support. Books, magazines and anything else short of a flying buttress were installed from the floor up. It worked OK but stacked items shift. One good roll over in the night and a crash of Entertainment Weeklies, self help books and former Geico bills would go sliding like a Malibu mudslide.
One night, a second slat suddenly snapped and Raphael found himself in a sort of hammock position. I got up and made him lemonade and brought him a bowl of mixed nuts. I thought "We'll just make it a summer afternoon type affair." I will turn on the fan to simulate a breeze. My sleep machine had forest bird songs and it was warm enough to pretend we were on the veranda of a plantation. It didn't work so well. He turned the other direction with his feet in my face and said "You have to get a new bed. I will pay half."
The next day we went to the futon store and found that I could still get replacement slats. It would take a few weeks. In the meantime, we stayed at Raphael's place as much as possible and I looked for loose items I could stack under the bed. It was beginning to look like the nest of a periodical reading squirrel.
It turned out the slats were no longer made and the futon store owner had to cut some for me. I picked them up and they looked just like the originals. He said they would snap into place. His assessment was incorrect. They would snap into place if you were Mike Tyson pushing down on them. Neither Raphael or I could get them in. One side would fit and the other end would be like an unbendable cricket bat as hard as an interstate highway. We finally decided to 'rest' one end on the frame and slip the other side into the agreeable slat. Again the duct tape came out and new books were placed underneath (this time I did a series of Life/Time books on animals and their worldwide habitats.) For a time this rickety excuse for a fix seemed to work. The bed was solid. We got a foam pad and placed it over the mattress and the comfort level went up about 50%. Then one night we were having an intimate experience and the duct tape worked its way off the slats and book # 6 (The Animals of Southeast Asia) slipped and it sounded like World Trade Center 4 imploding. There was no speaking. He just gently pushed me over to the edge and then lay pressed against me the opposite way. Again, his feet were in my face.
We made the decision to move in together. First rule of order: Get a NEW bed and make payments on a really, really, nice one. We chose a Tempur-Pedic. It seemed like the logical choice. Raphael's roommate had one and loved his. The 'Pedic' bed just seemed like the gold standard. We ordered one and it would be shipped and assembled on the very first day of our move-in. We also had a great payment plan. The futon would somehow be jerry-rigged and used as a guest bed. The treasured sleep experience would at last be just days away.
A few nights ago I received an email from a very dear friend. I had mentioned to her in a former email that I was soon to be the proud owner of a Tempur-Pedic. About half way through the letter she casually says "I don't know if you have signed on the dotted line for the new bed but......." She then went on to list the 'cons' of said bed: Release of toxins from the chemicals in the foam, the structure of the foam density doesn't breathe and the sleep experience can be hot. Other consumers said their beds turned to a mushy softness after about four years and on and on. She piqued my interest and I Googled 'Tempur-Pedic Complaints.' To my amazement were horrific, anecdotal statements from consumers who got rashes, hives, breathing problems, severe headaches and even some documented heart attacks from exposure to fumes! One woman was so ill after only a few days on her new bed that she moved it to the garage and wouldn't go near it. Our Nirvana sleep experience had suddenly turned into a nightmare. The more I researched, the more reports and articles I found. I felt panicked and heartsick at the same time. Was I overreacting? It was hard to say.
Never mind the fact that my very good friend has OCD..............
Obviously, I had to take this into consideration. I love her as much as it is possible to love another human but she has gotten freaked out at cemeteries, wondering if the diseases of the dead people could somehow work their way to the surface and infect us while we visit our deceased relatives. I calmly told her "No." I think she trusted me as we continued our walk through historic grave sites. Certain medications have also calmed her significantly over the years and she is considerably better. Trust me, OCD is no laughing matter. I mean her no disrespect. The poor woman has suffered and conquered many of her fears. I have learned to tolerate her anxieties about various phobias. However, this time she was making sense and had sufficient backup. Her alarmist bell was ringing true. It didn't seem like a paranoid reaction.
I canceled the Tempur-Pedic order the next day.
This has caused some tension between Raphael and me. I think he thinks I'm crazy although he assures me he does not. It's true, my behavior did shift 'a bit' in 48 hours. I went from Tempur-pedic friendly to a sort of delusional, fear mongering tea-baggeresque harbinger of foam death beds. He pats my head and tells me any decision I make will be just fine. In time he will come around when all of our Tempur-Pedic, sleeping friends are in comas, on disability or dead. I must show patience and believe that God has spoken to me (even though I don't really believe in him..unless he is the editor of Consumer Reports.)
We are now getting a Sleep Number bed. I feel much relief and Raphael is happy to see me pleased. Thank goodness the alternative was easily solved and it didn't take too much effort.
The only drawback is that we have to wait longer for its arrival. They are custom made and not readily available. The Time Life series plus my set of Collier's Encyclopedias will now have to be bungee strapped together for at least another week of futon base. We have made it this far so I guess another 10 days of somewhat lumpy sleep will have to be tolerated. The wait will be worth it. No long term toxicity and warm foam night sweats. It pays to have a friend with OCD once in a while.
I just got an email from her telling me Sleep Numbers have electro-magnetic fields. She wouldn't sleep on one but it is up to me.......
Then I met Raphael.....
It was becoming increasingly clear that the bed was showing stress with two people on it. The duct taped slat was on his side of the bed. It needed more support. Books, magazines and anything else short of a flying buttress were installed from the floor up. It worked OK but stacked items shift. One good roll over in the night and a crash of Entertainment Weeklies, self help books and former Geico bills would go sliding like a Malibu mudslide.
One night, a second slat suddenly snapped and Raphael found himself in a sort of hammock position. I got up and made him lemonade and brought him a bowl of mixed nuts. I thought "We'll just make it a summer afternoon type affair." I will turn on the fan to simulate a breeze. My sleep machine had forest bird songs and it was warm enough to pretend we were on the veranda of a plantation. It didn't work so well. He turned the other direction with his feet in my face and said "You have to get a new bed. I will pay half."
The next day we went to the futon store and found that I could still get replacement slats. It would take a few weeks. In the meantime, we stayed at Raphael's place as much as possible and I looked for loose items I could stack under the bed. It was beginning to look like the nest of a periodical reading squirrel.
It turned out the slats were no longer made and the futon store owner had to cut some for me. I picked them up and they looked just like the originals. He said they would snap into place. His assessment was incorrect. They would snap into place if you were Mike Tyson pushing down on them. Neither Raphael or I could get them in. One side would fit and the other end would be like an unbendable cricket bat as hard as an interstate highway. We finally decided to 'rest' one end on the frame and slip the other side into the agreeable slat. Again the duct tape came out and new books were placed underneath (this time I did a series of Life/Time books on animals and their worldwide habitats.) For a time this rickety excuse for a fix seemed to work. The bed was solid. We got a foam pad and placed it over the mattress and the comfort level went up about 50%. Then one night we were having an intimate experience and the duct tape worked its way off the slats and book # 6 (The Animals of Southeast Asia) slipped and it sounded like World Trade Center 4 imploding. There was no speaking. He just gently pushed me over to the edge and then lay pressed against me the opposite way. Again, his feet were in my face.
We made the decision to move in together. First rule of order: Get a NEW bed and make payments on a really, really, nice one. We chose a Tempur-Pedic. It seemed like the logical choice. Raphael's roommate had one and loved his. The 'Pedic' bed just seemed like the gold standard. We ordered one and it would be shipped and assembled on the very first day of our move-in. We also had a great payment plan. The futon would somehow be jerry-rigged and used as a guest bed. The treasured sleep experience would at last be just days away.
A few nights ago I received an email from a very dear friend. I had mentioned to her in a former email that I was soon to be the proud owner of a Tempur-Pedic. About half way through the letter she casually says "I don't know if you have signed on the dotted line for the new bed but......." She then went on to list the 'cons' of said bed: Release of toxins from the chemicals in the foam, the structure of the foam density doesn't breathe and the sleep experience can be hot. Other consumers said their beds turned to a mushy softness after about four years and on and on. She piqued my interest and I Googled 'Tempur-Pedic Complaints.' To my amazement were horrific, anecdotal statements from consumers who got rashes, hives, breathing problems, severe headaches and even some documented heart attacks from exposure to fumes! One woman was so ill after only a few days on her new bed that she moved it to the garage and wouldn't go near it. Our Nirvana sleep experience had suddenly turned into a nightmare. The more I researched, the more reports and articles I found. I felt panicked and heartsick at the same time. Was I overreacting? It was hard to say.
Never mind the fact that my very good friend has OCD..............
Obviously, I had to take this into consideration. I love her as much as it is possible to love another human but she has gotten freaked out at cemeteries, wondering if the diseases of the dead people could somehow work their way to the surface and infect us while we visit our deceased relatives. I calmly told her "No." I think she trusted me as we continued our walk through historic grave sites. Certain medications have also calmed her significantly over the years and she is considerably better. Trust me, OCD is no laughing matter. I mean her no disrespect. The poor woman has suffered and conquered many of her fears. I have learned to tolerate her anxieties about various phobias. However, this time she was making sense and had sufficient backup. Her alarmist bell was ringing true. It didn't seem like a paranoid reaction.
I canceled the Tempur-Pedic order the next day.
This has caused some tension between Raphael and me. I think he thinks I'm crazy although he assures me he does not. It's true, my behavior did shift 'a bit' in 48 hours. I went from Tempur-pedic friendly to a sort of delusional, fear mongering tea-baggeresque harbinger of foam death beds. He pats my head and tells me any decision I make will be just fine. In time he will come around when all of our Tempur-Pedic, sleeping friends are in comas, on disability or dead. I must show patience and believe that God has spoken to me (even though I don't really believe in him..unless he is the editor of Consumer Reports.)
We are now getting a Sleep Number bed. I feel much relief and Raphael is happy to see me pleased. Thank goodness the alternative was easily solved and it didn't take too much effort.
The only drawback is that we have to wait longer for its arrival. They are custom made and not readily available. The Time Life series plus my set of Collier's Encyclopedias will now have to be bungee strapped together for at least another week of futon base. We have made it this far so I guess another 10 days of somewhat lumpy sleep will have to be tolerated. The wait will be worth it. No long term toxicity and warm foam night sweats. It pays to have a friend with OCD once in a while.
I just got an email from her telling me Sleep Numbers have electro-magnetic fields. She wouldn't sleep on one but it is up to me.......
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