The Webmaster

I am old.  Bordering on ancient and senile, in fact. Depends on how old you are, as to how old I am.  You know how it is...  I live in the twentieth century. Trust me, it was a better place, a better time.  Sure, not as many doo-dads and conveniences; certainly, technology was a stick in the mud compared to what it is, today. However, people talked with one another in complete, un-abbreviated, grammatically correct, and meaningful sentences; what's more, they took the time.   Yep, they took the time to care, to listen, to understand, and maybe to offer a few kind words of advice, admonishment, or praise.

Today, a kid who is five years old, is exhausted at the end of the day. Not enough time.  It used to be that when we were young, the days crawled by, and we could hardly wait for them to pass so that we could grow up.  Now, girls in kindergarten are wearing black velvet with leopard collars and high heels. Time flies by with so much to do, people merely pass one another like strangers, albeit they even may live in the same house. Who has a meal together?  Who shares the day's events?  What happened to family, to quiet time alone, or with friends...?

Into this milieu I have been thrust, through no fault of my own: The twenty-first century.  The reality is that either I have to cope and get on with things, or lag behind and find myself even more lost and ostracized than I already am.  The Hallmark Channel can only take a person so far... Thus, in order to save myself, I found a webmaster.
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My webmaster has been such, since 1997.  He was a senior in college when he started with me.  A wise woman, to whom I am forever indebted, suggested him because she knew his mother.  One of those things. Dumb luck--or God's Will, if you prefer.  It is now 16 years later.  We're still surfing the 'Net. (How awesome do I sound?)

What can you say about a fellow who behaves like Dick Van Dyke, and is built like a dress-zipper with ears?  He is 6'6"+, and maybe weighs 165 pounds.  I come up to his rib cage. Go try to hug him.  He comes with instructions that require a Pogo stick, for any kind of physical familiarity.  I gave up long ago. If I want to give him an endearment, I rest my head just above his belly button, and go from there.

Here's the thing: He's terrific: A mensch.  When he was 21, he was that way; he's the same, now--he's humble and patient, has a sense of humor, is smart as can be, centered, responsible if a little absent-minded or too busy, and he's focused--all prerequisites if you're going to be in my corner.  The only differences are that now, he's got a lovely wife and two kids; he's smarter, wiser, and makes a good living. Otherwise, he's the same familiar old shoe--size 15.

He went through my website with me, back then.  It was like pulling teeth, for all that I needed, and what he had to do while he dragged me along with him: My ideas, his know-how and in-put. He got it done.  His first official website.  Mine, too, come to think of it...  It's still up and running, and attracts its own visitors. It's been through re-decoration and additions; it's just fine, thank you.

Currently, my webmaster has led me through Linked-in, and Facebook (oy...); now, we've pretty much finished this very blog. Can you believe it?  Can you believe I put an entire blog together??? (Well, of course, with the webmaster's huge help).  If I don't do this Stuff constantly, of course, I can't remember half of it. But, we won't go there.  When he and I are done with this project, it's on to Twitter. Oh!  For the record, I can also text--tra-la.

We meet for over an hour, once a month for lunch--usually eggs of some sort; my treat.  He teaches; I scramble--my brains, not the eggs.  Anything in-between our monthly sessions:  I either luck out, learn on my own, or cope.

Sometimes, fairytales do come true.  The webmaster is one of them.

I want to say, that if I had had to do any of this Stuff alone, I think I would have stuck to my Big Chief tablet and #2 Eberhard Faber yellow pencil. Longer to process, yes; but infinitely easier. Really.  I honestly get it, with the technological goodies.  It's incredible.

I also get it that the hours and hours and hours it takes to process all of it; fix it when it crashes or breaks down; call multiple "technical support" people--most of whom can barely speak English or can't think beyond their prepared, scripted instruction manuals; crawl around on the floor while they ask me to re-check what wires and buttons I've already checked; and remember on the side, how to relate to people as human beings rather than as mobs of pixels: All are hazards of the technological age. I don't think it's so hot, just between us.

Still, I want you to know that my webmaster is just the Best--no doubt.  He has even managed to make all this learning sort of interesting and fun.  I feel like I'm about six years old, in terms of know-how and capability; in truth, I'm older than his mother! Understand that I'm not hardwired for anything other than my bra.  So for this guy to hang in with me: I am so lucky.

Twentieth century lifestyle and values, absolutely.  Still, I cruise in the twenty-first, with the webmaster as captain of my technological ship.

Five Finger Exercise

I would like to say that I come from a long line of Fingernails.  Every woman in our family has had Fingernails since I can remember.  Generations of Fingernails.  Manicured, buffed, polished to the nine's.  Deep reds, wines, and burgundies.

It all started with Cherries In The Snow--Charles Revson's, and Revlon's, very first shade of adapted automobile paint--helping women to buck up during the Depression and War effort.

Always, Fingernails.  It was never an issue among us.  Since I was six years old, I had long nails.   I learned to take care of them myself, albeit I didn't start wearing red polish for years and years:  A family tradition. One wasn't human, let alone a female or feminine, without Fingernails.  I was convinced that they possessed some bit of magical power, in order to make a woman complete.  I had to have them.  Inwardly, I knew this.

When I was ten, I made the fatal mistake of taking piano lessons. Who knew? I was the bane of my teacher's existence.  Why?  The long fingernails.  Did you know that in order to play the piano, one has to have Short fingernails?  Yes.  I took lessons year after year, and it was an ongoing battle about the fingernails. Clickety clack, clickety clack, upon the keys.  My teacher, who was petite, tremulous, dressed in flowered silks without a brassiere, and with eminently blue hair, wanted--nay, demanded--my nails be short; to round the hand, curve the fingers, hit the keys with the soft pads of the quiet fingertips.  Power to the upper knuckles and carpals. A fair request.

I, on the other hand, wanted to look utterly gorgeous from the wrists down, even in the fifth grade.  Why not?  Everyone in my family was gorgeous in the very same way.  Long, luscious nails upon even longer, artistic and beautifully sculpted fingers and hands. Do you have any idea how refreshing it is, when doing arithmetic assignments, or a social studies paper, to absentmindedly take a break, and gaze down at such elegant, slender, appendages?  My hands were so lovely that when I injured them, nothing could give me greater pleasure than to dote on the ethereal beauty of their X-rayed poise.  Think of it.

After all, I only "tickled the ivories" a few hours a week; yet, I reasoned, I had to look at my hands, 24/7.  It was obvious.  Materialistic and empirical piano vs. spiritual, eternally beautiful hands.  What's to discuss?

Ultimately, I quit the lessons, and my fingers were at peace.  I quit for other reasons, too--like ongoing migraine headaches every Monday on the spot, about four hours before lesson-time. The nails were a part of the pain.  I assure you.
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Life came, and life has gone by.
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Now, don't drop your drawers, but I'm taking piano lessons, again.  Same piano.  Same practicing only a lot more, same everything.  Different teacher (the old one died years ago). Same Fingernails.  Only, this time, with the red polish: The true family tradition remember, from generation to generation. (L'dor v' dor.)

Wouldn't you know it?  Here we go again.

This time, the nails are eminently shorter--down to the nub.  The style has changed:  Computers, touch-screens, and smart phones are the name of the game.  Short nails are a prerequisite for survival in the information age. However, I would like to say, they are not short enough for my piano teacher, and this one doesn't even have blue hair!

So help me. I clip, I file.  The nails are Below the fingertips!  But, they click. I have tall cuticles; I have long nail beds.  No matter what I do, I still click rather than tickle, the keys.  My own rhythm section.

I've taken to giving myself a manicure the night before the lessons.  I hope this will do the trick. Maybe she won't notice.  I have painted them a neutral color so that the teacher can see how stubby and minuscule these nails are, relative to their potential.  My nails short, are longer than many women's, long!  It's the way God made me.  I'm stuck.

What can you say about a woman who has three pianos--including a baby grand that substitutes as the dining room table under a chandelier-- in a living room/dining room area that's maybe 10'x15'?  There is a heavy, Victorian jacquarded tapestry of a sofa with antique gold fringe hanging all about, two over-stuffed chairs, a disc-player, and two mammoth felines. Definitely, a room out of necessity, that commands absolute order and control; everything must be in its place. Including the Fingernails. Or Else.

There you are.  I am caught.  I love the music, discipline myself to the practicing, thoroughly enjoy the teacher, delight over the charmingly petite house--fringe and all.  What to do, what to do...

Um, maybe I should tell you that my teacher had her cats de-clawed.  Do you think this is in the back of her mind?  Naaaaah, couldn't be.  Or could it?

Am I Retiring, Transitioning, or Re-Inventing?

We've been in business for 77 years.  I sold my building: Offices, showroom with fitting area, the actual factory.  Not a huge place as manufacturing plants go, but figure a big fish in a little pond.  Since 1936, ain't bad.

The garment industry in the United States is all but dead; the custom garment industry is dead.  I have business, I have customers.  But not enough to earn a living.  Labor today is all off-shore for any kind of tailoring expertise and decent pricing; what our custom shop has always been about. As one of the last shops in our line of manufacturing--if not the last--it was time to bail.

I had to move.  I got rid of the overhead (Thank God), and I got rid of all those things I am responsible for but can't control; eg: The Facility, the Equipment, and the Help.  You don't want to own a factory in this day and age, if you can help it.  I'm telling you.  At least 50% of my professional life has been about apologising for this mistake, or that mal-function.  The only honors I got out of the deal were the joys of saying, "I'm sorry," and giving courtesy discounts. Mazel Tov.

But OK.  So, now, I'm moved.  Where?  I don't want to go through the entire process with you, but trust me; it wasn't a charmer.   The cost of renting a new space, buying a new space, adding a new space onto my home, squeezing everything I needed into my house as is; were all possibilities.

I have a friend who thinks I ought to have had a Plan.  Are you kidding? What plan?  I needed to get out of the building in order to save the overall   company--you know, the proverbial handwriting on the wall:  I needed to stop the financial hemorrhaging, and the mistakes.  This wasn't something that was self-contained and dependent on my decisions, alone; rather it demanded that all the outsiders' chips fell in their own proper order.

One day, a guy makes an offer on the building.  OK.  I figure it all out.  Get it all ready.  Then the sale falls through.  Plan?  So I continue on, in my original operational mode.  Six months later, another offer.  OK. This time, the thing goes through but with closing in four weeks.  An entire--if small--77 year old manufacturing operation--close down, sort, and pack up in 20 days; all the while with orders in work.  

In the meantime, the folks I was going to take with me to a new, littler shop, decided to retire, altogether. Surprise...  

So that's the end of the factory.  In all fairness, one former worker is 80, another is 73; we're not talking Spring Chickens, here.  But between the first and second purported sales of the building, everything changed, including any kind of income projection.  Thus, rentals/purchases of smaller manufacturing facilities, were out the window.  How now, Brown Cow?

The bids to add on a home office came in at $35,000.  For 10'x10'.  No kidding. Small volume pricing. Thus, I rented: An inside storage facility unit. Same size as the home add-on, but for $181/month including insurance.  At this rate, I can keep my new "satellite office" for almost 17 years, before I come close to the $35,000 addition.  

You would love the satellite office.  It's two blocks away, so Sydney--my dog--and I can walk to work.  It's done in used brick with Columbia blue and white trim, and looks like traditional model homes.  (The complex cries out for red geraniums).  The place has all the comforts of home except electricity (other than the bare bulb overhead); and the bathroom that is three buildings away.

It's almost perfect.  I have Kleenex, a chair, a shipping table with a scale, my boxes/tape/wrapping tissue/labels, a broom and dustpan along with a wastebasket, step-stool, 15 file cabinets of payables and receivables, and over 200 aprons that I couldn't bear to part with (let me know if you're interested in purchasing...)   It's the best.  A mezuzah is on the doorpost, along with a Jewish calendar for the year, 5774. The UPS office is down the street; I pack up the uniforms in this petite shipping department, and schlep box after box rather than paying extra for the driver in the big brown truck, to pick up.

My family-room at home in the basement, along with my upstairs study, comprise the rest of my corporate offices. Downstairs are the "accounting and business offices."  Everything I need to run the show, as long as I don't have to cut cloth in my own shop.  I can cut cloth with other folks; I can press; I can sew--all outside. I can screen-print and embroider.  Same thing. But I can't cut in-house.  So far. That's my limit.  I have others who can do the manufacturing in their own shops (aka contractors and sub-contractors), or I can sell ready-to-wear (uniforms from other manufacturers that are made off-shore and merely pulled from shelves, and shipped.)

Upstairs is the "creative/executive" office with all the business machines.  Yes.  I'm writing to you from this office, right now.

I'm continually getting settled, as the days go by.  Still working like mad to squeeze it all in.  Adding new activities, as my hours and time are now my own. No one I have to apologise for or yell at.  No machines to fail or be damaged by well-intentioned "experts."  I'm working every day and so far, longer than I ought. Just to get caught up and get on some kind of schedule. (Sometimes, a customer may get a call from me as late as 1:00 a.m....)

Now, you tell me.  People say, "Ohhhhh, I'm so happy you retired!"   Am I retired?  I have 3 office spaces, separate phone/fax/email /business cards, and UPS bills.  "Well, but no, you're at home, now, so that's not really working." Maybe if I drove around the block every morning before I sat down at my desk so that I could "arrive" at my offices by 8:00, that would help.  

Others write books about "transitioning."  My own "transition" either must be because I've morphed from young to old, and/or because America has given up the ghost where blue-collar skills are concerned.  It's the same business, the same name, the same Stuff.  No in-house factory to be sure, but in every other way, it's the same.  We've always had cottage industry. Even this isn't new.

Tell me, what have I transitioned besides my moving from my factory to my home?  Still feels the same to me.  I answer the phone the same.  I dunno.  I guess the transition is in the loss of overhead and liabilities, and I don't have to apologise so much, any more.

Finally, and best, are those who insist I'm re-inventing myself.  Um, I lost 10 pounds.  Does that mean I'm re-invented?  Trust me: I'm still the same impossible person I have always been, which is why I'm not a team player and work for myself.  I'm in the same business, doing the same thing: Fashion.  Only, I'm more relaxed now because I can focus on selling the clothing, rather than putting out all the fires and rescuing the help.

Fuzz Bucket 3: The Extreme Makeover

When Sydney arrived,  he was 9.6 pounds of loose skin and bones.  Completely shaved, he had no whiskers, eyelashes, or fur of any kind, other than his scraggly long tail, and the hair that covered his short floppy ears.  (The previous owners shaved rather than bathed him whenever he got dirty.) His bald skin was pink, with grey patches here and there  The epidermis from the end of his nostrils, was a mottled brown/black/pink affair that was denuded and raw all the way from the tip of his nose up his snoot until  it reached the bridge by his eyes.  The eyes themselves, were bulging and brown, protruding  from his head like large marbles in smooth sand.  "Ugly" would  not have been inappropriate to describe him.

I spent the following six months staring at the poor beast from this perspective or that, as I concocted just how he was going to look once there were enough hairs that could be trimmed into something sensible. Clearly, any love I would have for him was conditional; directly proportionate to the amount of fur that hopefully would grow.  Thus began the vigil, not unlike watching grass grow, or paint dry on a wall, measuring at 1/16th inch per day.  I brushed and combed, pulled and stretched, convinced that the beast was actually becoming both lovable and lookable.

Slowly,  it  became obvious that Syd was indeed filling in with fur, and filling out in shape.  He was put on a decent diet, his teeth cleaned and pulled where loose, and given a fortune's worth of pills, shots and tests as demonstrated by all the tags that were attached to his collar.  I only knew for sure that he had miniature poodle in him, but was convinced that he was not a purebred, despite what the previous owner had told me.

One week, I imagined he was part cocker spaniel; another, I knew he had to be a dwarfed golden retriever; no, this time I was certain--Sydney was definitely a Jack Russell terrier mix...  With each surmisal, I read voraciously about this breed or that, comparing breed characteristics with the emerging personality that Sydney had begun to display as he became more comfortable in his new surroundings.  Understanding that he was safe at last had made a tremendous difference (his roommates in the past had been a Rottweiler, German shepherd, pit bull, and a chow).  Observing him discover himself reminded me of the old quiz show, What's My Line?  I even read a book about Chihuahuas, in spite of the fact that since frightening encounters with them as a child, I could not stand that particular breed.   Fervently, I wanted him to be a Lhasa Apso.  However, I was running out of shelf space for dog books, and my curiosity was getting the better of me:  I had him tested genetically.

Eventually, I discovered that he was the offspring of two purebred breeds; he was a first generation mix of miniature poodle (which I had been told), and alas, part...dare I admit this in public?--Chihuahua.   I figure the  father was the smaller of the two breeds; the mother must've been the poodle.

I bathed him every two weeks, with the vet's blessing.  I hoped that as his fur grew, the warm water would stretch out each hair, so that it would grow faster and longer. Whether it did or not, I cannot say.  His collar  fits him, and he is proud of it.   To this day, when I remove his collar for any reason, there is a wistful look about Sydney, as if to say, "Don't you want me?  Did I do something wrong?  Are you going to give me way like all the others did?"  Not a chance.

Then began the Search.  Toys were first--I was told that Sydney did not play, instead, just ate or slept.  I got him a fuzzy squeaky toy: A fox.  Just to see.  Hah!  He and the fox have a wild time of it just about every evening.  I purchased a skunk and  raccoon, too.  There is one on each floor of the house, and at the shop.  It's all he needs, accompanied by pizzle sticks (bull penises) for a hearty gnaw.  He is delighted.

The collar, as mentioned earlier, was a struggle.  I tried about eight different colors on the then pink animal.   This one was too bright, that one blended too well.  This one wasn't good with his fur; the other one was more showy than the hound.  Finally, I settled on a bright, snappy red.  Red leash, harness, collar.  It was perfect.  To be truthful, Sydney bears a distinct resemblance to my grandmother, Elizabeth.  So help me, the expressions and the facial features are similar enough to wonder if earlier in time, the two were related, or if Syd is indeed my Grandmother reincarnated.

The wardrobe is mostly for Fall/Winter, other than a Spring rain slicker.  He has multiple outfits--some for holidays, most for seasonal wear.  He's an autumn, color wise: He needs strong, fallish colors but not pale.  He is pale, you know, so we want to contrast, not compare.  No white.  No greens other than olive.  Reds have to be slightly to the more golden tones, rather than blued (burgundies are best because they carry brown).  Not white, grey, orchid or pink.  Augh!  Terrible.

I want you to know that Sydney Hates his wardrobe.  He looks like a million dollars to my way of thinking; to his, it's about looking like a "pussy" in front of the other dogs down the block.  He would rather freeze.  Which he certainly does.  However, he and I have come to an agreement: He only has to wear the outfits when it's less than 45 degrees, and never inside.  We have made a pact, and as these last days have been below zero, he is finding that it's not all bad to sally forth in couture fashions.

The day finally arrived for a haircut.  It took six months for Sydney to begin to be presentable.  The groomer gave him my favorite "full teddy" do.  His ears have grown longer, his tail has filled out, his body, now smartly snipped 1/2", is wavy and strawberry blonde with large patches of white that blend.  The fur is more wavy than curly, more like an alpaca's than a dog's.  It is incredibly soft.  The bulging eyes are now recessed into the thick muzzle of a nose.  Brownish epidermis that once showed up to his eyes, is now covered with soft blonde fur.  The ears and tail are deeper in hue, approaching apricot.

Sydney remains alert and wary of strangers, which I encourage.  However, once he is reassured, he is their friend.  He talks--it doesn't sound at all like a dog's voice--and can sit or dance upon request or desire.  He is the master of his home, and his people.  He is constantly on guard to insure our safety.  We go everywhere together: Inside and outside. Rest assured that he is a gentleman, does not pee or poop indoors, and knows his job is to be silent when I'm working or with others. Best of all, when something is not to his liking, Sydney groans.  I am convinced that he is a Jewish dog; Oy is one of his favorite words.

Fuzz Bucket 2: The Assessment

Having done due diligence, the nurse had finished her day and left the dog with me.  Rid of him, she had deposited his luggage on the floor: A soiled polar bear rug with a roaring stuffed head, and a black throw-away plastic dish with a handful of dry food left over from whatever was on sale.  There was a leash of sorts, and an old collar made of royal blue nylon with heavy chain.   A pit bull could've worn it adequately, it was that big. Finally, there was the creature she had left behind, who hung his head under the metal weight of the collar, as though his neck was a disconnect from the rest of the quivering body.

At once, I resolved to purchase everything new for him, my eyes rolling at the impending expense.  I called for an appointment with Liberty's vet from many years earlier, and as our first afternoon together began to become evening, I started to study this beast in earnest. What at first might have seemed to be a menacing malcontent, became picture of sadness. He lay there, not a friend in the world; his only connection with familiarity, vanished. Precariously parked on top of the chair, watching the door and waiting for an opportunity to go home, he stayed there well into the night.  Watching, waiting, wondering.  What now...

As early evening began to approach, my Prince Charming stopped by for our after-work time together.  Himself, a dog aficionado acquainted with multiple breeds, the Prince entered through the door that was currently being kept under keen observation, slowly circling the dark green chair as he evaluated the beast on its top.  Quietly, steadily, Prince made himself a drink, went to his own chair across the room, and sat down.  He didn't say a word, moving like stealth, so as not to frighten the creature.  The dog, with a growl in his throat yet with no one to defend or protect, was silent.  Prince looked at the beast and watched him watching himself.  The two males were sizing up one another.

Attending to every sound, every move, the animal focused.  Still, he never left his perch on top of the chair, and like a large bleached rat, continued to face the door while he waited for the nurse to return.

Prince was thoughtful.  Then he made his assessment.  "This dog is smart," said he.  "He has excellent hearing, good eyesight, he knows enough to weigh his options, and he's not mean.  In fact, he's kind of a cute little fellow.  Small, looks like a 'roach' back to me--the way he's all humped over.  Fat--stomach hangs.  But not a bad sort.  There's something about him...I think he might be okay...  What's his name?"

"Butter," I  managed.  "He had a brother named Peanut.  This one is Butter."  I can't tell you  how really awful it felt to think of owning a dog named Butter.  Aside from the descriptive misnomer, each time I thought of the name, I was reminded that he wasn't an individual--he was merely half of a set.  (Peanut had previously been put down.)

"Humph," mused Prince.  As we spoke, he had all the time continued to watch the creature carefully, while he sipped his drink.  "To me, he looks like a...oh...  Yes, I think a Seymour? No, that's not quite right.  Something, someone...hmmm...  That's it.    He looks like a Syd."

There was indeed something about the dog, about Prince Charming's summing up, about the deeply earnest look in the huge balded eyes with the shaved, pointed muzzle, that really did seem like a Syd.  Hapless and alone, yet with enough panache to insist upon the very top of the chair, the little beast gave the appearance of exactly that name.

I had never changed a dog's given name before--having felt like it belonged to the animal. This time, however, I couldn't deal with "Butter."  It didn't fit the strawberry blonde coloring on the scrawny, angular hound, and it was more of a gimmick than a real identity.  After all, Peanut was long gone.

You know, it came to my mind that there might be some substance to him--more than just a hand-me-down taken in out of pity and resignation.  Perhaps, there was even a...well, a smile inside.  I perked up.  Syd...  Syd...  I was trying it on for size.  Out loud then, "Sydney," I confirmed.  

Nevertheless, not wanting to leave his original handle entirely behind, I gave him a middle initial--B ( for Butter). Then, from the color of his ears and matching tail that held a hint of orange against the pinkish blonde body, came "marmalade." Marmalade?  No.  A "Sydney" had to be Jewish. Marmelstein.

Sydney B. Marmelstein.

The Prince and I looked at one another.  It would be all right.  Sydney had found his name, a  home, and something I suspected he never had before: Attention.   I, on the other hand, had myself a dog.

Fuzz Bucket 1: The Arrival

Sydney B. Marmelstein is my dog.  It's interesting about Syd...

Since Liberty had died 11 years ago, I had been bereft.  If you've ever lost a beloved pet or your dearest friend, you know what I'm talking about.  However, I have a daughter who is severely disabled, and the risk was more for the safety of the dog--sibling rivalry between the two.  So, in spite of my deepest wish, I had refrained from Dogdom and mourned.  Alas...

(My daughter is entitled to nursing care 24/7--she'll be 30 on December 17th, by the way...  Mazel Tov.)  

One day last February--the first, to be exact--her nurse arrived and walked into the house carrying  a small, growling, snarling package with her thumb and forefinger muzzled tightly around its nose.  How reassuring.  She said her family didn't want "this dog" any more, and Here.  "It will be good for you," she resolutely chortled.

The nurse, herself, was gone in six weeks, but that's another story.   In the meantime, she left me with "this dog."  Ostensibly, the beast was supposed to be for my daughter.   Thing is, she detested the last dog, almost to the point of death, and her response to this new creature, half the size of the previous, was exactly the same: Instant jealousy and loathing. Thus, were it to remain, I knew that the beast would become mine--to have and to hold, until death do us part.  Which seemed immanent, just between us...

The creature was pink.  I can't explain it.  But he was indeed pink.  Bald as a billiard, shaved to the skin and pink, with blotches of grey here and there.  The size of a swollen chihuahua, the thing had a "gay" tail that came up and curled around, sporting some wilted long hairs as it curved--kind of like a worn brush that had cleaned too many bottles.  The ears were hanging limply, forlorn, and short.  Everything was chopped to the bone remember, although the existing fur on the ears was longer--sort of wavy and rather spanielesque.  Not an eyelash, not a whisker, save the scraggly tail and leftover ears.  B.a.l.d.  Shaved.  Denuded.  It was ghastly.

He had giant brown eyes that bulged, prompting me to wonder at once about Graves Disease.   His nose, which was sort of a dappled brown and pink--like a dollop of chocolate mousse with raspberry filling--went halfway up his puss.  Snout?  Beak?  Snoot?  Nose?  I call it a puss.  But there it was.  About 2" of leathery dotted skin, climbing up his blonde puss.

I know, I told you he was pink.  That's true.  But he had a sort of um, golden glow.  I guess you'd call him a strawberry blonde.  Pink with blonde tinges.  And feet.  Buckets of feet.

The hound was built funny.  It's as if originally, the back and the front housing weren't for the same critter.  The front was about two sizes smaller than the rump, which was about one length too long.  So, when he sat, the little fellow had his tail and all four feet dangling right up front, as though all told, he probably had about eight or ten of them, and only the four front ones were showing.  Augh.   In my best fantasy of wishing with all my heart for the day when I could once again have a dog, it never occurred to me to get a bald strawberry blonde, with a minimum of eight paws and a dark snoot that went half way up his puss.   Depending on your psychological bent, he was either ridiculous or hideous.  Between us, I chose the latter.

The thing shook, I might add.  Nerves?  Cold?  Who knows.  He just sat there, on my plum-colored corduroy sofa, and shivered.   However, as he did, I noted that he was carefully casing the joint.   Clearly, the front door was his biggest priority--as in OUT.   He eyed that, eyed the deep spruce green velvet chair nearer the door than the couch, measured his distances, and took a leap from couch to chair.  Better.  Much better.  There, on top of the chair, the creature perched.  Like a lemur on a leafy limb, high up in the deep jungle.  Bulbous eyes searching, darting, watching.  Every single thing.

I approached him, looked him in the eyes (about 3.5 feet lower than my own), and said, "Listen, Bub, here's the way it is:  In this house, we don't bite, lunge, or snap.  Nor do we pee or poop inside.  The yard is yours; the house is mine.  That's the way it is around here.  Like it or lump it.  You want to stay?  Those are the rules.  No?  Then pack yourself a lunch, and head for the Dog Pound--it's that way."   (The nurse swallowed hard, shifted from one foot to the other, then meekly disappeared into the kitchen.)

I pointed toward the East, the beast glanced his head and looked out the window.  He turned back around and gave me a good going-over, as I towered over all those feet stuffed into his mighty 9.6 pounds of baggy skin.   He considered for a moment, then lowered himself so that his nose fit between his paws.  It appeared that he had decided to abide by the House rules, and make himself at home.  

                                           

Finger Food--Delicious Nails

Lately, I'm into nail polish. It's fabulous. You wouldn't believe the colors, unless you've checked. Because I'm a color person, I've become imbued. Or imhued as you prefer. I'm only using Revlon products for a few reasons: Reliable label, been around forever, terrific colors, inexpensive, my choices are automatically limited by brand. Whew.

It started with an ad in a fashion magazine. Purple. Well, I thought, who knows... I can try. (You have to understand that at this juncture, I hadn't worn polish in say, 30 years or so.) Nevertheless, I went for it--Impulsive, they called it. EEEEEEEEK!!!!! That was the first response. It gradually softened to Yikes!, mellowed to a Hmmmmmm..., and settled with a Gee! Try it. You'll like it.

The first trick is to buy stock in cotton balls and polish remover. Because you use more of those than anything. Trust me. That and practicing to be ambidextrous in order to do both hands with minimal mess, are the trickiest parts.

From there, it's just plain fun. Most of all, because I'm using my nails to outfit myself! Instead of jeans and turtleneck in whatever is clean, suddenly it's the polish of the week, with a palette of colors that I have to match. It is absolutely Cool. I have gotten out Mother's and Gram's jewelry from the 30's and the '40's--the big brooches especially--and I'm going for marvelous color. I'm In! I'm 35 again!

So, I started with Impulsive, as I say. From there, I went to Foxy, which is a classy housepaint brown. Mischievous, a sort of greyed violette and elegant, came next. (Impulsive and Foxy are more for sport). I was off and painting. Bewitching, Vixen, Raven Red, Valentine, Plum Seduction... I'm on my 13th color. This week is Revlon Red. Miss Scarlet. Flash and Dash. I've tried reds, deep magentas, and I've tried purples. All are scrumptious.  

Beware however: Some hues are just not good with everyone's skin tones. Skin is first in all things, remember, if you're doing fashion; your own coloring comes before that of what you choose to wear.

This weekend, I attempted a lovely shade: Spanish Moss. I want to tell you, it was more than charming in the bottle; the color, I swear, spoke with a Southern accent, it was such a deliciously mellow and creamy green. Yes, indeed. Thing is, alas, I am not a Southern Belle. My olive-with-yellow-undertones skin, surrounding what was actually more like "General MacArthur Olive Drab," was less than I had hoped. As a salesclerk said, when I went to Macy's, "Honey, I'm from Looziana, so I know about Spanish moss. And this ain't it. Not on you, Girl. It just ain't workin' for ya." And that.was.that.

My Prince Charming said that the Spanish Moss made my hands look old and gnarled, like a withering tree, with dying green buds at the end of each twig. Sigh... Would that I were a lovely blonde or redhead, instead of a sallowed old broad...

That was the end of the Spanish Moss. But take heart! Every shade but that, has been a giggle and an inspiration for great outfits. You can't believe what ensembles I've dug out of drawers and closets to make this stuff work! What is happening is that the polish is not only decorating my nails, but is re-designing my entire attitude!  A new wardrobe without the purchase of a single new garment.  I'm telling you, again: Try it.  

Go with any brand or color you like. Makes no difference to me. Just give yourself a lift, and dare to be daring. It's amazing how few people have a sense of humor when it comes to themselves. What about You? What about Me? Break out of the mold.  It's more fun than a barrel of monkeys--no kidding!

We're going into holiday. So the Revlon Red is perfect. As is the silver glittered Stunning. Next week, however, just between us, I'm going to try Rain Forest. Yes. Another green. But this time it's like a group of tall, dark trees on a chilly, dewy morning, deep into the Amazon's undergrowth... Doesn't it sound exciting???

I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, try it yourself!

Syndicate: The Mob, Publishers, Columnists, and Me

So here I am on Skype, Twitter, Facebook, Linked-in, with a blog [TheGrownUpsTable.com], a website [CustomUniformCompany.com], and emails. I'm a Syndicate.  I'm told that this is what I have to do in order to "participate."  If I want to write, hobnob, "connect with people;" blow my own horn, introduce myself to the world. Tra la. What ever happened to the "Coming Out Party?"  I thought people were supposed to come to meet me (invitation, only, of course), rather than I having to extend and meet them...  I guess social media is just that.  Only I give my own party and introduce me to you. Hello, out there!  

Once, the Syndicate was about Al Capone and the Mob.  The big boys in the killer "zoot suit with a drape shape and a reep pleat;" fedora pulled down low over the eyes, wide lapels, pinstripes; a machine gun hidden in the violin case, and cement shoes to be worn in the East River if one didn't pay up on time.  Yes.  "Da boyz" who were stationed here and there with their icy fingers reaching across the nation, creeping in to folks' pockets for the murderously desperate payola.  Drugs, booze, prostitution, and dough--bigtime. The Syndicate.

Or, there are the monolithic publishing houses:  Remember Citizen Kane? Great movie.  Yes.  William Randolph Hearst, San Simeon, and the Hearst Corporation: Harper's Bazaar, Seventeen, Esquire, Town & Country, Cosmopolitan + books, TV, newspapers. Conde Nast, and the vast empire of New Yorker, Architectural Digest, Wired, Vogue and more.  Today's world is about technological delivery via APPs instead of a stamp and bulk mail. But syndicated is still syndicated.  In this newsstand, or that grocery store. Fashion, food, computers, news, entertainment; what's posh or smashing, new and different, in this world.    Multiple mags, multiple pages and layouts, appeal to multiple types. Syndicated.

Columnists were published along with their periodicals when the newspaper was king.  Remember Art Buchwald, Dave Barry, Erma Bombeck?  Louella Parsons, Drew Pearson, H.L. Mencken? Syndicated in every paper that was worth reading.  Today, some of the greats include Dennis Prager, Charles Krauthammer, Thomas Friedman, Robert Samuelson. The comics, of course. A ubiquitous name across the country's printed page that means "quality, reliable, familiar and famous."  Syndicated:  Income, fame, speaking engagements, opinions worth discussing at the dinner table.  Can I look forward to this?  Gee...

Yes, at last, I'm my own syndicate.  Only not by choice so much as necessity. Splattered all over the place.  Instead of fame and fortune, however, I'm struggling like mad to keep up with contacts, sites, and responses.   A desperate attempt to appear interesting, clued and tuned in, infinitely wise, witty, and without another thing to do but connect & communicate.  I don't get paid, don't get recognition, don't get someone to do my editing, layout, or P.R.  I can never remember where I put my book of passwords.  The only thing that's "coming out"  is my waistline from sitting so much in front of the computer.  But yes, I'm it.  The new syndication.  Me, myself, and I: The Syndicate. 

The Old Bags

The other day I went to the grocery store, fully prepared to get some vacuum cleaner bags for my uprights at home and work.

Much to my surprise, I was told that vacuum cleaner bags are no longer sold.  Yes.  I was flummoxed.  It's bad enough that clothes lines are for the most part, long gone; it's awful when underwear that fits or lipsticks that flatter, are discontinued without a "by your leave, or a kiss my rear."  The extinction of "dumb phones" and PCs is expensive and dreadful, so OK.  But vacuum cleaner bags?

I went down every possible aisle three times.  To no avail.  Not a receptacle to behold.  Finally, in complete disarray, I located the head clerk.  With a rueful smile she shook her head, plainly disturbed by the situation. "No more vacuum cleaner bags. People don't buy them any more, so we stopped selling them." 

"You don't sell vacuum cleaner bags any more?!"  I was almost at a shriek.  It may seem like a simple thing to you but, to me it was a rite of passage.  Did I pass the age of civilization when people vacuum their rugs?  It appeared that vacuum cleaners had gone the way of rectal thermometers. 

The clerk explained that people now use "bagless" vacuums; it wasn't the store's fault at all she went on, but rather that times had changed.  I couldn't stand it.  I really couldn't stand it.  I stuttered, stammered; with arms akimbo, I huffed and puffed. "I know just how you feel," she nodded.  "Why, when I heard about the store discontinuing vacuum cleaner bags, I thought to myself, that's just Un-American. Un-American!"  Visions of  Norman Rockwell paintings, Hoover or Kirby magazine advertisements, and my mother, came to mind...

But there you are.  Upon hearing the terrible news, I immediately drove to the small vacuum cleaner store down the street.  The tattooed balding ex-Marine, none too pleased to hear what I had to say roared, "Who the hell do they think they are, saying that???!! I've been in business for 30 years, plan to be here for 20 more.  All I sell is used and re-furbished vacuum cleaners.  With Bags.  Here! See these?  Thousands of 'em.  THOUSANDS of 'em!" His open arms spread behind him as if in song, across long layered shelves that spanned his shop.  

I took the bags he sold me and left.  It was nothing, really.  Still, there was something about it: Vacuum cleaner bags.  Something so simple, so necessary, seemingly around forever.  All at once rendered useless, outmoded, and unprofitable.  Just like that: Gone.