Monthly Archives: August 2006

I have this condition, a gross sort of thing that has me convinced I am in the early stages of withering. It is only a matter of time before I crumple up in one dusty heap and float off on the wind. It began when I moved to Georgia. I started itching all the time. I was convinced I was allergic to something, a plant or the water from our well, or polyurethane because we were building our cabin. For a while, I even thought it might be sawdust, and considering my husband is training to be a wood turner and comes home looking like a powdered donut everyday, this was a serious issue. The itching got steadily worse. I could swear I was getting scales. So, I went to the doctor. We began tests and I started the process of elimination regarding what could be causing me to itch. After a few months of seeking a cure, no answers and escalating medical bills, I gave up. Now, I just itch. Case closed.

I did figure out that I am not allergic to Georgia because I itched worse when I visited Florida, and it is a problem in Boston too. I take my itch with me, apparently. My doctor asked it could be nerves or stress. I laughed and told him it was doubtful. I left my business behind and with it, most of the frustration and aggravation I would associate to stress. For the first time in my entire life, we are not worried about finances. I’m healthy, and my donkey brings my blood pressure down every time I pet his nose. I can feel it. No – it can’t be stress.

In the end, I’ve decided that it must be hormonal – a coincidence that I moved to a new place and changed my lifestyle and everything about my existence at the same time that my body was merging silently into old age. I’m guessing the itching is a pre-menopausal thing. My doctor said that since I have no other signs of a biological life change (in fact, the idea of having another kid was actually tossed about for a while during our “gee, we are free and life is an adventure and what shall we do next?” phase. Of course, I felt too old to catch, so I let that ball fall flat at my feet. Moral – never marry a man younger than you are unless you want to constantly be reminded that the only spring chicken in your house is from Perdue.)   

Anyway, I itch all the time, and as result, I am constantly slathering every kind of lotion on my body, taking baths laden with body oil, and drinking water. Helps a little. I’ve tried every sort of lotion on the market, from expensive medicated, dermatologist-recommended brands to homemade love-lotion from the farmer’s market. Honestly, I don’t think one is better than the other is. Some are oily and greasy, others are creamy and lay on your epidermis like a white body stocking. In time, your body drinks in whatever is there and your exterior returns to its normal flat sheen. But I often wonder about the invisible chemical reaction going on in my pores as result of applying this stuff. Does it really make a difference? If it worked, wouldn’t the world be free of crow’s feet? I, personally, love crows feet. Not on me, of course, but on others. I like them on women because it makes me look better by comparison (just kidding) I like them on men, because they are evidence of all the things I admire in males– good humor, wisdom, and often, an inclination to be outdoors. It brings attention to the eyes. Look at the most gorgeous men of all time, like Brad Pit or Gene Hackman (don’t you dare question my taste in men). They both look better with crow’s feet – gives them character. But then, I am weird. I am not put off by bald spots or gray hair. The “real-er” the boys come, the harder I fall.

I was talking about itching. Right. Pardon me when I go astray that way. Just picturing a handsome pair of crow’s feet can do that to a susceptible girl like me.

The thing is, I now put some kind of cream on the back of my neck about ten times a day. For some reason, that is one of the places where I am withering most.  And when I flew home yesterday, I wasn’t allowed to tote any cream or lotions on the plane. It actually grew uncomfortable moving my head after about three hours without something to soothe the dry skin. So I went into the Body Shop to snag a squirt from a sample. The place was dead. I felt so badly for the business. Since people can’t bring anything liquid on board of planes, the store can’t make any sales, yet it remains open, further evidence of our new threat. On my way to Boston, I had visited this very same franchise and purchased a few items. Only five days earlier, I had to wait in line to pay. Now, it was as if the store was closed and I had snuck in under the gate. It is daunting how the terrorist threat filters into so many areas of our lives. Fear of travel is only the beginning. It affects our economy, our view of humanity, and our choices in a multitude of ways.

It’s enough to make a girl itch, ya know.   

Yesterday, I went to the mall with a fellow staff member – actually she’s an age old friend. One reason I agreed to teach in Boston was just to spend some time with people I’ve known and loved for many years. 

I am not much of a mall person. I don’t like the crowds or the way all the same stores in every mall in the country are the same, making the world feel like a generic place. Not to mention that you feel that if you purchase anything you aren’t really creating an individual identity, you are reinforcing your sameness. Originality is nothing but an illusion in a world where everything is mass produced. (Ee-gad, I sound like such an anti-establishment nut nowadays. Forgive me.) 

Anyway, the closest mall to my home is two hours away, so I actually enjoy the mall experience now. But it does confuse me. For one thing, I can’t figure out where people come up with all the money to support the endless consumerism in America. How rich is the world now? Store after store of high end items are filled with people toting home name brands. Amazes me. Sometimes I think the entire world’s existence is an endless quest to make money so they can spend all their free time spending it. Every hour is consumed with too much work to support too much consuming– very little time is left for living. Sad.  

I couldn’t help but notice all kinds of stores that I (as a non-shopper) am totally unfamiliar with. There were popular clothing stores and shoe stores that I’ve never heard of. My friend Diane (who is very hip, buys only name brands, and is a classic product of our progressive culture) made fun of me, the farmer who so quickly fell out of the pop culture loop. She said, “Where have you been? Under a rock?’

Maybe.

We went to Brookstone to see all the nifty gadgets and inventions. (Who am I kidding, we are middle aged dance teachers and we wanted to sit in the massage chairs after a day of physical torture.) In the front window was a strange purple stool. Diane, a very hilarious person, was quick to try it out. It is supposed to be some kind of exercise device. The stool began gyrating. It looked far more like a sexual stimulator than any kind of exercise machine, and we laughed ourselves sick. A lovely young saleswoman came to talk to us. She actually was a good sport and I think she enjoyed out sense of humor. I asked her what the heck that machine was supposed to be good for.

    The woman said, “If you’ve ever ridden a horse, you will know that riding gives a person a perfectly flat stomach and perfect hips and thighs. Guaranteed. This device is a horseback riding simulator. You can sit on it while watching TV and develop a great body. “

    I looked down at my less than perfect body and back at Diane and said, “Guaranteed? Think I can sue my horse for breech of contract?”

   The saleswoman said, “You have a horse?” I told her I had four, and dang if there wasn’t a one that moved like that when I was riding and even if they did, this guarantee of a perfectly flat stomach has eluded me, dammit.

    The woman laughed and whispered, “It’s stupid, but people like it.”

      I imagined bringing one of those ridiculous purple machines home and setting it up in my living room where all my new friends (horse owners) could see it. Ha. They would laugh me out of Georgia. But I must assume some place, people are buying them. Diane and I sat in the massage chairs and watched people come and go, trying that machine out of curiosity right in the window. Looked obscene. We laughed so hard I bruised my ribs – or maybe it was all the abuse I was getting from that wicked chair. Ow.

    Then, we wandered through the store to look at all of the new conveniences designed for modern man. In every isle, Diane said, “I have one of these,” and I was standing there thinking, “what the hell is it?” So, she proceeded to make me technology savvy by demonstrating all the goodies, giving me her own hard sell. You see, I need a thumper (a shovel sized wand to give myself a back massage) and I-pod speakers for the shower (Umm…. She forgets, I’m the only dance teacher on the circuit that doesn’t have an Ipod, they intimidate me) and a pillow that vibrates and a chair that simulates movement for playing video games (don’t play them), and a TV controller that allows me to tape everything and pause shows (oops, I don’t watch TV either), a mechanical disk that will clean my floors all day long – HOLD ON! I DO need this. Not all inventions are frivolous, I find. And so on and so forth. I felt rather stupid seeing all these inventions that apparently, the entire world knows, uses and thinks nothing of, and I am like Gomer Pile going, “golllllliiieeeeeee”.

It was fun seeing what technology can do, but it made me feel like the country bumpkin (and face it, I must have been one long before moving to the country.) These items are expensive, and I believe I can afford them easier than many people, yet even I can’t justify the  need to acquire them. Does anyone really need a vibrating pillow – ummm… don’t answer that.

I called Mark and said, “Honey, I am an old fashion prig. I don’t understand the world and I don’t get it.  Diane has these cool things, and I have none of them.”

He said, “You have a llama. Llama’s are cool.”    

I said, “If they were really cool, Brookstone would make them. I do however have a horse instead of a purple simulator that looks obscene, and I’m proud of that.”

I told him about the cool floor cleaner.

He said, “Hate to tell you but they’ve been around forever and I can get you one at Wal-Mart every Christmas.”

Thus, my husband reaffirmed my fear that I am a nerd that isn’t “with it when it comes to modern conveniences.”

I said, “If I am this far behind after living in Georgia a few months, what will happen as the years go by? I won’t know how to function in our society.”

 “Something to be proud of,” Mark says, striving to protect my self esteem . . . or more likely to save himself from facing a charge card bill loaded with thumpers and squeakers and a cool 20 Questions ball that can read your mind.

“Do you think we should buy a massage chair, just to prove we are connected to the world?”

“Did you love it?”

“I think it hurt. But you might love it.”

He chuckled and said, “It’s the cost of a riding ring, two peacocks, a chicken coop and a pump to get water to the new barn.”

Oh yea. These are the modern convenience and desires I harbor now.  So I tossed the brochure for the handy-dandy massage chair away with my empty Starbucks cup.

   I don’t know what I’m going to do about my detachment from pop culture and our high tech society. I feel like some kind of unwilling Mennonite hiding in the mountains. I think I have to start watching TV, just to know what is going on in the world – and I’m not talking about the news. I just don’t like TV. We lived in the cabin 6 months before we even hooked up our cable and then it was only because New Orleans was hit and I went crazy not being able to follow the news. Even my kids can skip it – it isn’t a habit for our family. We do watch movies – ALL the time, but TV itself seems mindless and eats too much of a life. Rather read or make something.

Anyway, I’ve decided I will force myself to a mall once every three months to do a culture inspection. I will brave the crowds and pick up some signature thing to prove I’m still cool. I will marvel at the money spent in our world, our method of assuring we are all generically acceptable in the “in” crowd, and even add a bit to the economy by toting home something I don’t need.       

In the meantime, thank god for my kids who are the fashion police, pop culture advocates and preachers of all that is cool. They can keep me on the straight and narrow when I fall too far behind.

By the way, another funny thing happened yesterday. I bought two designer jeans jackets. They were on sale and I figure the fall is coming. This Florida girl can’t get enough cool weather wear designed for the outdoors. The salesman looked at them and said, “Are these for you?” with a tone of disbelief.

      I laughed and said, “Yea, Why? Do I look too old for them?”

       He blushed and said, “No, I didn’t mean that. I was just wondering.”

     I thought about telling him about my new lifestyle and how I live in jeans, not because they are fashionable, but because they are hearty and comfortable and  resistant to dirt. I thought about saying, “You are only as old as you feel” or breaking out into a hip hop dance or something to prove I am funkier than the average 47 year old. But really, it was easier to just smile and point out the expensive designer label.

     He nodded as if that explained it. Wearing impressive labels at any age makes sense to him, I guess.

     It just will never make sense to me.

I am flying home this afternoon. Have to brave the airports on full alert due to the state of the world and the terrorist close call in Britan. Inconvenient. Mostly, sad.

My husband, God love him, holds down the fort when I leave to pursue my heart’s content (or a job or whatever). He never complains or makes me feel guilty. But I know how difficult it is for him. We tend to set up a life that takes two people to run. We create a demanding existence that falls to ruin without both captions at the helm. He has his duties, but when I am gone, he must juggle mine as well. And it is frustrating and exhausting. This week, school began. He is running the kids to school and picking them up, and taking my daughter to soccer (something new we are trying) and my son to band practice and drum lessons, while still building the house. And he must feed all the animals (my job) and feed everyone else too. And his father is so sick, his sister needs help. Today, he must watch his Dad for four hours while Dianne is at a physical therapist appointment with their mother, and he has to find a way to get the kids picked up from school etc…. He is going crazy.

I told a friend here how badly I felt dumping life on my spouse while I teach in Boston (a job I don’t have to accept). She shrugged and said, “He can manage 5 days. It is good for a man to experience all the crap his wife does. Makes him appreciate you.”

I don’t agree. I believe he appreciates me without torture as a reminder. And I certainly don’t have to experience his crap. You don’t see me gassing up the tractor to take it for a backhoe spin or plugging in the sander to work on logs because he is busy.
 
Yesterday, he called to tell me a huge wind storm occurred. Lasted only 15 minutes. When he got to the land, a tree had fallen on our garage where we keep the tractor. Another tree fell across the road making it impossible to drive in . Another tree fell on the pasture fence and the horses were down the street. He had to scurry all over putting things in order, knowing he would now need to spend a day chain sawing these trees to remove them,  having to talk with the guy to repair the fence. Now, he has to feed the horses in an inconvenient place (lower pasture)until things are fixed.   He has to talk to the insurance guy, and arrange for a new garage. Insurance does not include getting the smashed one removed – big drag.

I felt so badly, because his plate is so full. I need to get home – do my part.
This also puts our tree dilemma back up for discussion. We have all these beetle eaten pines that must be removed (I’ll write a tree blog another day) Huge job.

Anyway, today I am feeling guilty. I take my role in our union very seriously – I am supposed to contribute to the quality of life of the guy who cared enough to make a commitment to me (which I am fully aware was a brave choice for any guy – living with a girl like me requires an ongoing leap of faith.)  

I can’t stop the trees from falling, but I sure want to be there to wave my hands frantically as an assistant when Mark maneuvers the tractor this way and that to remove them. 
A good life demands a team effort and I want to be a team player. It is only fair.

 

A few shots of us at Biltmore Mansion. As you can see, I was into the art. Mark was into the ice cream. No matter where you move, you take yourself with you, ya know.