Victorian Tea

Evan, Glen and Lee in salivating anticipation

I've been going to teas and other frivolities with my Red Hat lady friends and leaving my men home with frozen pizzas, so I decided it was only right that I should get out the good china and stage a Victorian Tea. My sons, who are twenty-five and twenty-two, respectively, had never before eaten off the Good China. I could have served spaghetti with sauce from a jar, and it would have been special.

I cheated and bought fancy cake slices from the grocery store, which I cut into six pieces each, but I made scones. Normally, a dozen scones would be plenty for five people, but I know my family. Besides, with scones, if you're going to make a dozen, you might as well go ahead and make another dozen, since you've already got the stuff out and made the mess. So I made two dozen scones. I also whipped together equal parts of mascarpone cheese and whipping cream to make a reasonable facsimile of clotted cream.

For the savory course, I made egg salad and chicken salad sandwiches. When I explained that I wasn't going to trim the crusts because we didn't have any servants to eat them, my husband assured me that he would eat them, because he was starving. At any rate, I just sliced each sandwich into thirds, arranged them on a plate and put them on the bottom rack of the three-tiered tea server. The scones went in the middle, and the cakes, along with a few macaroons, went on top.

I didn't realize when I bought the server that it was missing one of its rubber feet, and my husband tried vainly to repair the lack; a bandaid didn't do the trick, I know, but I'm not sure what else he tried. We finally just left it, and since I passed my precious plates, it wasn't a big problem. I will get a replacement at the hardware store, maybe even replace all four. Maybe they'll have an interesting color.

This did provide an interesting source for conversation during tea, however, since we discussed elastomers as well as the great enjoyment we derived from sitting down to a special tea. We also briefly wondered what kind of wild party our triglycerides were throwing, but didn't spend much time on that subject.

My younger son tried egg salad sandwiches for the first time and discovered he liked them, and my dad ate five scones. Of the two dozen I made, I had only seven left. My older son got his finger stuck in the handle of the cup and spilled tea all over the tablecloth, but I have a vinyl pad to protect the table, so no harm done.

Afterward, my husband helped me with as much of the cleanup as he felt was safe, but he left me with the task of washing the china. I wanted it that way, since my husband, indeed, all my guys, are fairly clumsy. Normally, I'm happy to put up with a certain amount of breakage and things done differently than I would do them just so I don't have to do them myself, but not with my good china. Not when I know that it would cost $36 to replace a teacup at replacements.com.

My Beauty Routine: Sand, Putty & Paint

In junior high and high school, I was overweight and unpopular and didn't have a lot of thought to spare for matters of personal beauty beyond washing my face occasionally and repining over pimples. I did once have some lipstick I liked: it went on blue and turned pale pink. But I was twenty before I started using makeup.

I developed a crush on a guy in my physics class in college, joined Weight Watchers, dropped forty pounds and in general went through the self-discovery phase most girls had passed through long since. I bought blusher, lipstick, eyeshadow (lots of eyeshadow) and mascara. I couldn't find foundation light enough for my skin, because in those days, girls were supposed to have a "healthy" tan. I found laying out in the sun boring, and I hated the sun in my eyes; there were limits to what I'd do for vanity.

The young man in my physics class, being a proper geek, remained totally oblivious (or, at least, seemed to), but I started attracting attention. By the time I was twenty-two, I realized that the kind of shy geek who appealed to me would never approach, so when I fixed my sights on a likely candidate, I approached him. We celebrated our thirtieth anniversary last year, but that's another story.

As an engineer married to an engineer, I had sufficient money in my twenties to indulge in department store beauty preparations and makeup. I basically fell victim to the first helpful cosmetics consultant to accost me when I ventured timidly into that department in Robinson's, and remained loyal to Borghese for a number of years. I did somewhat guiltily betray that trust when I snuck over to the Clinique counter to buy opaque makeup to protect my skin from sun exposure.

A total stranger had once complimented me on my lovely skin and commended me for not sunbathing (eternal blessings on him!). At that point, I decided I could never get more than a second-rate tan, but I could be first-rate fair. I had always worn hats any time I'd be outdoors for any length of time, and I started buying the best sun protection lotions as they were introduced. Titanium dioxide, PABA, PABA-free, SPF-15, then 30, and now 50.

After my kids were born, I stopped wearing makeup. I was lucky if I had time to take a shower, and I never got enough sleep. Makeup had no place in my life. I pared my beauty routine down from special soap, toner, moisturizer, a weekly mud facial, and ten-minute daily makeup to an occasional wash with milder soap, and moisturizer. I'd add sunblock if I actually got to leave the house. I also regained all the weight I had lost and a little bit more.

At forty-nine, I was a wreck. I was overweight and had developed rosacea with facial edema so that I looked like a boiled sharpei. That was the year my mother had her stroke, and my father ended up accompanying her to the hospital in a second ambulance because his implanted defibrillator hit him (turned out he was suffering from a hyperthyroid condition). As I cared for my parents, I couldn't help but consider that they are only twenty-two years older than I am. I didn't want to be as old as they were when I got to that age. When I had a pipe burst upstairs in my house later that year, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

We had gone out of town for a couple of days, so when we got back, the damage was considerable. Ceilings had fallen in, the floor was an inch and a half deep in water (the living room carpet undulated like a water bed as I walked across it), and water cascaded down in my kitchen like a waterfall. We were out of our house for almost six months, and I not only got a whole new interior with mostly new furniture, I also got a new body.

The suite hotel we stayed in had a workout room, and between that and the appetite suppressing side effects of the antidepressant (why would I need an antidepressant, you ask) I started taking, I lost forty pounds over that six months. Then Olay sent me a sample of its Regenerist Daily Regenerating Serum.

It's like the free cigarettes the tobacco companies sent to the soldiers in WWII. They get you addicted and build brand loyalty. I confess. I am addicted to Olay. My granny used Oil of Olay, which came in a glass bottle in those days. It was pink. I thought of it as "Oil of Old Lady." Now Olay has, like everyone else, proliferated into an overwhelming array of products such that I wish there were an American Standard of Testing and Materials-type handbook available. How many of these things do you need? Can you create an explosion by mixing the wrong ones together? What's the difference between serum and moisturizer, and do I really need to put both of those on before adding sculpting cream?

At any rate, I have quite an involved beauty routine. Twice a week, I sand my face and neck with some orange-scented scrubbing stuff and then add a clear activator that makes it warm and does something to exfoliate the skin. I then wash this off. To get all the little (plastic, I'm assuming) microbeads off, I pretty much have to take a shower even after I've plied a washcloth multiple times. Mind you, I had to wash my face - with an Olay facial cloth - before starting the sanding process.

After my skin is nicely dry, I apply the layers for the day. I start with eye serum, gently applied in a circular motion using my ring fingers (because they are the weakest fingers), outward on the upper lid and inward on the lower lid. Then I tap the lower lid with my finger tips to stimulate the collagen, or whatever it is that's supposed to make my lower lids look less wrinkly. After this, I slap on the above-mentioned regenerating serum all over my face, throat and chest (I've got cleavage, and I'm not afraid to use it). At this point, I have several moisturizers from which to choose, but they all contain sunblock of varying degrees. I apply one. After the moisturizer, if I'm not already so tired of the whole business I quit right there, I get out the sculpting cream.

This comes in a ruby red jar with a silver lid, which is probably because it costs nearly thirty bucks, and Olay wants to make you think you're getting value for your money. It's still going in the recycle bin when it's empty. I scoop out a small amount of cream and hold it between my fingers as if I'm praying (please make me look ten years younger...heck, make it twenty) to warm it up. I dab dots of it in my problem areas, smooth it out and then follow the brief facial massage routine that comes with the instructions.

Now, presumably, I'm ready to apply makeup. I sometimes even do, but very little. I've discovered that liquid or cream foundation, even stuff specially designed for "mature" skin tends to settle in my pores, giving me a dotted-swiss appearance. If I use concealer to tone down the slight ruddiness from the rosacea and apply foundation over it, I can look like I've been done in house paint. In general, I use cream blusher (very little) on my cheekbones, light mineral powder, eye shadow (in purple-ish, ruddy brown, pink, cream: all colors found in nature), brown mascara on my upper lashes only, brown eyebrow pencil, and Burt's Bees Guava lip gloss. Done properly, I don't look like I'm wearing makeup. I just look like me, only better.

This gets me through the day, unless I'm going to spend all day outdoors, in which case I skip the sculpting cream and bathe in SPF 50 sunblock. I dust it with the mineral powder to make it less sticky, but I may or may not do anything about additional makeup.

My bedtime routine is more simple. I start by washing my face with disposable cleansing cloths, then use night time eye cream applied with the same circles and taps as the daytime serum. Sometimes I use special eye pod thingies, when I remember I have them. Then I use a light night cream on my face and a richer one on my neck and chest. Hooray. Floss, brush, bed.

Death and Taxes

I did my dad's taxes this year. This is because I haven't done taxes since 1976 when I worked for the Department of Water and Power and had no idea what records my dad's tax preparer would need. I also procrastinated to the point I didn't think she'd be able to get them done in time. Last year, I just brought her a big envelope along about February containing all the Important Tax Documents Encloseds and nothing else, since my parents would be taking the standard deduction. It still took her a couple of months and $165 to complete them.

This year, I decided my dad ought to itemize, since the cost of my mother's skilled care facility alone put him well over the break-even amount. This meant I had to locate a lot of documents I hadn't been keeping very close track of: charitable contributions, other medical expenses, property taxes, etc. Fortunately, I had been trying to keep my mother's Quicken accounts more or less up-to-date, even if I hadn't reconciled the Morgan Stanley since last April or so. Unfortunately, it was an old version of Quicken, so TurboTax couldn't directly import any of the information. I expect I missed a fair amount, but if the IRS audits my dad, they may end up owing him even more money (except I expect it doesn't work that way).

Thank goodness for TurboTax! I even had the satisfaction of getting my dad's federal returns filed twice. When I e-filed the first time, the IRS rejected his 1040 because his birthdate didn't match his birthdate at the Social Security office. I unfortunately couldn't fix the error, because it wasn't an error on my side. So I just printed out the forms, which do not include a birth date, had Daddy sign and date them, and stuck them in an envelope with a thick sheaf of 1099-R forms (those are what you get for payouts from retirement pensions and IRAs). I essentially made a special trip to mail them, but I rewarded myself with a trip to the craft store after I left the post office. There's nothing like totally useless pretty things to cheer a girl up!

The Mystical Order of the Ancient Red Truck

Both Lee and I have agreed that part of growing up involves having an ancient red Ford pickup where you can see the road through the holes in the floorboards and you have to tie the doors shut. We also agree that, now we're grown up, more or less, we don't have to endure wrestling matches with recalcitrant gear shifts that sometimes come out the victor or endless hours broken down at the side of the road trying to beat life into geriatric engines.

My dad, however, still has a penchant for red trucks. He has an American Motors Jeep pickup - red, of course - parked in his driveway in Lancaster. It gets run about once a week when he goes to pick up his mail but otherwise just serves to make his house look occupied. (There's also a 1957 Chrysler New Yorker in the driveway, but with its four flat tires, it wouldn't fool anybody.) The truck isn't powerful enough to pull his travel trailer, so it's otherwise pretty useless. When I asked him why he bought an underpowered truck, he just said the price was right. I also recall my parents' favorite car salesman was working for American Motors at the time. He also sold them several Plymouths over the years, including the van they used to pull the trailer until the van caught fire and burned one afternoon on Interstate 5.

The Van wasn't actually red. In fact, it was blue - but it should have been red, or at least, purple. On one memorable journey back from Oregon to Southern California in the Van one summer, my sister-in-law and I dubbed it The Grape of Wrath. It had stuff lashed on top, the rear cargo area jammed full to the ceiling, and of course, the trailer, which was itself fully loaded, trailing behind. Thus laden, the Van handled like a pregnant sow, and despite triple digit temperatures, air conditioning was out of the question. Winter wasn't any better. Driving back from New Mexico one winter with this rig, I gracefully slid completely past the stop sign at the bottom of the offramp at Cline's Corners and was profoundly thankful no one else was stupid enough to be out in such icy conditions.

So when my folks were in the market for a new vehicle a few years ago, I steered them toward reliable, safe, Japanese models. My mother wanted a vehicle suitable for dirt roads and the occasional snowy or wet conditions, but she also wanted one she could get into, drive if necessary, and be comfortable in. She also secretly confided she wanted a vehicle incapable of pulling the trailer, since she didn't think my dad should be doing that anymore. My dad abdicated all responsibility of the decision to us, presumably to reserve his right to grumble later. We ended up with a Subaru Forester. Blue. My mother was very pleased. My dad grumbled. If my dad hadn't taken a curve too fast out of Taos last year, he wouldn't have had any AAA calls on it, much less any work beyond routine maintenance. It's a great vehicle, but it's not big enough to bring everything my dad would like (some of the things he lost in the Van fire were things no normal person would have had with him), so he grumbles. It's not powerful enough to pull the trailer, so he grumbles. And has started to look at Suburbans, Explorers and their ilk with For Sale signs in the windows.

Yesterday he found a Suburban for $2900 OBO parked around the corner from here. It's red. He left the house announcing his intention of doing a little dickering, so I sent him on his way. I was in the midst of trying to e-file his income taxes, so I was glad to have him out of my hair. He wasn't back by the time I went out to get some printer paper to print the whole thing for my files, but when I returned, I asked him what he'd found out about the truck.

"What truck?" Erm. At that point, I wished I hadn't mentioned it. At the same time, I was rather dismayed that he had forgotten about an object of an obsession. I know his memory is slipping, but that's particularly unnerving. Usually, with a person with Asperger Syndrome, the easiest way to have a conversation with them is to talk about their special interest. With Lee, it's computer hardware; Glen, computer games or animation, and Evan, roller coasters. I had just hoped to have a conversation that didn't devolve into the umpteenth repetition of some old unpleasant memory.

"Uh...well...the Suburban?"

"Suburban?" I expect he was thinking of his old Suburban, the one he had between the time his van burned and his sudden death episode. My mother couldn't drive the monster, so she gave it to my sister and bought a comfortable sedan (a Plymouth Breeze; my parents were well-matched).

"Um...there was a Suburban for sale you were going to look at...?"

"Where?"

"Around the corner? Ah...at the repair shop...?"

He chuckled. "I don't remember." At this point, he took out the pocket calendar I got for him, one juuuust small enough to fit, but with room for notes, and looked at it. "Oh. Yeah. I wrote it down." And he read off the phone number along with some other particulars.

I told him flatly that he would have to make the phone call himself; I wouldn't do it for him. I also mentioned that he'd have to get rid of his old red truck to make room for the (ahem) "new" one, and suggested he donate it to Make-a-Wish or some other charity so he won't have to pay someone to haul it off. Normally I don't speak so bluntly to my dad, but in this case, I felt I had to. He may have been imagining his own fleet of trucks, one for each imaginable purpose. Yeah, two to take up space and cost registration fees, and one to actually use.

However, I really don't expect my dad to be able to call a total stranger about the Suburban. And, with any luck, if he does manage to make the call, the owner will speak very little English. At times like this, I am glad my dad has become more of a dreamer than a doer.