The Pedicure

I'd looked forward to the appointment for three weeks!  I loved  foot rubs, especially since Charley had reneged years ago.  I had calluses across the bottom of my toes and heels from all the tennis I played.  In addition, balls protruded from the bunions of each big toe.

                                                                I'd explained all this on the phone each time I booked.  "You come early," the receptionist said in clipped English.  "You so-wok!"

"I what??"

"You so-wok!  You know - tub?"

"Oh, you mean I have to come early to soak!"

"Yeesss."  Her voice dipped through the "Ye" and then lilted upward for the "s's."  She was obviously running out of patience with me.

I showed up looking forward to the lengthy soak.  "Kim," the American name for receptionist Sholon, showed me to my tub.  It was in a line with nine others, all occupied.  "Kim" threw a tablet of disinfectant into the water.  "Too much hot?" she wanted to know, as I stepped into the water and positioned my butt on the raised seat. 

"Perfect!" I said.  Kim trotted off in her four-inch heels.  I turned the massage button to "knead" and sat back to enjoy the moment.

When I'd first started coming to this salon, it had been a mom-and-pop operation.  I remembered when the couple's second child had been born, and when they'd expanded the space.  Where had all these other Vietnamese come from?  The family must have chartered a boat to sponsor them.  At least they were working!

I noticed a  bald Vietnamese male speaking with the other two men behind the manicure stations.  He towered over them.  He started walking toward me, struggling with rubber gloves.  He yanked and twisted the rubber, raising his eyes to me above his mask.  "Small!" he said, throwing the gloves in a nearby waste bin.  His gnarled hands could have used the services of his peers.

I didn't like the looks of this!  I was here to relax.  I concentrated on my printed page, while the man went to find larger gloves.  I prayed someone else would show up at my tub.

"You choose color?" he said to me.  I handed him my selection.

He had to remove my old polish first.  He did what any field worker catching a mouse would do: he pressed down on my five toes with the palm of one hand, while the other hand rubbed off the pink polish.  I looked down the line at the Vietnamese women working.  They held their customers' toes gingerly between two fingers.  If he pushes down any harder, I'm going to say something, I promised myself.

Next came the callus removal.  My guy squirted liquid from a pink plastic bottle onto the rough areas, then grabbed a large pumice stone.  He rubbed the stone back and forth, applying more and more pressure with an elbow motion that would have given him the blue ribbon in a sawing competition.  For the bottom of my small toes, the only thing he changed was the size of the stone.  Finally, he was satisfied that the calluses were smooth.   I tried to resume my reading.

"Short?" he asked. 

I wasn't sure what he was talking about.  Then I realized he was holding the clippers in his hand.  "Yes," was all I said.  I wanted to explain that my big toenails get ingrown from my tennis sneakers, but I knew it was futile.

The nail clipping accomplished, he began to snip away the dead skin at the corners.  I watched his every move, and he watched me watching him.  When he dug underneath, I winced.  "Hurt?" he asked.

"No more!" I said.

"OK?" he asked.

Oh God, he thought I was asking him for more snipping.  What a difference a comma makes!  "Stop!" I yelled.  The other operators all looked up and began chattering in Vietnamese to each other. I felt like telling them my husband had been in their country during the War, trying to prevent the North Vietnamese from overrunning the place.  Why was this man torturing me?

The other operators resumed, and the dead skin was left hanging around my big toes.  My guy proceeded to the massage.

I might have failed to mention up till now that I have several small cysts on the bottom of my feet.  They are benign, the result of heels I wore while standing for years in front of classrooms teaching.  That was in the Mesozoic era, when a dress code for teachers did not include sneakers.

The massage began with my toes.  Obviously, my guy did not appreciate his own strength.  The bones of my toes actually cracked, as I lifted one butt cheek and then the other off the seat, trying not to yelp.

Realizing my discomfort, he pooled more lotion into the palms of his gloves and proceeded to the soles of my feet.  "What this?" he said, as he came upon the first cyst.

"Just a cyst," I said in a slow cadence, glaring at him.  He glared back.  The other operators stopped to look up again, and chattered in Vietnamese.  Obviously they understood every word of English and I had become a source of disruption, if not ridicule.

He finally moved on to massage my calves.  I have large calves, the result of twelve years of cheerleading and quadruple years playing tennis.  More lotion into the gloves, then a deep tissue massage. He kept smirking at me.  What was he thinking?  My calves were freakish?  It didn't matter.  I was going to enjoy this part, even if he killed me!

The polishing went relatively smoothly.  Before I knew it, I heard, "OK."  He handed my sandals to me and lifted the armrest.  "You go."  He was pointing to the blow dryers on the floor.

I closed my book.  I had read a total of one page.  I shuffled in paper sandals to the dryers under the front window, carrying my shoes, my purse, and my book.  I had a name for this man who would NEVER touch me again - Conan the Barbarian!  Did he actually think I was going to tip him?   I weighed my options with my feet under the blowers.

When I got myself together, I stood at the reception counter waiting for the bill. The pedicure was $21, an obvious ploy to have me round out to $25 with a tip.  Should I cave in?  Mom and Pop, who owned the place, were staring at me.  Maybe Conan was their son-in-law!  I gave them a thin smile, wrote a check for $21, and knew I'd be looking for a new salon.




 



 

   

Must-have's



The following took place in a children's shoe department.

"I'm in love!  I'm in love!"  Both hands spread across her cheeks.  Her mouth formed a perfect "O."

"You mean you have a boyfriend?"  I didn't have a clue.

"Well, yes, Grandma, but he's a bad boy in my class.  And you know I'm a really good girl.  He's always in trouble.  I don't know why I like him.  Why is that, Grandma?"

"Sweetheart, sometimes bad boys seem exciting.  But they're not the ones we want to spend much time with."

"Anyway, I'm in love with these SHOES!!  Mom, can I have these for summer?  Please!  Please!"

"You're not getting summer sandals now, young lady.  Your feet may not be the same size in two months."

"Can I get measured?  And if I don't grow, can I get them?  Maybe the lady will keep them for me!"

"We can measure now, but the lady can't put them away that long."

"Please take off your shoes," said the saleswoman.  No problem there - Emma had already thrown hers under a chair.  She knew the drill.  "Now stand on this, please," the woman said, indicating the sizing device.

"Don't forget to write it down and put it in your room back there!  My name is Emma Carey.  What if you don't have them when we come back?"

"Then I can order some for you."

"I LOVE these!  Can I get them for my birthday, Mom?"

"I'm sure by then there'll be something else you'd like for your birthday.  Do you believe this?" my daughter-in-law asked, turning to me.

Miss Emma was five years old!

Houseguests from Hades

It's the "high season" in south Florida.  "Snowbirds" cruise around with convertible tops down to soak up the sun.  Permanent residents of Florida are too afraid of melanomas to ever think of doing that!  The beaches are crowded, and all the cabanas taken.  We watch northerners dive right into the Atlantic, without regard for the purple flag that means men-of-war!

There is also an abundance of houseguests. Houseguests and "snowbirds" take up the tennis courts and get all the restaurant reservations.  They think they are whispering in movies when they are really talking - always right behind us.  Their cell phones are never turned off, in case the kids left behind have decided to elope or have flunked out of school!

I asked some of my south Florida friends if they had any "Houseguest from Hell" stories.  Some of the worst offenders were members of the family!

There was the daughter who had a few too many wines and decided when she came in to make herself a grilled cheese in the toaster oven...then fell asleep, forgetting the oven was on.  The cheese caught fire, the fire singed the cabinets, the cabinets smoldered till the smoke woke everyone up.  Mom and Dad ended up with a whole new kitchen!

Another daughter wouldn't eat anything her mother prepared until she got up to search for condiments. "I can't eat this without mayo!" or "I need ketchup to eat this!" she told mom.

How about the son and daughter-in-law that brought their beloved "Bitsy" with them, a Chihuahua which peed all over mom's white shag carpet?  Or the daughter and son-in-law who brought their Airedale, which chewed off the leg of an antique loveseat (yes that was me!)?

Or the son-in-law who came but disagreed with his father-in-law politically and wouldn't speak to him for an entire week?

Our neighbor's daughter in Massachusetts was getting married to a Brit and our neighbors didn't have enough bedrooms for the groom's family.  So I offered a couple of ours. We ended up with a London barrister (and his family) in our place.  The Brit couldn't get his fill of our good ole Kentucky bourbon, which was mighty expensive in London!  Not only did he swill down every drop of our bourbon and then switch to scotch, but he sat in his white wig of curls till 2 a.m., while Charley nodded obediently at his stories!

An ideal guest has no food allergies or medical emergencies; stays out of the host/hostess' bedroom; cleans up his kids' messes; can make his own breakfast; helps out with the preparation of meals or at least cleans up; finds the pool, beach, or walking trails on his own; brings a book, laptop, or Ipad with him; reuses towels; does his own laundry; and strips the bed when he leaves.

Surrounded by ideal houseguests


One guest did not fit any of this description.  A friend of ours tells the story of a guest from Canada who came to stay after his wife passed away.  He spent a lot of time crying in his room. The guest was fortunate to be staying with a hostess who was a gourmet cook!  On the first morning, our friend prepared a breakfast of pancakes and bacon, fresh-squeezed juice, scrambled eggs, homemade coffee cake, and coffee.  When the guest appeared in his pajamas, he carried a Ziplock bag of granola and declared, "I never eat anything but this granola for breakfast!"  Nor did he approve of the menus being offered.  After breakfast he proceeded to grocery shop for HIMSELF by borrowing the host's car.  With the grocery shopping done, he disappeared.  When he returned in his wet bathing suit, the hostess warned him about the dangers of rip currents in the Ocean.  "Oh, I haven't been in the Ocean.  I've been swimming in the intracoastal waterway, looking for manatees!"  Back in his marble bathroom, he slipped, and a bottle of herbal bath oils shattered over the floor.  The white marble remains a lovely tint of aqua to this day.  Our friend, the hostess, heard a rumor that her guest had found a girlfriend in the Miami area. No more need for crying!  Or inviting him back!

Finally, the story of the keys.  A guest in Connecticut went out in the morning to jog (high marks there!), grabbing one of the host's jackets from the closet on his way out.  He finished the wooded loop once and proceeded to start around again, when he noticed a set of keys on the trail.  He picked them up, dumped them in his jacket, and continued.  Going around the second time, he started thinking about the keys.  There was no way he could return them to the owner, since a jogger would have to retrace the path for miles and it was nearly time for work.  Besides, his wife was always telling him he hoarded things like a squirrel.  At the end of that loop, he took the keys out of the pocket, cocked his arm, and threw them into the woods as far as he could.

Later that day, his hosts invited him to accompany them to an art show.  The host and hostess scoured the house but couldn't find the car keys anywhere.  This is the first time they have seen the real story!

In the interest of total disclosure, Charley and I are still "snowbirds," spending almost eight months a year in Florida before heading to Massachusetts.
Let me hear some of your worst nightmares with visitors in the "Comments" section below.



 

Men's Tennis Teams

I had some responses (LOVE GETTING THESE!) to my post about women's tennis teams.  In fact, wives of men who play(ed) on tennis teams sneaked these comments to me surreptitiously.  The women were afraid if they put their responses in the "Comments" section at the bottom of my blog, their lives would be threatened.

Among the feedback, a surprising consensus:  MEN ARE AS ABSURD WHEN THEY BELONG TO A TEAM AS WOMEN!  The following are reports I got, which have yet to be confirmed, until I go undercover with a beard.

There are actually men playing doubles who will argue a call from the other side of the net!  This might occur from a crouching position or upright from the baseline (though not too many retirees in Florida can actually stand upright).  In other words, they are looking through or across a rope lattice of netting to the opposite end of the court, when they decide the opponents mistakenly called a ball "Out."  At which time, a few agile ones may suddenly high-jump the net, demanding to see where the ball landed!  That's one sight we don't need in ladies' tennis - vaulting panties.  The ladies have RULES that state they must be invited to come to the other side of the net to view a mark.  Very genteel!

There are actually men who refuse to play on either the deuce or add side of the court in doubles.  This means the captain must reshuffle the lineup, if both partners play the same side.  How naive of me!  I thought men could take orders.

There are also men's team players who refuse to serve facing the sun. This presents a problem if both partners do not have the proper equipment - sunglasses, hat, or visor -  and have forgotten to put sun block on their faces.  Dermatologists in Florida have outrageously successful businesses, so I guess someone finally decides to serve!

Another report I got was that some men actually forget the score when they are serving (imagine?).  In fact, many start serving, then forget that they've served at all!  At which point, the server asks the other three players what the score is, and no-one knows!  Loony tunes... 

Many male players in Florida can't hear what the server is saying anyway, because they refuse to wear their hearing aids.  How many are decent lip readers, you ask?  Only one that I know.  So the server could announce almost any score that fits the side of the court where he is standing and get away with it.

Finally, my sources reported that if a good golf game comes up, the lineup may be missing a few positions.  And here I thought that men didn't need RULES!



  



 

Women's Tennis Teams

There are no volunteer jobs as thankless as the captainship of a women's tennis team.  Well, maybe one - the presidency of a condo association.  But that will have to wait for a future post.

The men who play on tennis teams take orders.  They're used to it from playing on teams growing up and from their professional lives.  I saw this firsthand, when Charley was a captain. 

Not so for the women.  I've been there.  Women want their MONEY'S WORTH.  If they pay, they want to play.  Which is why women's teams often create their own RULES.

A men's team captain assigns a partner and a position to each man on his team each week.  If a player voices complaint, he's benched for that match.  There is no recourse.  Accept or quit.

If a woman does not want to play with a particular teammate in a match, she will call the captain and tell her - often at 9 p.m.   "You refuse to play with Joan?  Well, which teammate would you like to play with?"   The captain must play psyhchologist with female emotions, but must be subtle.  Never can she state outright that the caller isn't half the player her partner is, and that she should slide down a few positions.  Instead, the captain reshuffles the team to accommodate demands and listens to late-night calls about the weaknesses of other teammates.  Which leads to the most important rule for a women's captain to institute:  no calls unless initiated by HER!

There is also the matter of positioning for the women, since six positions may play in any given match.  Can self-worth really be at stake if a player moves down from fourth to fifth position?  Is this a job, on the pro circuit?  The captain must be careful to move a partnership up, if they have won consistently (three or more times), and split the partnership, if they have lost consistently.  Otherwise, there will be complaints from the winning partnership which wants to rise to the top, or those underneath who want to move above a losing partnership.

Which leads to another written or unwritten RULE for women's teams:  either the pro, or the pro with team officers, will determine the lineups for matches every week.  That way, the captain's not got her you-know-what hanging out there to dry.

In order to figure out who's won and who's lost, charts are often kept.  Which leads to another RULE:  those in the bottom _______(fill in the blank) percentage of wins at the end of the season will have to try out again for the team, along with new signees.  Now there's a scene - the tryouts.  Picture high school cheerleading drama without the pimples!

There is often a RULE regarding team clinics.  The clinics may be mandatory once a week.  Well, the depressed economy blew that one, since clinic fees are extra and many players can no longer afford them.

And still another RULE for many women's teams:  a player must be present for seventy-five percent of the matches.  Players often take off weeks at a time on vacation and snowbirds sometimes don't return to Florida till after the holidays, when the matches are almost half over.  The captain ends up replacing players with school-aged children, if they can hold a racket.  Hence the rule.

Then there's the matter of unsportsmanlike conduct during match play.   There is a polite method to question bad line calls.  If players continue to be obnoxious (with several facelifts, an attitude, and continued bad calls), a RULE states that play may be discontinued while linespeople are found.  Linespeople, ideally, should consist of one member of each team, who stand at the side of the court during the rest of the match.  However, they must remain mute unless asked to speak!

There are RULES to file grievances against another team or another team's player.  A form must be filled out by the captain, with a check sent in to the league.  This must be done within a week of the incident.   The league must respond within a week of being contacted.  If the grievance is not received within the stated time frame, the Board of the league will not consider the issue and the check will not be returned!   If the unruly player hangs around the league through a second and third grievance against her, SHE WILL BE REMOVED FOR THE DURATION OF THE SEASON!!  Imagine?  By then, if the captain has not taken matters into her own hands, the team should elect a new captain!   

If all of this sounds like a rollicking good time, consider this.  When women first join a team (and the competition for a roster spot is fierce), they often spend a lot of time in the women's room on or over the toilet.  Over time, nerves subside and a sense of perspective is achieved.  It's only recreation, after all.  Which the men knew all along! 

One Consequence of Aging

Women over the age of 55 are familiar with physiological changes that have occurred.  All we have to do is look in the mirror.  I want to vent about the consequences of one of these changes.

My bladder has fallen!   In addition to my fallen boobs, uterus, forehead (see previous post on 4/10/11), and skin over my top lip (gathered into attractive creases), the bladder is the last straw.  But it fell before the rest.

My bladder fell when I had my first child by natural childbirth - a beautiful son, almost nine pounds, and twenty-four inches long!  He is now six feet three inches and does not ever want to be reminded that he caused this predicament.  My second son followed sixteen months later, also by natural childbirth.  But he was off the hook, since my bladder had already fallen.

I don't know where it went, except downward.  It causes a need to use the women's room more frequently than I'd like.  Especially during the night!

A doctor actually tested my bladder to determine whether I have spasms or a chronic condition.   I have decided against surgery and Detrol medication.  I already pop five vitamins, a soy supplement, fish oil, calcium, and a cholesterol medication in my mouth daily.

I have given up high-impact aerobics.  As long as I know where the nearest women's room is, I have no need to wear special underwear.

So I am now a good judge of efficient, attractive women's rooms.  In convenient and not-so-convenient locations!  Especially when travelling.

When we were recently in South Africa, we took a seven-hour bus trip from Johannesburg to our destination at the game preserve near Kruger Park.  I never pass up a toilet, and had been forewarned before we left that we would not be stopping for four hours.  I had no juice that morning, and only a half-cup of coffee. Our guide had told us to use a toilet (the size of a pail) in the middle of the bus, with a bi fold door, if  we felt the need.  No lady in her right mind would bend over into a pretzel to sit on that thing, surrounded by the rest of the group.  I made it to the first rest stop.  One of our ladies, nearly eighty, did not.

There are always lines outside ladies' rooms.  Women in need all know that we will plow down any man ahead of us for the men's room, if there is a line for the women's.  Another of us is always ready to stand guard.  Or not.

Charley and I drive from Massachusetts to Florida and back semi-annually.  He knows I cannot sit for more than three hours.  He no longer complains, since his prostate is at the age when he has to stop at least as frequently as I do.

Once I reach the stall, there is the problem of where to put a purse.  I no longer hang it on a door hook, if the hook is reachable over the top.  I have personally had a purse stolen when someone lurked outside the stall at a rest stop on Route 95 in Florida.  By screaming at the top of my lungs, "Someone stole my purse!" and exiting immediately to search for the culprit (holding my pants up), I was able to find my bag behind the toilet of the next stall, intact!  The best bet is to lock a purse in your vehicle and enter unadorned.

Once I make it to the toilet, I must remove a paper toilet seat cover from its container and place it on the seat.  It often falls sideways into the toilet, hanging so that only one cheek of my buttocks will be spared others' germs.  If I am in a hurry, I balance on that cheek.  Otherwise, I start over.

Then there is the matter of the toilet paper holder.  After I have sat down, I glance to my side and invariably discover there is no paper left.  So I try to slide the spare roll into position in the metal holder.  I have ended up with cut fingers attempting this.

The flush mechanism can be another problem on public toilets.  Chrome bars that stick out to the side are easiest, if you can raise your foot to that level and kick downward.  God forbid you touch the thing!  Many toilets flush automatically, but in the event they don't, you must search for a small button on the back wall.  Sometimes the button is black and obvious.  Sometimes, it's chrome and blends into the plumbing mechanism.  If you are lucky enough to locate the button, it may be recessed too far to allow your finger to press it.  Then it's time to bail out.

There have been very few times in my life when I wished I were a man.  Childbirth was one (two), and anytime I ran for the women's room was another.

The Boys Farmer's Market, Delray Beach, Florida

Prerequisites to Shop at The Boys:

1. Yoga meditation, to obtain a state of Nirvana before entering.

2. Steel-toed construction shoes (absolutely NO flip-flops or sandals) to prevent
your toes from getting crushed.

3. A large steel grocery cart (bring your own, if possible) to act as a buffer between your shins and the senior citizens (in town from N.Y. and hunting for quality for pennies) who use theirs as bumper cars. This will also allow you
to block the itsy-bitsy aisles so you won't have to try to pass the market's
mini-carts left helter-skelter wherever there is a free sample.

4. An appreciation of the martial arts, since you might catch FREE OF CHARGE a fist fight between a driver waiting for someone to back out and a newcomer who outhustles him for the same space.

5. Infinite patience with the cashiers, who have been trained in hand-to-hand combat and supercilious attitudes.

6. A translator to understand the myriad food samples the Mexican employees offer you inside.

7. A book of N.Y. slang expressions (with phonemes, if possible). If the visiting seniors TELL you to move your cart over, you will be able to understand them to give an appropriate reply.

8. An IPOD so you can disregard the previous item.

The Boys Farmer's Market is a permanent structure with year-round indoor market. It's been open since 1988, when the father from (guess where?) New York City chose the location. The sons have continued the operation, while next-door, The Girls Strawberry Patch (the daughters?) sells gifts and allows picking. At least the rows of strawberries are maneuverable there!

If you should survive the parking lot (do NOT park near the entrance!), you enter a space where 350 people are crammed into what should hold 100. It's a maze. To the right is the bakery, with mile-high cakes and pies, though no bargain! If you are tempted by a slice of their famous raisin walnut bread, you must pull your cart off to the side to sidle over to inspect. Suddenly you feel your elbow jostled and a white-haired couple wedges in front of you to shout their order to the clerk, who is still wrapping a dozen eclairs. Why are these retirees in such a rush? I'm a retired senior citizen, too! Where do they have to go but home, to reheat the prepared meals they'll pick up here - if they get through the one-way maze to the rear of the store?

BEST cheese, tomatoes, fresh-cut fruits, lamb, steaks, international foods, and killer fresh-squeezed juice!! But if there's a deal that seems too good to be true, check the expiration date. The package may expire in two days!

If you succeed, without bleeding shins, in reaching the lettuces at the far end of the maze, you begin to congratulate yourself. The golden fleece (cashier's counter) is within sight! But not so fast! You have now entered The Twilight Zone, where shoppers take on strange personalities.

At the end of each produce aisle is a five-foot open space before cashiers' counters begin. In this space, produce shoppers are making the turn to get down the next aisle. It is also the space where The Smugs (those who have finished) have taken up residence. Since there is only room for three mini-carts in each check-out line, The Smugs spill into each other, while the unfortunates still shopping must cut through them to the next aisle.

Choosing the right check-out line is crucial! You must count the number of items in both carts ahead of you and judge if the shoppers look intelligent (will pay rapidly) and can speak English. There is no retreat and no turning around!

On my last venture to The Boys (six months ago), a shopper had placed all her items on the conveyor belt. Suddenly, a hand flew over her mouth. "I forgot the wine from Argentina," she said and somehow managed to wedge herself out of the line to run off.

The Smug behind her (in front of me) spewed Italian. "Santa Maria! Non e possible!" She made rapid hand gestures and got louder and louder.

I was the last of the three in the line. There was no room to turn around to join another. The line for the next register was at my hip. I smiled sweetly at the Italian and shrugged my shoulders. I prayed the Argentinian wine was in stock!

The cashier glared at the inconsiderate shopper when she returned. "You have held up my line!" she lectured. "Next time, bring a list and a pencil!"

"That won't help," I blurted out. "You'll get run over if you try to read it!"