It All Started With Jello

Sometimes, the strangest thing brings a family together. 

Mom and Dave knew each other over the years simply by living in the same small town.  They didn't really "know" each other but they were familiar and said hello in passing.  Fast forward many years and both were single-- Mom in her late 50s, Dave in his late 60s.

On their third date, they decided to get married!  When Mom called to tell me she was marrying Dave, I blurted out "Who the hell is Dave?".  Not a terribly joyful response, I know, but come on-- Three weeks?  Was she crazy?

Our whole family was pretty freaked out.  I have four siblings and let me tell you-- We burned up the phone lines the night we all got the wedding news.  I lived in San Francisco at the time and booked a flight to Ohio the following weekend to check this guy out!

You see, my Mom was a great catch-- Beautiful, successful, independent, a fabulous cook, the works.  I thought for sure she'd hit her head and was suffering from temporary insanity. That was the only logical explanation!  And Dave-- well, he must have swept her off her feet in her compromised state and was really looking for a live-in maid-- not a great love.   

Not on my watch!

When I arrived at the airport, there stood my beaming mother and a sweet looking guy I assumed was Dave.  I hugged Mom warmly to send the message I was "protective" of her. Then, while I was giving him the once-over, Dave gave me a big hug like we were long lost friends.  Oh, so that's the way it's going to be, huh?  We'll see about that.

When we got to the parking lot, Dave put my luggage down and opened our car doors, then, dealt with the bags.  The whole 40 minute drive home, Dave was friendly and chatty and well, I thought--  You gotta love a guy for trying-- but I wasn't buying it. 

Mom didn't move when the car stopped in the driveway and told me to "stay put". Dave hopped out and came around to the passenger side, opened our doors and helped us both out.  Then he carried my very heavy bags up the stairs and placed them in the guest room.  Try as he may, it will take more than a few manners to soften me up.

The next day was Saturday and Mom ran the town's Farmer's Market.  She was up at 4:30AM and I heard a car pull in the drive way shortly thereafter.  It was Dave picking her up!  He would help with set-up and keep Mom company at the Market. I'll admit, 4:30AM is not my favorite time of day so I really thought-- you gotta love a guy for trying.

Around noon I walked down to the Market.  While Mom was busy, I cornered Dave and started firing questions at him-- Who, what, when, where and W H Y my Mother? He was lovely and sweet and gracious and funny and, damn-- really, really nice as he answered my questions. And everyone at the Market knew he was my Mom's boyfriend! Apparently my sibs and I were the last to know.  

Later that night, Dave was cooking a big, meet-the-family-dinner to "officially celebrate" their engagement.   My family is a very loud crowd.  In fact, I suspect you might have heard a sonic boom when we're all in the same place at the same time. Tonight was no exception, except for when we said Grace.

Mom has us hold hands around the dinner table to say Grace before each meal.  The difference this time was that Dave led the prayer.  This was Mom's "territory" and I couldn't believe she was cutting her fave part of the meal loose after less than a month! Yikes, she must have really hit her head something fierce.

As soon as my brother took one bite of Dave's pot roast he was sold and suddenly the guy's new best friend.  My youngest sister caved when she realized the biscuits were from scratch.  

My other two sisters and I were holding our ground and playing 20 Questions with good old Dave.  But he won my oldest sister over when she realized he also had 5 kids of his own, and my middle sister folded with his dog lover comment-- the suckers. But not me!  I was there to defend our Mother's honor and get to the bottom of this guy's motives.

Mom played the whole thing very cool.  I caught her winking a few times at Dave for moral support but she didn't bail him out of any tough questions.  Honestly, Dave was going toe-to-toe with me and again, all I could say was-- you gotta love a guy for trying, but enough was enough!  There simply had to be a "catch".

After clearing the dishes, Dave settled us all back at the table so he could "present" Mom with a special dessert. Ha!  There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell Dave would come up with a perfect dessert for our Mom.   He simply had not been around long enough to know Mom's favorite (and unusual) "dessert" foods-- The things she loves the most but you'd never know unless you spent a LOT of time with her.  Mom will finally come out of her crazy, love-stuck spell!

And then he did it!

Dave walked out of the kitchen with Jello!  Not just any Jello either.  Dave found a recipe that used 1) Jello  2) Cool Whip  3) Cream Cheese and 4) Pretzels.  ALL of Mom's favorite treats! Seriously, if she had her way, Mom would live on these four foods alone and Dave had a recipe that used them all at once-- And it was G O O D !

That night, with our very loud family gathered around Mom's dining table, eating Jello Salad, I knew I really loved Dave for not only trying, but for succeeding at making our Mom happy.  

That dinner was more than 20 years ago.

What brings your family together?

Welcome to The Fifty Factor  -  Joanna

Tag Anyone?

Blame it on Diane!  Really, it's all her fault.  I was minding my own business just cooking blind one day and poof, there she was with this game of Tag.  I tried to pretend I didn't get the message but there was simply no denying it. 

I wondered if something sinister might happen if I didn't play along.  You know, like with those chain letters saying to just add glitter and stir within the next 15 minutes or the chain will be broken and things will go to hell faster than you can say Green-Eyed Momster.  I'm afraid not to play along so please humor me.  I promise this is cheaper than therapy and no one will get hurt.

I'm supposed to write an entertaining story to make you laugh, cry, holler, Etcetera, Etc., but frankly that might take me 365 days and well, Blah, blah, blah, blog, time's short.  I've got a bus to catch before the crazy lady on road 80 drops by to discuss her countless chocolate covered daydreams.  She might be the coolest mom on the block but frankly, I don't give a Rat Sass today.  I really need to pick up some yooper yarns before Jane at the Garden Gate closes at 5pm.

You see, when Gran speaks, I listen, and since her queen size funny bone is acting up, I need to take care of the "to do" list she gave before the the sun sets and all the nanny goats in panties are scooped up never to be seen again.

Goats, you say?  Yes, goats.  Your mom knows but won't tell you the reason my Gramma 2 many is so desperate to get her hands on those goats, but I will.  It's simple really.  Gran doesn't give a rootietoot about the goats, it's the panties made of yooper yarns that she wants.  Yes, the panties!

Rumor has it, the panties are part of Annie's Travel Treasures, not the Rockefeller's treasures or any of their relatives, and that is what makes them extremely valuable!  Apparently, when wearing the special panties, people feel ticklish from a distance and are apt to tell you the secret that's in the sauce!  And that's a very big deal, especially if you are lost and found in India.

You see, Gran's going to India soon and even though Diet Coke rocks, you can't get any in India if you don't know the secret is in the sauce-- And it's not curry baby.  That's why I need to catch the bus because Gran won't stop screaming while I'm driving, especially if I'm under the influence of Diet Coke!

Oh jeez, now there's a car coming up the driveway.  All this suburb sanity is starting to get to me.  It's nearly noon and I've been at work, at play, at home all day and not gotten to Gran's "to-do" list yet.  I may be loving Annie but I'm sneaking out the back door.  Please don't tell her.  I'll swing by Lulu's Sandbar for a quick bite of seasonality, run to Beetle's for some goat food and then stop at Lilly's Life for my daily dose of TLC before I gather up a couple of goats in panties for Granny.

Don't take it personally if I missed your blog in this jumbled mess.  LindanJake might be mad they weren't included but I know Lucky 13 and counting will be relieved she doesn't have this game of Tag to play with her house full of kids.  As for the rest of you, I know, I know, you'll play this game of Tag when pigs fly.

This is a new way of tagging people. It's a short story, and if you want to join be my guest. If you can find a reference that relates to you, consider yourself tagged-- or not.  You don't have to link to anyone, or go to anyone else's page. But you have to come up with an entertaining story including tags of your friends.  Like I said, blame it on Diane-- but for me, it was fun trying to use as many blog names that I could.  Thanks to Diane at Cooking Blind for the idea. 

Welcome to The Fifty Factor  -  Joanna

What Do You Do?

Oh the dreaded dinner party conversation-- The topic that always come up, especially when men are doing the talking--  The "What Do You Do?" for a living conversation.

My husband and I regularly make the rounds on the "rubber chicken" circuit.  You know, the charity fund raising dinners and the business award banquets where you find yourself at a table full of strangers trying to make chit chat while some perky event chairperson on stage is asking people to take their seats, so the dreadfully long presentations can get started-- before the "rubber chicken" is served.  

In the year since I've retired, we've attended about a dozen such events and they all pretty much end up being the same thing.  That thing, in my case, is defeat.

For starters, the meals always costs at least $200 a plate-- All usually to a charitable cause, but still, $200 is $200!  And, the dinners often take way to long from start to finish, before you can then stand in the crowded valet parking line to get the heck out of there, before your feet-- in your "2 hour, 4-inch heels" self implode, because you've been wearing them for over 3 hours and your "comfortable shoes quota" has been met for the night.  

I've done so many of these dinners over the years, mostly at the same two or three hotel ballrooms, that I know what the entree will is based on which salad is served-- Caesar salad is followed by lemon chicken, unidentifiable vegetable puree and flourless chocolate cake.  Mix greens with edible flowers (What is that about anyway?) comes with chicken Marsala, whipped potatoes and a trio of sorbets and cookies.  And if you are lucky enough to get the greens with citrus wedges, you'll also get grilled chicken with the tiniest fillet of beef you've ever seen, along with creme brulee and fresh berries.  Trust me on this, I get around.

Once everyone is finally seated, guests start dodging the white-gloved waiters serving the salad dressing over our shoulders, while the idol chit chat starts up.  Seating is almost always alternating boy - girl, which means some full-of-himself man is usually sitting next to me-- Most often either a young, hip entertainment Agent or an older, very distinguished, stuffed shirt executive.  

When it's a business related dinner, these men have "worked the table" to sit next to someone equal to his intelligence and job stature.  I'm not kidding, you can see the jockeying-- Their wife/date is popping up and down in various seats around the table so the man can get the seat next to the table's "power player".  It's funny to watch, and since I don't really care who I sit with, I plop down in a seat that allows me to see the stage, in case by some lucky change, there is actually good entertainment at the soiree.  I save the seat next to me for my husband who's also off "working the room".  

And there I sit--  Fifty-something and retired, looking a bit like an over the hill trophy wife (which I am not-- a trophy wife, I mean.)   But, since I refuse to (Or is it, no longer have to?) play this game, I often feel like all the table jockeying is similar to being the last kid picked for the team in elementary school.

Anyway, since I don't engage in this kind of table hockey anymore, the man "stuck" next to me has dismissed me before the introductions have even begun, and is totally ignoring me and my overtures to chat.  If I can't get his attention to pass the dinner rolls, I know it's going to be a long night.

Eventually the man to my left, will reach his hand in front of me to introduce himself to my husband.  Since my husband has heard me complain about this ritual on more than one occasion, he immediately introduces me to the rude guy with his elbow in my face.  I don't mention that he's just dragged his tuxedo sleeve through my salad dressing.  He can figure that out on his own.

We all chat pretty much about nothing and then get back to our salads.  As plates are being cleared my seat mate starts up with the "What do you do?" questioning.  It took me a while to figure this one out.  In the beginning, I proudly proclaim that I recently retired.  But I started noticing the most annoying response--  The men's eyes would roll to the back of their head, followed by a fast scan of the table for an empty, "better" seat to change too.  In other words, the men seated next to me act like they got a lemon for a seat mate-- an empty headed woman that brought absolutely nothing to the party--their party.  It's as if I've became instantly invisible and totally irrelevant.  I kid you not!  

About the third time this happened, I thought maybe I should make up some bazaar job or life adventure to answer the predictable line of questioning.  But, that seemed like too much work.  Afterall, I didn't turn stupid simply because I'd earned the right to retire.  And, I live a very full life by the way.  Sure, I don't actually enjoy retirement, but I do a ton of meaningful charity work to take the place of my former career.  Apparently that doesn't count-- at least not at most banquet tables.

I've noticed a couple of other things about these men too.  If they are a young Agent, they usually have a lovely, usually wannabe actress, as a date.  Young Agents are usually too busy to be married.  And the older execs, always have a lovely wife by their side, who rarely speaks-- or is spoken to.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.  It's just a trend I've noticed.

So what's my beef?  I think it's all tied to my angst over being 50-something and feeling invisible.  50 and retirement at the same time was probably not my best idea. Retirement with this huge chip on my shoulder, not so smart either.  But how to cope with these two major life changes escapes me.  

At 49 I would have described myself as a successful business woman with a well rounded life.  Actually, if asked "what I did" I would have said I was an advertising executive-- Something most table mates found interesting.   And that's probably the core of the problem. I identified myself too closely by "what I did" in my job, rather than "who I am" as a person.  Since I am no longer working, I'm not sure who I am or who I'm supposed to be anymore.  

I know "complaining" about retirement in these tough economic times is not politically correct.  And honestly, if retirement was on the table today, I'd have never done it specifically because of these economic times.  But I did and that's that.  Now it seems, my full time job is trying to figure out how to make this transition a successful one.   It's a journey and I am definitely open to suggestions!

As for all those fund raisers we attend-- My all time favorite entertainment industry fund raiser was The No Show Ball.  I loved that one.  Their beautiful invitations arrived each year-- oh so clever and inviting.  All you had to do was send the charity your loot and you got to stay home and eat hot dogs (or what ever you wanted) in your jammies-- guilt free!  That's my kind of gala.  And there's none of the annoying chit chat.

How do you identify yourself?

Welcome to The Fifty Factor  -  Joanna

This Will Make Me Sound Old-- Butt...

What is it with guys and their pants?  To be more specific, what is it with their underwear and their butt cracks showing?  

I recently attended a high school graduation party with a bunch of teenage guys who were oh so cool with their low, baggy jeans-- all gangsta style, hip and full of attitude.  I understand peer pressure and the need to fit in, which means how they dress plays a part.  But I also know the day will come, in their middle-age, when they'll cringe at photos from their past-- kind of like I do with the wild perms and big hair photos of my youth.  At least I hope they'll be cringing rather than still wearing the same hideous look as adults.

It's just so hard for my 50-something brain to wrap around this fashion trend and how shopping works.  Do guys buy jeans in their waist size or their butt size? And, what about the length-- Is it based on the jeans pulled up or falling down?  And how do the pants actually stay up. Most teenage boys I know don't even have a butt!  What gives?

Back in my day, if someone saw I guy's underwear showing it meant he'd get a wedgie until the underwear elastic was torn off.  When did things change so drastically?  Are the underwear showing teens of today the off-spring of the poor guys from high school who always used to get underwear wedgies?

Have you noticed many of these guys parade around public in their pajamas too-- You know the elastic-waisted flannel sweats.  Even in their pajamas they seem to think it's imperative we all still see their underwear and butts!  Why?  But what I'd really like to know is-- when they're alone at home (in front of their mother!), do they walk around in their pajamas with their butts showing or, do they finally pull their britches up? 

I know, I know, if I'm asking these questions I'm too old to understand.  All I can say is thank gawd I only had to worry about wild hair trends and bad perms in my day because my parents would not have let me leave the house with my butt showing.  Never.  Ever.

Fortunately, by the time I was into the ripped sweatshirt fashion trend ala Flashdance, I was already in my own apartment.  Mom would have had a fit over that fashion statement too.

What was the fashion statement (mistakes?) of your youth?

Welcome to www.TheFiftyFactor.com  -  Joanna  -  Inspired by my friend Jane @ Jane at the Garden Gate

Little Miss Muffin Top

I knew it was time to retire during an important business meeting with a group of twenty-something Vice Presidents.  I had just pitched a totally hip and very irreverent movie campaign targeted to 18 year old guys. My clients loved it!  

It was a done deal and I nearly jumped up to belly slam the VPs.  (Kidding, but I was excited.)  Then I heard the 25 year old Sr. VP say, in her too sweet, squeaky voice say, "I can't believe YOU came up with this idea!"  The YOU she meant was ME-- a then nearly 50 year old ME! Translation:  I was old enough to be her mother and couldn't possible be that cool.

Talk about a buzz kill.  She called me O L D -- To my face. In front of a room full of other 20-something people. Who thought it was funny.  Damn!  

Was I gracious about her "old age" implications?  No, actually, I wasn't.  I remained silent and let her dig her embarrassed, muffin-topped ass out of the conversation, while I mentally calculated how much more I was going to charge her for the campaign she loved so much.

I was 49 1/2 at the time and will never forget that day.  It felt like the beginning of the end.  Everywhere I turned, 50 was screaming at me with all it's ugly, over the hill, implications.  I was not happy.

But wait!  When I turned 50 I could retire if I wanted to!   That's a big deal!  Not everyone can kick back before Social Security kicks in.  I'd reached a milestone, a huge accomplishment, the American Dream for crying out loud.  So why did I feel so bad?

I did not like being viewed as, "the old dog on the porch". I fancied myself as hip, in touch and still at the top of my game.  But dealing with ever-younger executives was, frankly, exhausting.  

I thought long and hard about retirement.  The last thing I wanted to do was walk away from a successful business for all the wrong reasons.  But as the months passed, I knew it was the right decision for me.

So I phased out my business and jumped into retirement.  

And hated it!  

No longer working 12 hour days left me with a lot of time on my hands.  The silence nearly killed me.  The sheer boredom, despite a ton of charity work and a mile long "to-do" list, was painful.  And, the lack of focus and purpose nearly drove me nuts.  This is not what I had planned.

It's been a little over a year since I retired.  Although I'm still trying to find my way, I have to admit, being bored out of my mind is still way better than doing business with 20-somethings all day long.

Have you ever had the "old dog on the porch" feeling?

  

Welcome to TheFiftyFactor.com  -  Joanna

Mystery Man in Milan

The days when companies few their exec First Class are long gone-- at least in my universe, but I am grateful for one particular First Class flight from Milan, Italy to Los Angeles more than 20 years ago.  

After two grueling weeks at a major business gathering located inside what looked like a bomb shelter-type bunker, with no windows and sometimes, it seemed, no air, I was ready to fly back to Los Angeles and sleep in my own bed.  I was exhausted and looked it.

My flight was one of those early morning ones, where you had to be up at the ungodly hour of 4am, to get to the airport in time for the three hour check in procedure, even though you could cut to the chase and enter the First Class Club for this airline and speed through the process in 30 minutes.  

I'd dragged my sorry self out of the very warm but uncomfortable hotel bed, threw on a big sweater, leggings and a pair of red sneakers.   (Yes, leggings-- It was the late 80s.)  My hair was pulled in a ponytail and the only make-up I wore was lipstick-- Not my usual professional attire but I was exhausted. Leaving a day early from the conference, I felt fairly confident I wouldn't be running into any business associates looking like a tired tiny-bopper.  Plus, at that hour of the morning, I didn't really care.

When I arrived at the airport, it was surprisingly empty. Sure it was still dawn, but it was a ghost town in there. As I made my way to the First Class Club, I hoped it wasn't too crowded either so I could stretch out on a sofa and wait the 2 1/2 hours before our flight.

The First Class Club was waiting for us.  Uh-oh....   The airline knew they had mistakenly confirmed the wrong flight time to about a dozen First Class passengers the day before.   They were sorry about the mistake, but we were at the airport 8 1/2 hours before the scheduled departure time.  I nearly wept.   

I was traveling with a co-worker, Harvey, who took it all in stride.  Me?  Not so happy. So we got some danish and juice from the buffet and parked on the far side of the room, well away from all the other unhappy passengers.  

As I bitched to Harvey about the delay, a man walked into the Club and I instantly knew, without a doubt, that my life had just changed forever.  I froze and stopped talking mid-sentence to stare.  I had no idea who he was or what just happened.  All I could do was pray--  Please god let him be American!  

No, it was not love at first sight or even lust for that matter.  It was nothing like that.  It was a strange, make the hair on the back of my neck stand up, kind of overwhelming feeling that life as I knew it was going to be totally different from that moment forward.  My brain raced trying to piece my feelings and emotions together.  

I was not the kind of girl that ever swooned over guys or longed for a man to call my own.  Nor did I need or desire to be "married with children".  That was all the furthest thing from this focused, career woman's mind.  I had my eye on a corner office not a white picket fence. So what the hell was happening?

Harvey followed my stunned gaze to the man across the room. Lucky for me, he knew the mystery man and invited him to join us.   Dear Harvey was a seasoned salesman and chatted him up, which was a good thing, since I was still trying to regain my composure.  Nothing like this had ever happened to me before and let me tell you-- I was freaking out inside!

After a short while, the receptionist came over with good news. The airline was taking us off the airport grounds for lunch. Okay with me, I thought, as long as the mystery man goes.  I'd follow him anywhere.

About ten of us rode a big, fancy, luxury bus out into the country, to a gorgeous villa, where we were fed mountains of food and endless wine.  The three of us sat together, and all through the meal, Harvey was asking probing questions to find out if mystery man was single or married.  Try as he may, mystery man pretty much stuck to business chatter and we knew little about his personal life when we left the villa to return to the airport.

When we finally boarded the plane, mystery man was four rows behind use so I asked-- okay I shamelessly begged, Harvey to get to the bottom of his "availability" while I slept.  I was blurry-eyed by this point (no thanks to drinking wine at 9am) and wanted to catch a nap.   Harvey agreed and I was asleep before the plane took off.

The next thing I knew, Harvey was nose-to-nose with me. I opened my eyes and with much enthusiasm he said, "I have great news.  He's getting a divorce!" 

Harvey babe-- Do I look like I was born yesterday?  Do you know how many times I've heard THAT line from a guy before? Get back there and find out exactly what "getting divorced" means and don't wake me up until you can bring me DETAILS!   I know, kinda bitchy, but I was so tired and slightly hungover.

Bless his heart, a few hours later, Harvey was shaking my arm to wake up.  Turns out mystery man really was getting divorced. He'd been out of the house for well over a year and was just waiting on the papers to be finalized. Thank gawd!   I was a happy girl again.

With a wink, Harvey was gone and got mystery man to sit next to me!  We spent the next several hours talking and laughing, all the while the "life changing" feelings I had continued to grow.   Just before the flight landed, he and Harvey switched back to their original seats.  

Being a salesman, Harvey asked if I'd "closed the deal" and had a date with mystery man back in Los Angeles.  I did not. Damn.

The three of us walked to baggage claim together and said our good-byes like any other business travelers would-- casually and rushed, as we looked for our bags and grabbed taxis home.  My heart sank.

We woked in the same industry, and I had a high profile job, so mystery man would be able to find me-- if he wanted to.  But I wasn't taking any chances.  That night, I mailed  him a note with my business card, telling him how much I enjoyed our conversation.  Let me tell you-- I was sweating bullets the morning I knew he would get that card.  So you can imagine the excitement when my assistant asked if I'd take his call.  Hell yes!

It was the first Monday in November, 1988.  We made a date for that Friday.  Since I'd looked like an exhausted wreck when we flew together, I made a big point to look my best on Friday night. When I opened the door for mystery man, I caught him doing a double take to check that he was at the right apartment.  There I was in my best "big hair, short skirt, high heeled look-- like I said, it was the late 80s.

That was our first date.  Our second date was the next night; third date the night after that.  And the rest, as they say, is history.  

By the way, my life did change in just about every imaginable way.  Swear to god.... true story.  I'm a lucky girl.

Now, if you asked my husband about our life-changing encounter at the Milan Airport he'd simply say --  "She picked me up."

Have you had a life changing moment?

Welcome to TheFiftyFactor  -  Joanna