Cracked Mirrors and Raised Eyebrow(s)

While waiting for the lights  at the railway crossing to turn green I idly checked the rearview mirror.  My lipstick was still in place but I was surprised to discover that my eyebrows were decidedly bushy.  They had looked fine in the bathroom mirror that morning but here, in the rare beam of sunlight which critically scanned the waiting traffic like a laser, they were unquestionably taking on Groucho proportions.

This morning I remembered to take action but first I had to clean the magnifying mirror which swings out on one of those criss-cross extendable arms.  My sons use it for shaving and, as they are taller than me, I had to stand on tiptoe which was precarious to say the least.  Also, the mirror is broken, so I had to peer into whatever parts I could manoeuvre in my direction.  Having set it all up to my satisfaction, I went in search of the eyebrow tweezers which weren't in their usual place, of course.  I dug them out of my knitting basket, traipsed back up the stairs to the bathroom and set to work.

In spite of the brilliant morning sunshine beaming benevolently through the bathroom window, I could only clearly make out my right eyebrow, so I relied on guesswork to complete the one on the left. It occurred to me I might be more successful were I to remove myself to the car and make use of the rearview mirror.  But then I realised that I would have to drive to a quiet, unpopulated spot somewhere.  My neighbours are used to my antics, but the sight of me parked outside my house, plucking my eyebrows might just be pushing things a little too far.  Especially as they are all busy washing their cars, scrubbing their front doorsteps, mowing the lawn and indulging in the usual joyful neighbourhood Saturday morning activities.

I wondered if one could get arrested for parking and plucking one's eyebrows. What with all this wondering and cogitating I noticed that I had got carried away with the left one and was now sporting a permanently quizzical expression.  I resisted the temptation to even up its partner and downed tools before ending-up resembling a feisty elderly French dame from a Toulouse Lautrec poster.

This look could be useful, I decided.  People might assume that I possess a critical and inquiring mind.  Hopefully it will work to my advantage when I drive later to check the row of parked cars for a broken or cracked side mirror incurred by my having cut it a little too fine while driving my son to school yesterday.

I had heard a faint snapping sound as I eased by, but didn't register until my son said: "Mum, I think you hit someone's side mirror", thus scotching the thought that there were snipers operating in the hills of St. Wendel.  I must have temporarily blacked-out, like that time at the supermarket car park when a man accused me of driving into his car.  I truly and honestly had not noticed a thing, but apologised profusely.  Luckily, he forgave me and waved me off.  I'm still not convinced he wasn't making it up.

I did notice, that time I drove into the row of supermarket trolleys at the same car park, while becoming   aware of a man standing and staring in amazement.  "What's that guy staring at?, I muttered.  "Well," my long-suffering son replied drily, "he's probably never seen a woman drive into a row of trolleys before".

As I set off yesterday evening to visit a friend, the sight of a crack on the back of my wing mirror dragged up the suppressed memory of that morning.  Being a mature, grown woman (I know, I've mentioned this before and some might quip that the lady doth protest too much) I resolved to return to the scene of the crime the next morning, check the parked cars for damage, own up and cough-up. I could either tuck a polite note under the windscreen wipers or be really brave, march up to several front doors and search out my victims. Then again, I might get arrested for loitering with intent, or ringing doorbells and running away.

I think I will brazen it out and go for the direct approach. Who knows?  Maybe the unfortunate car owners will be so intimidated by my quizzical, inquiring eyebrow, they might find themselves overwhelmed by insecurity and assume it was their fault for parking so carelessly.

A Frisky Lass

I had been working for the BBC World Service as a news typist for a couple of weeks when, one evening during a quickly grabbed meal of standard Beeb fare, I was asked how I was settling in.  Don, who posed the question was the shift supervisor. A tall, gangly, Donald Sutherland lookalike who ruled the editors' desk in a bored,  laconical manner in between writing pithy plays which were performed in off-Shaftesbury Avenue productions. His cynical remarks could decimate and lacerate in a nanosecond.

Being new and nervous, I sputtered out a reply without thinking. And instantly regretted it.  "Well," I squeaked, in tones akin to Victoria Wood doing her hilarious "University Interview" sketch.  "Most people are nice and friendly, but some of the journalists are downright snotty!".  I felt my face reddening even before I came to the end of my brief outburst. Don leaned back into his chair, which was no mean feat considering his legs alone stretched half way across the canteen, and repeated my last words. He took his time, rolling them around in his mouth, enunciating in his London drawl:  "Down-right snotty - eh?", guttering out the Ts as vowels.

He gazed into the distance, not deigning to regard my squirming form.  Maybe he was being kind, sparing me even more mortification.  "Doooooooowwwwwwwwn-right snotty", he repeated slowly and thoughfully.  It seemed to take about a hundred years before the last "y" floated out across the room and disappeared.

He made no other comment. It wasn't necessary.

After a while, I did settle in and managed to get along with journalists, editors and fellow-typists alike, including Don who even came to one of our tightly packed, crowded parties in Muswell Hill. Actually it was East Finchley, but Muswell Hill was more upmarket and Sara, my flatmate, and I had no qualms about bending the truth when necessary.

Gradually I was able to relax and be comforted by the fact that I was not the only purveyor of odd expressions in this haven of carefully-chosen and endlessly edited words.  I emerged from the lift one day, to be complimented on my new dress by an older journalist.  "My, that's a fetching frock", he commented.  "Fetching frock, fetching frock", I murmered quietly as I made my way to my desk.  Hmmmn!".

My favourite was a warning comment this man made to my friend, Tony, with whom I enjoyed a harmlessly flirty friendship: "She's a frisky lass, and no mistake!". Nothing's changed in that respect, but I have never, ever again accused anyone of being "downright snotty".

Disciplinary Measures

The phone rang this morning, I answered, and found myself greeted by a friendly policewoman from the local police station.  "Oh, Hi!" I said. "What's up?  My son in trouble again?  Been caught wetting his pants again? (I didn't pose the last question, but only because I didn't think of it). "No", she giggled. Well, not quite a giggle but an approximation of a well-meaning policewomanly show of humour. She asked to speak to my ex-husband and I explained that he is away for the next ten days and could I help?  "Are you 'X's mother?", she asked, cautiously.  (I put the 'X' in because I don't want to risk being sued by any of my sons for exposing their antics publicly). "I bravely admitted that I am  indeed his mother and could I help?".

"We need to know what disciplinary measures you have taken regarding your son".  "Disciplinary what?".  I was about to ask her what that meant, when I realised this was not a prank call and that she was dead serious.  "He's already been down to the police station, accounted for his actions and a report has been sent to the relevant authorities. What more do you need?", I politely inquired.  "We need to know what disciplinary measures ..." she parroted again.

My brain switched to overtime as I thought up the kinds of pubertal punishments which would satisfy the authorities.  "Urm, well, we've docked his pocket money indefinitely, he's hardly ever allowed to go out and he has to do twice as many chores than usual and for twice as long."    "Does this mean he has to come home earlier than usual?", she prodded.  Damn! Hadn't thought of that.  "Urm, no. He's only allowed to go out six nights a week instead of seven." I didn't say that either, but I thought it. I told her that his going-out allowance was strictly limited (all the while hoping she wouldn't catch him wandering around town with his mates at some ungodly hour), but that we had not given him house arrest. You try giving a strong, well-built young man house arrest!  Again, thought but not spoken.

She was duly mollified and we bid each other farewell.

By now you may be asking yourself what was the crime?  If not, then you certainly deserve to have your pocket money docked and to stay home scrubbing the cellar for at least a week.

This young criminal stole a chair from a pub while out with his mates one Saturday night.  Now before you all throw up your hands in horror ...  hands-up all those who have never taken on a dare, or been tempted to do so.  Ha!  Gotcha.  I'm not condoning the unlawful acquisition of other peoples' property, whether it be a chair, a cheap trinket from Woollies or someone else's wife or husband.  We all know that stealing is wrong and should not be encouraged.  If in doubt, look to the tax man or, if he's not at home, a couple of world leaders for confirmation of this fact. 

Back to the stolen chair. Do any of these people seriously believe that a XX year old "yoof " was that interested in acquiring a grotty old pub chair, honestly or otherwise?  Do they really think he intended to drag it all the way home in order to furnish his bedroom  with that extra touch, thus satisfying his obsession with interior decoration?  It could also have occurred to them that, had he really wanted to steal, he might have been more clever about it.

He fully intended to return the chair, and would have done so if he hadn't been prematurely caught. His fault for being so careless, and I told him so. Teenage pranks I can forgive, within reason, but badly thought-out ones - No.  Which is why, having had time to rethink my hastily constructed punishment regime, I have decided to up the ante and make him do his own laundry, empty the dishwasher, cook his own meals and mow the lawn regularly.

On second thoughts, that's what he has to do in the normal run of things.  Hmmn. Who am I to talk about carefully thought-out plans? Or punishments, for that matter?

Making a Song and Dance

The Germans have an expression which, roughly translated, goes: "I think I'm in the wrong film".  I've been in situations where I felt exactly the same way. Caught up in an out-of-control situation, with no director in sight to call out "cut!" when things get unbearable. These occasions have been more than compensated for by the "Musical Moments".  Like the other evening when I went upstairs to ask my 19-year-old son to turn the music down. I knocked on his door, was granted admittance and within a few seconds, found myself joining him and his friend dancing, twisting and mashed potato-ing to the strains of "Shout".

My work was forgotten and my cares fled through the open window as I leaped around the room with these two young men singing and yelling, arms and legs flailing: "You make me wanna SHOUT ... yay-ay-ay-yeah - yay-ay-ay-yeah. Oh-woh-oh-woh-oh-woh-oh-woh!".  I spared a brief thought for the neighbours, but it wasn't that late, and they're used to our goings-on. "A little bit softer now, a little bit softer now ... a little bit louder now ...". I was glad to get to the little bit louder now part 'cos it hid the sound of my creaking kneecaps and, much as I was enjoying myself, I was about fit to combust.

As I made my way back downstairs, I remembered the time when my eldest son was still living with me and we spontaneously tangoed together.  Well, he tangoed, expertly, while I clung on bravely.  I was listening to my favourite tango c.d. and he suddenly swept into the room, grabbed me and dragged me around, mussing up the rugs, before practically dropping me to the floor (shades of John Belushi in The Blues Brothers) and returning to his room when the piece ended. Leaving me to rearrange the sitting room with a big smile on my face.

"The bit I like best when Martina comes to stay", said one of my sons some years ago, "is when you both dance around the kitchen, drumming on the pots and pans with wooden spoons and egg whisks".  Well, we can't always direct our lives, but we sure can make a Busby Berkley out of it when the mood takes us.

It's Enough To Make You Pee In Your Pants

Son number young(est) arrived home unexpectedly early at around 4 am having been thrown out of the club he frequents with his mates. I wasn't convinced by his claim that he hadn't done anything to provoke this but was too tired to prod further at this point.  Having previously experienced an unpleasant contretemps with the local bouncers myself, I was inclined to err on the side of my son for now.

It's a big deal for these kids to be able to to go to this club when they turn sixteen.  A rite of passage of sorts.  Sadly, the only kind that's on offer around here. Until they reach the giddy heights of eighteen, they have to present a pre-printed form signed by a parent and any eighteen year old they can persuade to add a second signature assuring that they take responsibility for the duration of the night - in theory. But it is generally accepted.  These clubs want to get their money, after all, and why pass up such a great opportunity to steal candy from "babes"?  Blind-eyes turned in all directions.

Finally my son told me what had happened in a surprised, "Oh, I thought I'd told you",  kind of way - shrugged shoulders akimbo. It transpired that he had spilt beer on his jeans and was on his way to repair the damage with some cold water.  Before he even got to the door of the restrooms he was grabbed by a couple of bouncers and thrown out ... for peeing in his pants??!!!!

I can confirm that if he reeked of Eau-de-anything on his return home, it was definitely beer and not pee. I was all for returning to the scene of the crime and presenting the beer-flavoured jeans as evidence, but my seemingly incontinent teen didn't want to risk causing offence (???) as well as permanent exclusion from this Bacchanalian (Beeranalian?) haven.

I am considering typing an addendum to the standard form: "I, the undersigned, hereby declare that my 16-year-old son/daughter is fully toilet-trained". 

The scene was indeed revisited by my son and his friend, but for another reason.  To search for his mobile phone which he lost while crouching in the bushes nearby ... to take a leak!

Catnapping

So there I was, minding my own business, pootling about and up to no good most likely, when I heard a cat meowling outside my window.  Took a peep outside and ascertained that the yowling was emanating from a cat box, carried by a man making soothing noises of the cat-calming variety. I thought nothing of it until I was suddenly struck by the conviction that it was my cat inside the box and that the man was being very clever in being so obvious, catnapping in broad daylight.  Who would suspect anything?  Me, of course.

I did what any sane, mildly manic middle-aged woman would do under the circumstances and leapt into my car in pursuit of this shameless criminal. At the end of the road I almost crashed, head-on, into the car of an acquaintance who I hadn't seen for a while.  What to do?  I didn't want to be rude and drive on without greeting her.  Neither did I want to admit that I was in a hurry to catch a cat thief.  I managed to scroll down the window, mumble something about it being lovely to see her, but no time, no time! - before screeching off in the direction of cat and criminal.

Not a sign of either of them. Not even the tiniest meow to be heard. Just the small voice of reason asking me what the hell I was doing? This didn't prevent me from performing a milder version of the Spanish Inquisition on my sons when I returned home:  "When did you last see our cat?".  All was resolved when she sashayed in a little while later with a look on her whiskers which assured me that no way would this cat ever be caught napping.

Fatuously and Ubiquitously Lazy

A throwaway comment when I was a teenager,  from an older woman I greatly admired, set the tone for my basic self image.  She had taken me to see "Cabaret" and, afterwards I sighed that I would love to be an actress and singer like Liza Minelli.  "You? - no chance!  You're far too lazy".  

Almost forty years later, I have started to question this assumption.  In fact, I have come to the conclusion that I might just as earnestly have taken on the comment from another admired older woman who exclaimed at how much weight I'd gained and was I pregnant?  I was about as much pregnant as I was lazy.   I hung on to the fat stamp, though.  "Fatness" is traditionally lumped together with laziness, isn't it?  Another myth. That one took years to sort out, too, but that's another story.

I first began to question my apparent slothfulness, in my late twenties, when challenged by my psychology lecturer during a class.  He was asking us how we saw ourselves, what we thought our weaknesses were.  While energetically and fervently lamenting my plight, I kicked the man next to me, who had all the while been unconsciously banging his foot against mine.  "Why did you just kick 'M'?".  "Because he was kicking me", I replied.  "Well then.  You're not lazy, are you? You took action."  That was a revelation and a relief, but was still not enough to convince me completely.

Only recently have I begun to see the truth in what was said.  I am not lazy.  Never was. 

It's more a matter of time-management.  During  maths lessons at primary school I expended lots of energy on finding new places to hide my books in order to avoid having to tackle the loathed subject.   No matter that my teacher saw right through me every time.  I could have saved myself a lot of stress by doing my piano theory homework in half an hour at home rather than hurriedly and in a state of panic, five minutes before my teacher arrived.

I've moved on since then. My therapist wanted me to do "homework" every week.  Keep a diary, make notes.  I laughed.  "I never bothered much with homework when I was a kid, and I'm not going to start now!".  Too lazy?  Not at all.  It took a lot of effort to stand up and be honest about myself.  Never mind that  I've been making up stories, songs and poems for as long as I can remember. Just try and stop me writing.   It would be superfluous to point out the irony in this, dear reader.  Add bolshy and stubborn to my list of failings why don't you.

I'm too busy for externally imposed assignments (and I enjoy provoking my therapist).  There are those daily tasks which I work so hard to put off until later, starting with my having to clear the kitchen sink at 6 a.m.before I can get to the tap to fill the kettle for my morning cup of tea.

Hours are spent looking for important pieces of paper which, had they been filed immediately, could also have been found tout de suite.  Adding insult to injury, there is the added expense of parking fines incurred because I couldn't be bothered to walk that little bit extra to get to my destination. The extra charges for delayed payment of mislaid bills.  All resulting in more searching and more work.  No lazy person would invest so much time and effort.

I try to use my laziness wisely.  I really do, but I'm far too taken up with deciding which project to tackle next.  B-J's socks, which I started knitting almost two years ago, that knitted square for the charity blanket, the sexy thongs for my photographer friend's website, and Mary's wrap.  This is just the tip of the iceberg.  Then there's the preparation for my English and French courses, the ubiquitous (I'm not sure what that word means, but I like it, so I'll use it) paperwork, the housework, the weeding, the phone calls which interrupt my cogitations as I try to decide whether to file this 'n that under A or Z?

As for the filing, nothing can be filed away before sections are created using coloured dividers.  Does this belong in the grammar or worksheet section?  Pink or red?  What to do?  Decisions decisions!  The file itself needs to be covered.  Not for me those dull,  grey eminences gracing the shelves. They must be adorned with pretty paper and coated with water (and tea and coffee) proof varnish.

Coloured clothes pegs have been banished from the washing line.  Plain wooden ones must suffice, otherwise hours are whiled away, colour-coordinating pegs and pegged.

Lazy - moi? Another word springs to mind, but I won't use it here.  Just call me "ubiquitous".  Not because it fits but because, as I said, I like it.  Should I file this word under "woody", or "titty"? (ref: Monty P).

Ho hum.  Back to work before I waste any more time blogging.  I should be so lucky.  Before I can even get started I have to rework the colour schemes.  Now, where did I file that quiche? ...