My Man is Tough

My man is tough, no doubt about it. When the flu hit me a few days ago I told everyone I could think of and kept looking at my tongue in the mirror to see if it had fallen out yet.But the bug hit him first and he still has it... Yet he met his tennis pals Monday night just the same because... well, you can’t let three people down who are expecting to play double, can you? Then Tuesday night he let Annie and me take him out to dinner - again after a full day's work. (Yes he's going to work every day.) Then Wednesday night he had a business dinner at The Capital Grille when I know very well that the thought of downing red meat made his gorge rise. And finally last night he had the fellas over for bridge and those three guests were drinkin' and hollerin' about the state of the world ‘til way past midnight.I don't know how he did it. All I could manage was writing every day and getting my hair dyed - and that last thing nearly killed me."My god what an ordeal!" I cried, on coming back home after three hours in the salon. "No more roots though! Here, take a picture with my phone!"And he did and here it is:If only HE wrote a blog I often think, because for sure you're only gettin' half the story from me.

Richard Nixon in a Wig

My cousin thought that was a picture of my wet bottom on the plane – see here – but that could never be me, and not only because it’s practically impossible to take a picture of your own backside.It couldn’t be my bottom because I would never wear shorts on a plane.Why not? Because I’m older than faxing, that’s why.I may even be older than office photocopying. Wait let me check.... YUP. WAY older than office photocopying!And when you’re old in this way you wouldn't dream of wearing shorts when you fly. Instead you sort of dress up, a little, even today.In the old days when a lady flew, she wore not just a skirt and heels but often a hat – a hat! And little white gloves, natch.I just came across a few photos of me in my senior year of high school on a trip my family and I took to Our Nation’s Capital, which is what we called it back then.I’m wearing the get-up I flew down in – well minus the hat because now we were touring around, in our high heels and our skirts and it was like 90 degrees although it was only April.My mom had on this shawl-collared coat in fake cashmere. My sister Nan looked like Grace Kelly. And I looked like Richard Nixon if he dressed up as a woman.Also a little like Imogene Coca. Remember her?The point is we made this big effort and we made it because that was the expectation placed upon women: that we’d smile, and be charming and stoke male egos in all places and at all times. I remember weakling down a street when I was just 17, homesick, far from my family, getting plumper by the minute on the Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding Dinners the college kept serving us, accompanied by buttery homemade rolls and followed by puddings and thick chocolate cakes. I was dawdling along the street minding my business when a guy around 35 passed and said to me in this really nasty voice, “SMILE for God’s sake!"It was the "click" moment for me all right, when the personal became the political, just like our Gloria described 40 years ago.God bless Gloria! God Bless the Women's Movement I say! And, sisters, if someone asks if you're a feminist you just tell them, "You can bet the farm on it BABE! "