We have come full circle and autumn is once again upon us. It is my favorite season of the year. Everything’s richer, heartier, and more full-bodied, from colors to foods. Daylight hours are fewer, and, as the weather cools, we all get ready to huddle around a fireplace or cuddle under warm throws while sipping our hot beverage of choice.
Aaahh! Autumn!
September started with a bang. My husband, The Brit, and our Britween grandson have been gearing up for the soccer season. We are also getting ready for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Britween will be 13 years old soon and will be entering manhood when he has his bar mitzvah next summer.
More than the season is changing.
Most people perform an annual spring-cleaning, but I prefer to wait until the fall. Perhaps it’s the shorter days-—less time means less I have to accomplish in a day! Perhaps it’s the cooler temperatures, which invigorate me, whereas warm days slow me down. Perhaps it’s because I am the queen of procrastinators. Nonetheless, it’s time for the annual autumn cleanse here at Waterman Manor.
I started my fall cleaning in the kitchen by hitting the clearance sales. Our microwave oven had been buzzing loudly for a few months and repair was more costly than replacement. I found the perfect successor at Idler’s during the Labor Day sales. Our old microwave oven was removed, and the new one was going to be delivered and installed the following day.
The Brit is a creature of habit. It’s his habit to make a bowl of instant oatmeal for breakfast in the microwave. I have tried to educate him about using the water he boiled for tea in our electric teakettle, instead of having to clean the microwave after his oatmeal bubbles over. This is the same genius that thought the new teakettle was defective because it didn’t whistle.
On the morning the new oven was to be installed he proceeded to try to make his breakfast.
“Use the hot water in the tea kettle,” I said.
“I know what I’m doing,” he groused as I heard the tap running. Britween then watched as The Brit turned and stood gaping at the blank wall where the microwave used to be, a bowl of sludge clutched in his hands. Without missing a beat, our boy shouted, “Oh my God, GrandDad! We’ve been robbed!”
I have continued my fall ritual by clearing the closets, and I have decided to change my look. I really had no say in this since my looks have changed with the passing years. But my wardrobe hasn’t been updated since the Bush presidency and, yes, I mean the first President Bush!
Several years ago my high school friend Robin and I spied two older ladies shopping at the mall. Both of these dears wore polyester pantsuits: One was a salmon color and the other was mint green. Each had their hair rinsed to match. I turned to Robin and said, “If I ever start to dress like that, you have my permission to pull the plug.” What’s funny is that she had been thinking the same thing.
I no longer wear high heels or low cut blouses because I could fall, and then fall out! I once freely wore tube tops and bandeaus, having been part of the burn-your-bra generation of women in the 1960s. Now my brassieres, like most DC-10s, each have their own hangars. And yes, I know how to spell ‘hangers,’ I use those for the rest of my clothes!
Where are those tight upper arms that I once proudly exposed with abandon? Now, they hang like two slack old banners that I opt to keep covered up when in public. But at home, I let my bingo wings fly free, however I must take greater care. I recently reached across the sofa for my coffee cup and nearly brained the dog!
My nails have become brittle, and my skin is so dry, it just sucks. I’m not kidding! When you apply moisturizer to your skin I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to make a loud, suction, sssshhluuuck sound!
Finally, I conferred with Bruce Lee Ent, my hair stylist at Healing Touch Day Spa in Nipomo. That is really his name and appropriately so. This man is truly a marvel. Like the similarly named actor and martial artist of Fists of Fury fame, he has swiftly moving hands and an arsenal of implements that he skillfully employs to tame my wiry tresses.
My hair has officially turned completely gray, he recently informed me. “No, it’s not,” I said, “Only the roots are gray and a little around my temples.”
“Yes, it is,” he gently insisted. “Those roots have grown and are now the full length of your hair. It’s all gray, and its texture has changed.”
He is right, and I had to choose whether to go completely gray or continue to color my hair its once-natural chestnut brown. As an art historian, the only gray temples I’m interested in are on the Acropolis in Athens, Greece. So color it is!
That’s not all! I recently found a whisker and it wasn’t on The Brit’s face. It was on mine! Yes, I found a hair on my chinny-chin-chin and nearly blew the house down with my shriek of horror. What looks distinguished on my husband is, for me, the start of this year’s Halloween costume.
My first instinct was to grab the tweezers and pluck it out at once. But then a disconcerting feeling came over me. What if I do and, just like pulling a stray yarn on a sweater, I start to unravel?
While change is always all around us, and is a necessary part of life, some things should never change. My husband’s Cockney accent, my grandson’s endless supply of hugs and kisses, and my sense of humor about change are just a few. The size of my derriere is not. How I would, if I could, change that!
This Halloween Ariel is dressing up as her bearded editor. Send candy and Nair via editor-with-a-beard Ryan Miller at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Sep 18-25, 2014.