Holiday Stylemaker

My recent post on life as a senior Stylemaker, all while wearing white sneakers, has caused some soul-searching and the need for a little more honesty. 

Despite my preference for comfort, I usually do not attend holiday parties wearing a sweatsuit and white sneakers. In fact, nearly a month ago I went to the mall specifically to buy a couple of holiday outfits that would be appropriate for the tsunami of holiday parties and events headed our way.

I returned home with a pair of sleek, ankle-length black pants and two party tops. All went quietly into my closet to await the December festivities.

The day of the first event I pulled the tops from my closet. The first was a black, long-sleeved sweater embellished with pearl-wannabe’s. Very pretty. But the temperature outside was an unseasonal 70-plus degrees. After two minutes of wearing that top it went back into the closet to await winter weather. Has climate change really come to this: a person in a Midwestern state can't wear a sweater in mid-December?

I pulled the other top out. It was black velour. It looked just as warm as the sweater but thankfully didn’t cause profuse sweating when I pulled it over my head. I was thinking—great choice. Looks seasonal but feels fine.

But this top had other exciting features too. I must have read somewhere that fringe was in style. And asymmetric hemlines. As the second-choice top had both: an asymmetrical hemline and longish fringe. I thought I made a very fashion-forward statement with the fringed top and slim slacks. I even wore black flats to complete my “Black is the new black holiday look.”

Then I tried to use the restroom at holiday event one. Think disaster: fringe in the toilet, fringe stuck in my pants zipper. This tunic should have had a warning label that at least included diet restrictions. I decided I could not consume any drinks, festive or otherwise, since using the restroom in this outfit was just out of the question. Despite the heat I wore top number one to my next event.

Given the unseasonably warm temperatures and also the unintended encounters with toilet bowls, laundering of both tops proved a must. My new holiday tops had detailed instructions for laundering. Both suggested hand washing the garments, placing them flat to dry and then taking great care to iron all wrinkles.

I generally translate “hand-washing” into put in a delicates-washing-bag and toss in in the washer and hang dry. I’m happy to say both tops survived their laundry ordeal. And the fringed top looked particularly good once it dried, needing no ironing of any kind.

Now if there is any woman with experience wearing an asymmetrical tunic with long fringe who would care to share how to keep the fringe out of the toilet and the side zipper of pants, I may actually have something festive I can wear to the remaining holiday parties. Otherwise, it may be back to sweats and sneakers.

  

Senior Stylemaker

I like to read one of the women’s columns, “Stylemaker” in the Courier Journal, our local paper. This feature article consists of a series of pretty standard questions, and answers from a local person the paper has dubbed a “Stylemaker”. Fun, entertaining, and--sometimes scary.

The first question usually asks the “Stylemaker” who her “Style Icon” or inspiration is. Though there are a number of ages, different ethnic and racial backgrounds and different images of the chosen style makers represented, I use “her” to refer to Stylemaker because, while there may have been a male Stylemaker, I can’t recall one.

Frequent answers to the “Style Icon” question include Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly. Then, if the Stylemaker is young she mentions some icons I’ve never heard. Often she ends with a nice reference to her stylish mother, grandmother or favorite aunt.

I don’t expect to ever look or dress like Hepburn or Kelly, but there was a time I channeled Dana Scully of the X-Files. She wore dark pantsuits and high-necked blouses. The “don’t-mess-me-with-me” working-woman wardrobe. That look also sounds a lot like Hillary Clinton’s current wardrobe so maybe we both followed FBI agent Scully as a style icon.

Lately, however, I’m more in tune with my mother’s style. Particularly her white tennis shoes worn for virtually all occasions. I now can identify with how she felt. My feet too have a lot of mileage on them and need all the comfort they can get. The only problem with this style choice is my husband refuses to take me to dinner at a nice restaurant unless I change from the white sneakers. I know, small price to pay for a perfectly broiled salmon and a chocolate dessert, which I did not have to make.

So, on to another question.  “What are the building blocks of your style?” Often, the responses are: classics, slim leggings, and certain color schemes. About as close as I come to “building blocks of my style” are sweat pants and sweaters for winter; loose capris or cut-offs and t-shirts for summer. No style icons needed.

I’ve already written about how all of my acquaintances wondered what big event I was attending when one recent day I wore dark jeans and a button-down shirt. So I guess that’s my answer to: “My go-to dress-up outfit”.

Another question often asked is: “Time it takes you to get dressed?” You’d think a “Stylemaker” who writes from home and wears an easy wardrobe would answer: a very short time. But I can’t say that’s true. It’s not even easy to answer that question. Do I count the time to have my coffee first? I certainly can’t get dressed before I drink coffee. Then, do I count taking a shower? What about the exercises I do in the morning before I get fully dressed for the day? And do I subtract the time I spend sorting and starting the laundry while getting dressed? There are just too many issues with answering this question. In truth, it takes about five minutes to get dressed once I decide I have to be somewhere.

I will end with my favorite question: “Every woman should wear a (fill-in-the-blank) at least once in her life.” Most Stylemakers are predictable in answering this question, saying something like: a perfect little black dress, pencil skirt, sweater set, or a perfectly-fitted pair of jeans. Of course, we all should wear something that is “perfect” at least once. But the most recent Stylemaker was original. Her answer: “An adhesive bra and low back dress.”

Keep in mind she wasn’t answering what her favorite dress-up outfit is, but what EVERY WOMAN should wear at least once. After I picked myself off the floor from laughing I tried to erase the visual her answer provoked.

While her response may be ok for the 2% of the female population, that is, those women under 30 years of age and 120 pounds and smaller than a B cup. But has she looked around at the other 98% of the female population in this country? Does anyone really want all the rest of us wearing a backless dress with an adhesive bra? I think not.   

I’m not a Stylemaker so I have never tried this “once in a life” clothing suggestion. There might have been a time, age 11 or 12, I could have pulled it off. But my mother would not have allowed it. And I don’t think I ever would have wanted to. It’s largely the “pulling it off” part that sounds so unpleasant. But maybe that’s just one non-Stylemaker's opinion.

Home Work Casual, Seasonal Style

First day of autumn came and went with warm temperatures still dogging our footsteps. So today, now that October’s cooler temperatures surprised me, I pulled out a new pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. It happened to be a very old button-down from previous work days. But nothing special.  Blue checks on a white background. I turned up the cuffs so I wouldn’t have to bother unbuttoning and then buttoning them again when I changed at the gym later.

So how surprised was I when several people asked where I was going today, what was the occasion, and why was I dressed up? And one of them was my husband. Keep in mind, my hair still had not had any more attention than a three-second brush-through, make-up and jewelry were non-existent, and I was wearing jeans for heaven’s sake.

It’s a good thing the weather is getting cooler. I can go to jeans or snug but comfy yoga pants, pull on a nice, longish jacket and people will think I actually have someplace important I have to go to during the day. Like a real job, not writing at home in cutoffs and a tee. I guess my summer casual had gotten pretty casual. Here’s to autumn casual.

“Get it While You Can”

I read a couple of studies about numbers that are going to change my life. First, some mathematician who analyzed America’s obesity epidemic. Then some economist who looked at social security and interest rates. I really need a better cure for insomnia than reading scientific and economic articles. 

You might ask, what do those two things have to do with each other? Other than as cures for insomnia. Well, it came to me in a dream.  Is the obesity epidemic going to solve the social security program problems? All the fat people are going to die off and not collect benefits? Or is Medicare, the health care plan for folks over 65 the same demographic as social security beneficiaries, going to make some big breakthrough in obesity? Maybe make everyone healthier and more productive? 

Actually, I don’t know about any of those. But both studies have to do with numbers and planning. And like most of those studies take some reading of fine print. The mathematician who looked at the remarkable increase in obesity in recent decades was able to correlate weight increases with the removal of government subsidies to farmers to NOT grow food.
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/15/science/a-mathematical-challenge-to-obesity.html?_r=1

So the price of food became cheap. And, as other scientists keep saying in obesity analysis, in much more sophisticated mumbo-jumbo, humans are just like other animals: “See food, eat food.”  For a not-so-mumbo-jumbo discussion of the interesting similarities between humans and other animals read: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/10/opinion/sunday/our-animal-natures.html?pagewanted=all

But hidden in the mathematician’s study was another interesting little take-away (oops, I seem to be talking about food again). His study also showed that weight gain does not become permanent for three years. Which means those annoying three to four pounds I keep gaining and losing are not really permanently attached to my hips. They are just visiting until three years has passed.

On to my other revelation. The big-shot economist, again with very revealing numbers, concluded that a person who is first eligible for social security can make one of the best investments in the current economy, by NOT applying for social security until they are much older.http://finance.yahoo.com/news/beat-government-bonds-using-social-040100847.html

 In other words they should just let their money sit with the government and let it earn around 8% interest. Then when they apply they will have made so much more money they will be a very old, almost rich person. Of course, by then, as the one economist with whom I took one class use to say, and the only thing he said I seem to remember, “In the final analysis we are all dead.”

So I have to wonder, am I the only one who read this article about interest rates and social security? Is it safe to assume no young and hungry politician read this same study? And he is now going to use it to reduce social security rates? Is it really a plot to get me and all the other baby boomers to wait to apply for social security in the hopes that obesity will have killed most of us off before we apply for benefits?

Here are my conclusions.

1) Who knows what government politicians are plotting? But you can be pretty sure it is not going to do you any good.

2) As for dieting, while it may seem strange to take advice from a mathematician, his logic makes perfect sense. So I have decided there is no point in weighing myself until three years have passed. Any change is transitory before that passage of time.

3) Speaking of transitory and similarities between species, I am starting to wonder if baby boomers are dinosaurs on the Titanic.

4) While I am considering what advice to take, I think I will go the celebrity route: someone from my generation who also seemed to agree with the economist from my college studies.  As Janis sings, “Get it while you can.” 

Might as well apply for social security as soon as I am able and while it is still around. Please pass the chocolate cake.

Feathered friends

One of my favorite entertainments is watching and listening to birds. I enjoy the birds at home in Louisville.  Given the weather extremes during much of the year, that means watching them through kitchen windows while they play in the birdbath or poke around in the yard. Few days in Louisville are neither muggy nor frigid. So mostly the windows are closed. Nevertheless, I can recognize the Cardinal's call, the robin's tweet and the mockingbird's song. I also can recognize a dozen or so species by sight.

In Hawaii, with windows open, we awake to the chirpy, whistle and tweety sounds that make up the feathered choir outside the condo. Throughout the day, birds engage in a variety of intriguing vocalizations. I wish I could decipher their songs.

As afternoon converges on evening and the sun prepares to dip into the Pacific, a spectacular sunset is not always guaranteed. But an avian orchestra always accompanies the event. The heightened bird calls just at dusk remind me of my childhood. The mothers would call their roaming offspring home just as night would fall.

 This morning we twice had to clean the car windshield. We are lucky enough to park in a nice shady spot. The birds appreciate the monkey pod tree that shades our car as much or more than we do. Just goes to show you there is a price to pay for all the bird songs.

I've researched online the birds of Hawaii: lots of photos with descriptions of the various birds that inhabit the islands. But what I really would like is to recognize the species by their calls. And know what their calls mean. Wouldn't it be cool to sing to the birds on occasion.

Strange Encounters

Sometimes I feel like life is one series of Strange Encounters of Some Kind or Another. Most days when I worked in an office, more than half of the six people I worked most closely with would be wearing the same color that I was wearing. How is that for leadership, anyway?

And I am not talking about UK blue before some big game or red and black in recognition that U of L was playing that night. Rather, I am talking about everyone showing up in a blouse or sweater (the type of garment may vary, it is just the color that is coordinated) in an unusual shade of green. Or maybe another color somewhere between rose and purple. There are days where if you lined us up and covered our heads you would have difficulty distinguishing from the color blur who was who.

There must be some logical explanation for this matched dressing, but I have yet to discover it. I’ve wondered if most people watch the same television program the night before and a particular color has “struck” everyone, perhaps subconsciously, with such impact that we all want to imitate the announcer’s color clothing choice. But then, I seldom watched the evening or the morning news when I worked in an office. Then and now I usually bury my nose in the newspaper when I have a few minutes of quiet time at home. And I do not think I am taking my fashion color cues from the headlines.  Maybe from the funny papers.

I’ve heard there are no coincidences.  Maybe that is Ochhim’s Razor, or maybe Ochim’s Razor is the principle says the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. The statement about no coincidences sounds more like Clint Eastwood in one of his Dirty Harry movies. Anyway, there was some strange coincidence with color going on among the people with whom I worked and I have yet to determine any reasonable explanation other than we all really are in a Spielberg movie about coincidental occurrences.

And to add to the stranger than fiction element to this phenomenon, it is not just people in my immediate office who demonstrate this psychic color –coordination tendency. I attended a three-day, out of town, training course. The course specified casual dress. I knew none of the other participants. The first day, the fifty or so attendees, at least half of whom were male, wore clothes that appeared to be randomly selected at least if you judged the selections based on a color.

The second day, more than half of the participants appeared in the morning wearing a top of the same color, regardless of whether they wore a shirt, blouse, sweater, or polo, the garment that covered their upper body was of the same odd shade. And this particular color was so different that it was difficult to even describe. Maybe it was coral or salmon, or some might call it a shade of orange. Whatever you called it, we were wearing it. And many of the folks who did not have a top in that color had a scarf, jacket or something else in the same strange shade of coraly-salmon-orange.

Now maybe that was the latest fashion color of the season and we had all brought a garment in that color along because it was a new article of clothing. We did not want to look like we were trying to make a fashion statement that first day of the class. So, after meeting and feeling comfortable with our new surroundings and class members, we all reached deep into our suitcases and extracted the garment in the most fashionable color we had brought with us.  But doesn’t that feel like a stretch to come up with an explanation? Even Occhim probably would have to acknowledge that is not the simplest explanation for what appears to be some psychic connection in color scheme amongst a group of people.

Recently, as I and the rest of the group of women with whom I take water aerobics were getting dressed, we discovered almost all of us were simultaneously pulling on brown slacks.  I also had a stripey brown-orange sweater. someone else had a brown scarf and a third person was wearing a brown jacket.

So you see, the color synchronicity has survived my office and emerged full-blown into my water class.  But at least not yet in the water for the most part.  Even though some days most of us have on a blue or black swimsuit, I refuse to count that as those are exercise suits.  We all have a relatively limited selection of swimsuits; nevertheless, two participants have worn a swimsuit identical to one or another I have owned.  Not counting the swimsuits made specifically for water exercises there is a little color weirdness even in the water going on.   

I, for one, believe there are many strange coincidences in this world. Some have rational explanations. Others may have rational explanations and we just have not found that explanation yet. Other coincidences may be just that, coincidences.

But also  there may be something out there that is connecting us all, or at least those of us who get the color signal of what to wear that day. Rather than struggle with the rationale for why these things happen, I think it would be more productive to channel some of this psychic energy into a shopping trip to search for a garment in what will be the fashionable color everyone will be wearing the next time I walk into a large group. Or perhaps if I can harness this connection I can use it to figure out the next lottery winner, Kentucky Derby winner, or which color will be in vogue next year. That type of psychic ability ought to be of some use. But I still never know what to wear.

Clutter Be Gone

I have been “on my own” (without a secretary, that is) for several years now.  My life, for the last year, in addition to some writing and other creative and personal pursuits has included handling my Mother’s estate, and the on-going management of real estate rentals.  

Paperwork, books, clothes, accessories and well, just any sort of stuff anywhere near me, appears to have a very active sexual and reproductive life of its own. As a result, I am drowning in stuff.  

But, finally, I have determined: I am going to get my life and my stuff under control.  On impulse I bought a set of CD’s on “Uncluttering and Organizing Your Life.”  Impulse buying is another, and I am sure, unrelated, downfall of mine.

As the authors point out, being disorganized and being cluttered are two different sins. If, in fact, these are sins, l should just pack my bags and plan to go straight to hell.  As I am guilty. And in full measure. 

But I have seen the light and am going to take a new path to fight both clutter and disorganization.  

Here are the five simple rules.

1) Place and purpose.
2) One in, one out.
3) Six month/ six minute rule
4) Enough is enough
5) I forget this rule 

I determined to follow Rules 1 through 4, and 5 when I remember what it is.  Ok, let’s see how well this works in practice on a congenital hoarder and hopelessly disorganized person like myself.

Take a specific example, a water pitcher.  It has a purpose (serving water) and place (the cabinet).   So we should have taken care of Rule 1.  But the pitcher is more than just useful.  It is essential to my daily life.  As a constant water drinker, the pitcher provides a source of water without the need to go to the fridge each time I want a cool, refreshing glass of water.  Plus, the pitcher is exactly the right height and weight: it can be positioned in the fridge door at the water dispenser without any need for me to hold it.  Of course, that has a small potential drawback-- that one (that's me, disguised by the impersonal third person) could forget about the pitcher until the water starts to overflow.  But we won’t go there right now.   We are still on Rule 1.

I had bought this perfect pitcher  at Louisville Stoneware.  It had been expensive, in my estimation.  That is, the pitcher cost a lot more than $20.  Then I chipped the pour spout on the pitcher and it could no longer be used. I was frantic to find a replacement.

That takes us to Rule 2.  One in, one out.  Simple enough.  When you buy one new item you need to get rid of one old item in the same category.  Pick the oldest, most useless, worn out, or whatever adjective best fits, and give away, sell, or toss that item. The theory is you will not increase your stuff if you stick to the one in, one out rule. 

I put the broken pitcher aside while I looked for a replacement.  Even though under Rule 2 I should toss the pitcher, after all it not only had been perfect, but it also had been pricey.  And it was still very attractive.  I could not bring myself to part with it just yet.  Maybe when I found its perfect replacement.

So I held on to the broken pitcher while I shopped for a replacement.  Maybe it could be repaired.  Although I felt I had a good excuse, I mean reason, to not immediately toss the damaged pitcher, that also caused me to think I would get some forgiveness for my “sins” if the replacement pitcher was relatively inexpensive.  And, since I had no immediate intent to go downtown I looked for a replacement close to home.  

Armed with the measurements necessary to fit in the fridge water dispenser, I searched department stores, discount suppliers, and all manner of places.  Finding a pitcher of that exact dimension proved much more difficult than I had thought.  

Finally I found a beautiful Lenox pitcher.  But the Lenox did not fit the definition of inexpensive.  And given the fate of the last pitcher, such a delicate and pricey pitcher was not a good bet for every day use.  I kept looking.  

Eventually, I found two pitchers at TJ Max I thought might work, one a lightweight plastic and one metal.  I bought both.  I figured I could return one or both if they were not right.  As it turned out, the plastic one was the right size but not heavy enough to dispense water without holding the dispenser.  The mental pitcher worked but only if I wedged it under the dispenser.  It soon was slightly dented.  By then, my husband had taken the tag off the plastic pitcher so I no longer could return it.  Plus, as noted, my problem is keeping track of clutter.  So--you guess the odds I could find the receipt. You're right.  I ended up keeping both of those pitchers.

However, while this search and find mission was going on, Macy’s was good enough to send me coupons for household goods.  With the discount, I could buy the Lenox pitcher at less than a replacement pitcher at Louisville Stoneware would cost.  Home the Lenox came.  

But then I happened to be downtown and drove right by Louisville Stoneware.  I figured it could not hurt to see if they repair chipped items.  Also I was curious if they were still making pitchers in the dimensions of my damaged pitcher.   The answer to the first question is no.  The answer to the latter question is yes.  And not only that, they make the same size pitcher but it comes in many lovely patterns, including a horse pattern for Derby.  So I could not waste the fact I had again found the perfect pitcher. I bought it.  And they make wonderful matching coffee mugs in Derby themes.  So I bought a set of those too.  

Instead of one in/ one out, now I had four pitchers for the old pitcher, plus a set of coffee mugs.  In the meantime, while I had searched for a replacement pitcher, I devised a plan to repurpose the chipped pitcher as a vase.  That is, once I found a way to fix it.  

Since it looks like I will never get beyond Rule 2, I have decided to write my own organizational and clutter control book.  There will be only one rule that goes something like this. One broken, no more than five replacements, especially if you can’t find it in your heart to get rid of the broken one.  At least my program is sure to help the down economy.  But clutter control, not so much.

I Don't Want to Keep Up with the Kardashians

I’ve been Kardashian’ed to death.  Amanda Robb’s article, “Creating the Kardashians”, glorifies Kris Jenner for her marketing of her family of “K named and X-rated’” Kardashians into a mega empire that earned $65 million last year.  The congratulatory-toned article is published in the July / August issue of More Magazine, which describes itself as “For Women of Style and Substance” (Full disclosure: “More” has published a number of my articles online. and I am a subscriber to the print magazine.)  After reading Robb’s article, I am left wondering what is meant by “style” and “substance.”

Kris, the “Momager” for her daughters, Kim and Khloe, not to mention Khloe’s husband LA Lakers star, Lamar Odom, and the rest of the kin, according to the Robb’s interview, is about to further leverage the “unstoppable (Kardashian) juggernaut”, by next merchandising a complete “Kardashian experience” at Sears.

Give me a break and gag me with a spoon.

As Robb tactfully alludes in her article, the Kardashian TV show took off with an “undeniable boost four years ago when a videotaped romp between teenaged daughter, Kim, and her then-boyfriend wound up in the hands of Vivid Entertainment.”  “Momager” Kris Jenner, a former Brownie leader, car pool driver, and room mother, by Robb’s turn of a common expression, decided to squeeze the “publicity lemon into an apparently bottomless glass of lemonade”.  To paraphrase one of Robb’s interview questions, “people think the heavens just opened…and fame and fortune dropped in your laps”.  I don’t think that is even a question.  In any case, isn’t a more logical question, “Have you no shame, Mrs. Jenner?”  “Do you care what your daughters are becoming?”  Or “Is it worth mega millions to throw your family into this publicity soup, more accurately described as foul-smelling rot than lemonade?”

I’m afraid I don’t understand this entire phenomenon; unless it is the fascination we feel when we rubberneck at a car crash.  Why are people standing in line in the Kardashian boutique for a Kardashian experience?  Unless the Kardashians have invented the i-Dress I can’t imagine how they are going to bring style and substance to Sears.  My collie dogs have demonstrated a greater sense of style and fashion, more loyalty, and more morally admirable behavior than the Kardashians exhibit.  And my collies could actually do something: fetch a ball, bark at the back door before defecating, and wag their tails.

I will confess, the only times I have viewed “Keeping up with the Kardashians” was as part of a captive audience at a nail salon while my fingernails were drying.  And my spouse encourages me to admit my unsuitability to criticize others’ superficiality when I waste time and money, not to mention natural resources and possible exposure to poisonous substances, by the sheer decadence of polishing or having others polish my nails.  

While he may have a point on some of these issues, I believe there is a qualitative difference between the frivolity of nail maintenance and the trash that passes for entertainment on the E! Network with the Kardashians.  The Kardashian experience has a far more poisonous impact on our culture than a little nail polish has on our environment.  And if I demonstrate the sin of vanity by having my nails done, watching Kris Jenner and her klan (no racist slur intended; I just can’t resist the alliteration of K’s) is more punishment than a person should suffer for the commission of murder and mayhem.  Far too much punishment for just the little vanity of nail polish. 

Ordinarily, I am not given to discussions of crime, sin or punishment.  Although I should not be confused with the pious “church lady” from SNL, I do have fiercely protective feelings towards my children and grandchildren.  Child exploitation in my mind is something a parent protects his or her children from.  Not something the parent engages in, for money or otherwise.

If Kris Jenner wishes to promote her former gold medal Olympian spouse as a speaker she and he should "Go For It.”  If the Kardashian daughters wish to carry on doing god knows what with god knows whom, that is up to them and their still-developing consciences.  They are young and may still gain some sense of morality and shame.  At least their stepfather, Bruce, has the sense to look vaguely embarrassed by the egotistical and outrageous antics of his family and his wife’s capitalization on them on television.  Maybe some of his brain cells and normal human modesty are still functioning.  But is there not a line beyond which a mother should not go in pimp…oops, I mean promoting her own offspring, even if it is for millions of dollars?

Momager Kris, in response to critics who suggest she is exploiting her children, says she responds “by working hard.  My job is to take my family’s 15 minutes of fame and turn it into 30.  It’s a very rewarding feeling when I go to sleep every night knowing I did the best I could for my family.” I’d say an extra 15 minutes of tawdry fame, no matter how many millions it is accompanied by, is not doing the best for her family.

My purgatory is over, at least temporarily.  The TV at the nail salon appears to no longer be working.  Maybe there is a god watching over all of us. 

Talk Loudly Only If You Have Something Interesting To Say

The Seinfeld “soft-talking woman” is not nearly as annoying in real life as the ridiculously loud-talking man.  Who always seems to take the seat at the next table in the restaurant where you were hoping to enjoy a quiet dinner.  

Dinner last night was delightful.  Or it would have been if we could have heard each other.  My husband and I ordered some grilled fresh fish at one of our favorite seafood restaurants.  We were skimming the local paper and commenting on a few upcoming events and articles when a door-rattling voice from the next table shattered our reverie.  

This loud-talking man at the next table either has become a common character, or he is following us.  He appears to be wherever we go.  Perhaps he is kin to the mountain man who usually comes late and plants his ten-foot frame directly in front of us at the movies.

But back to loud talkers.  Do these men not realize how loudly they are talking? Do they think everyone in the restaurant wishes they had been invited to share a meal with the loudest bore in town? Maybe they are hearing impaired and doing their part to see that rest of us soon are too.  Or maybe they think everyone wants to know their views, whether it is on traffic, weather, and sports or politics and the economy.  

In all fairness, it is not only men who are obnoxiously loud talkers in restaurants and similar venues. Not too long ago we dined out with another couple before a musical. Knowing that too many loud concerts in our youth and the ravages of age had left a couple of us somewhat hearing impaired, we asked to be seated in a quiet spot so we could talk amongst ourselves and hear each other.  

Our so-called quiet location turned out to be opposite a table of ten women, dressed in nearly burlesque exuberance, who were attending a competing musical presentation by Lady Gaga.  So much for the “quiet location.”

The differences between the loud-talking man and loud-talking women are three-fold.  Loud women are there for some “event” whether it is a party or as revelers for a Lady Gaga concert.  Loud-talking women are always that, plural, not just one booming voice drowning out everyone else. And, without exception, loud women have had their tongues thoroughly lubricated with cocktails.  

The loud man, on the other hand provides a solo performance, either lecturing or entertaining his group, or even an unfortunate single companion, along with everyone else within a five-mile radius. He may or may not be well lubricated with alcohol. The latter is a good fact to note before deciding whether to ask him to kindly pipe down unless his immediate companion(s) are hearing impaired.  

The one question I cannot answer is why there are no loud talkers of either gender who have something really interesting to say? Invariably, when the conversation at the next table sounds worthwhile the speakers are so quiet you have to strain to eavesdrop. 

 Dorothy’s Idea of the Day: We need to find a way for the level of knowledgeable and interesting discourse of talkers to be directly rather than inversely related to their volume.