The Wrinkle Juggernaut

Not too long ago, I pulled into a parking lot and noticed a distinguished elderly woman in the passenger's seat of the car parked next to mine. With a small mirror in one hand and a large pair of tweezers in the other, she had been plucking her chin hairs. When she saw me look over, she quickly put them down and smiled.

I wanted to say, "Pluck away,Sister, pluck away."

Though I haven't sprouted those billy goat hairs yet, I use the natural daylight to weed out the gray hairs that have miraculously formed my first silver halo. Now, the old eyeballs need as much light as possible to see and I admit, I've passed hours waiting for the kids by plucking gray hairs and inspecting the wrinkles in parking lots across the country.

When the kids were younger and didn't know any better, I tried paying them a buck for every gray hair they successfully plucked from the back of my head. But using tweezers requires great skill and patience, something which they hadn't yet acquired. Every gray hair that was freed came at the expense of several clumps of brown ones. I was worried that I'd look like one of those baby dolls that had most of their locks yanked out by naughty little girls, leaving little wispy bits of hair on an otherwise bald plastic head. By the time their dexterity improved, it was too late. They thought it was disgusting.

"I feel like we're gorillas" said teen girl.

"Well, they groom each other seem to be quite happy," I said, urging her to take the tweezers.

"That's 'cause they're looking for bugs."

Point noted.

But I don't like my gray hairs. Or wrinkles. Full stop. There. I've said it. If I could magically erase all signs of aging, I'd be singing in the streets. Doing cartwheels. Streaking in delight through the streets of Sandwich. But unless I discover the Fountain of Youth, there is no stopping that juggernaut.

I can take a few wrinkles, a spray of gray and even a few liver spots. But let's stop right there. No more. As my nephew likes to say, "I'm all set, thank you."

With my pale complexion, I just don't look like a silver fox. I look like an middle aged Mom who couldn't be bothered grabbing a box of Clairol when she was picking up pads for a leaky bladder. I have a few pewter haired friends who simply look radiant and almost seem to glow in a metallic aura. Their hair is soft, shiny and sassy. They bounce around town with unbridled confidence, looking like urban sophisticates.

My grays are so brittle that I thought about sending them to Brillo-maybe they'd launch a natural scrubbing line. Seriously, imagine the extra income I 'd pull in.

I have so many gray hairs that pulling out all of those wiry buggers would be like using an eyelash separator to rake my lawn soI've given up until my hairdresser waves the white flag and says, "Blond Honey, Number 36."

But if the grays aren't bad enough, the wrinkles are what keep me in the crowded aisles of CVS for hours, squinting, trying to read about Retinol A, glycolic acid and skin bleaching formulas. I used to laugh at those old Porcelana ads, but now, a plastic tub sits dutifully next to my reading glasses and eye cream on my bedside table. All I need now is a tub of Vick's.

How time flies.

I remember discovering my first 'wrinkle' when I was 25 in the woman's restroom of the Plaza Hotel in New York City. It's a good thing that I had downed a few vodka and tonics because it gave me quite a startle. I thought I'd never age, be one of those miraculously tight skinned women in the movies that somehow dodged wrinkles. But when I look back, they were hairline cracks, a mere tease of the bigger faults that were ready to erupt.

I know some people say, "I've earned every one of these wrinkles." Well, so have I, but please isn't there a wrinkle bank somewhere where I can transfer these crow's feet?

This is one time I'd rather not be paid for parenting; for worrying about diaper rash, teething or college tuition.

Nope. I'll gladly fret for free.

A few of my friends have shelled out thousands on laser treatments for wrinkles and chin hair but since the only laser I can afford is one of those pointers used by professors and pranksters, I'm stuck with over the counter products and anything I can mix up in my kitchen. (Mango and Papaya make a great facial mask, but don't walk outside when the bees are hot on pollen- not a favorable mix)

I thought briefly about not laughing anymore since I've got a highway of smile lines. Perhaps I should have adopted the Larchmont Lockjaw- those old New York faces don't move when they talk or laugh...just a low hee, hee, hee. I tried it once and looked like I belonged in a suburban horror movie

So I'm throwing in my white towel now.

Give me those laugh lines, toss me some crow's feet and throw in some chin hairs.

I'll laugh all the way to the bank.

Pizza Wars

The other day I got stranded in my husband's matchbook sized car with two contentious teens for nearly two hours.

I have yet to recover from the 120 minutes of continuous bickering. As each minute passed, the car seemed to shrink, their voices grew louder and like many times before, I truly understood why so many mothers go AWOL, leaving their minivans to rust in mall parking lots throughout the country. I had to fight the urge to run.

I got a flat at 5.15pm-perhaps the most unsuitable time for rubber puncture, but then again, is there ever a good time for a flat? When I heard that familiar thud, thud, kerplunk noise coming from the front end of the car, I admit I uttered a few colorful expletives.

I'd raced out of the house looking like an old dishrag left in the kitchen sink too long. This is what happens when you work from home- you get very, very lazy when it comes to throwing on a set of clothes.

Some of my get-ups even scare me.

With a cardigan that looked like Swiss cheese ,(if you see any chubby moths around, its because they have skeins of my sweaters in their guts) the layers of my hair sticking up like wayward sails, no make-up and wearing that ultra fashionable white sock and athletic slide look, I grabbed teen girl and told her to come along while I fetched her brother in Wood's Hole, a 30 minute drive away. She didn't come to keep me company, but rather to make a beauty and junk stop at the CVS to buy another batch of nail polish and candy corn. Nothing would make this girl happier than to be in bed, reading a book, cell phone in hand, completely surrounded by giant bags overflowing with candy corn.

Think Veruca Salt.

The rim resting on the asphalt confirmed my suspicions- Michael had obviously run over something earlier in the day. As a woman who prides herself on being self reliant, I took the jack and spare tire out and got to work. It must have been quite a sight- me in my fashionista attire, teen boy standing over me with his hands in his pocket, hood pulled down over his face, blank look on his face and teen girl in the car with her taffy like legs stretched out the window, her big feet still in her white soccer cleats, painstakingly applying a coat of passion purple on her nails. After a few minutes of trying to take off the those thingys that hold the tire on, I belched out another round of naughty adjectives and phoned AAA.

"He'll be there shortly," the lady said.

And then the fighting began.

"What are we going to have for dinner?" asked teen boy.

I know, someday I will miss that question but for now, it goes right through me like a bad curry.

"I can tell you one thing we are not having. My cooking," I said.

"Can we get pizza?" asked teen girl.

And this is where it got ugly.

We're a family of pizza lovers- but the teen offspring can never agree on where to get the pizza. Both the hubby and I love pizza and although I really haven't found the ultimate pizza here on Cape, a pizza for dinner sure beats whipping up a meal at 8.00 at night. As long as it comes hot in a box and I don't have to fire up the range, I am happy. But this comes from a woman whose male babysitter used to broil up his own version of pizza using Wonder bread, ketchup and American cheese.

But these darn kids.

"Can we have Sweet Tomatoes," teen boy asks, knowing full well that his sister hates the chunky thin crusted pie.

"Can we have Domino's," says teen girl, knowing full well that her brother hates that pre-formed doughy discs.

"I hate Sweet Tomatoes" teen girl hisses. "It's gross."

She has no idea what a gross pizza tastes like until she tries the Wonder Bread Delight.

"Well I hate Domino's" teen boy puffs. "It's disgusting."

Ditto for Teen Boy. A soggy piece of white bread drenched with ketchup- now that's disgusting.

And so it went- for two hours- we went through every pizza place this side of the Mason Dixon line, both unwilling to make a concession.

"Okay, that's it," I shouted. "I am never, ever ordering pizza again until you guys leave for school," And like so many other outlandish threats issued over the past 17 years, it had as much bite as the tooth fairy.

They just stared.

"Well, then, Daddy and I will order pizza and you guys will have to fend for yourselves." I said.

"I call leftover macaroni and cheese," yelled teen boy.

"No fair," screamed teen girl.

"Okay, that's it. I don't know why we ever gave you the choice," I said, reminding them for the hundredth time that my parents always ordered the pizza in our house. No "It's your turn this weekend, darling." Nope, they had full reign since they were picking up the tab. The only time we were given the choice was on Friday night when they went out for dinner and left Sissy in charge. Sissy ruled over us with a titanium fist, deciding where we got the pizza and how many pieces she would let us have. But what really made us mad was her calling "first choice" which meant she opened the box and slowly scanned the whole pie until she found the biggest slices.

"Those are mine," she'd shout.

She'd leave us to fight over the misshapen slices, the ones that slide around the pizza box and lost half their cheese. She'd leave us the ones with those giant bubbles on the crust- according to Sissy, they were pizza warts and she wasn't eating any of those.

I don't know what to cook for dinner this evening, tumbling through my mental recipe files, I can't come up with anything that won't provoke a dispute. I don't know what I'll manage to throw together but one thing is for sure, it won't be pizza.

Double Digit Feet- A generational battle of epic proportions.

I'll never forget the annual humiliation when sitting at my local Stride Rite store, waiting for the middle aged shoe salesman to measure my ever growing feet. From his shirt pocket, he'd pull out my record of extraordinary foot growth on a well-worn index card and would bellow,

"Wow, she'll be in a size 11 by the rate she's growing."

Just what a 10 year old tween wants to hear in a store packed with her peers.



It never bothered me being tall; there is a certain elegance to being long and lean, but having big hooves is as manly as one can get without having a mustache. And with menopause snipping at my calloused heels, I'll be plucking stray chin hairs in a matter of months.

Having big feet limited the choice of footwear, particularly in the summer- no white flats or sandals for me. I mistakenly bought a pair of cute white gladiator type sandals during one summer and they looked as if I strapped on two mini fridges on my soles. And when my father joked that I needed to put license plates on them in order to walk on the street, they ended up in the garbage bin that night. Flats made me feel like a clown and whenever I walked barefoot, I felt the distinctive and repetitive slap of my large hooves as they struck the pavement, thump, thump, thump, sending up clouds of road dust. There is little grace in a size 101/2 flat footed woman.

For years, I would try to squeeze into 8's or 9's- with often disastrous and crippling results. Though I would no longer buy a pair of snake skin heels, there was a time when I couldn't have enough reptile on my body. From belts to bags to shoes, I just about rattled as I slithered through town. When I spotted two pairs of size 9 designer snake skin heels on a sales rack, marked well below their original price, I jammed my feet in and said "sold." They'd be perfect for my upcoming trip to the city. They were simply gorgeous, absolutely sexy and nearly two sizes too small. But that was just a minor detail. After all, my feet looked spectacular in those stilettos. And hadn't we all been told that beauty equals pain- think bikini and underarm wax.

But what I failed to factor in was the monstrous heatwave that had crippled New York City for the preceding week. A blast of hot thick air greeted me as I stepped off the cool train, the oppressively hot air instantly turning my blown dried hair into a frizzy nest of waves. By ten blocks, my feet had doubled in size, rising like two doughy loaves of bread, flowing over the shoes, the seams of the snake skin heels nearly bursting under the strain. My toes were curled, the twisted knuckles bulging beneath the snake skin pumps, and I hadn't brought a back up pair of shoes. The only thing that saved me was meeting my best friend at the Seaport Bar for a few stiff vodka and tonics. That was the last time I ever, ever crammed my feet into shoes that were too small.

When our daughter was born, I knew the odds weren't in her favor of inheriting her father's dainty English feet, his long non-hairy toes make up half the length. (I frequently catch him admiring his feet as they're propped up on the coffee table, pointing and stretching his toes like a dancer) No, those Teutonic Cade chromosomes were tenacious and trampled the hell out of the Jones' petite feet genes.

That poor girl walked out of my uterus with my formidable feet and her father's slender toes. And she hasn't forgiven us yet.

We went shopping for flats last week- heels bring her well over 6 feet and majority of 9th grade boys, so we immediately set our eyes on flats. But with a large foot and long, long toes, that presented a design problem: toe cleavage. Now, there is nothing worse than having toe cleavage in flats- and if I were a shoe designer, I'd exponentially increase the amount of leather that wraps around toes as the size of the shoe increases. But they don't do this. And flat after flat exposed the trunks of her toes. I thought about designing a toe flap, a small piece of fabric that would forever close off the toe cleavage. Perhaps this would be my pet rock.

But thanks to Simply Vera Wang at Kohl's, the toe flap has been tossed beside the many other would be inventions because we found the perfect flat for a big foot with long spindly toes. They modestly cover the toe cleavage and the funky little bling that sits atop of the flat looked simply adorable.

They are a 9 1/2....and when I shoved my foot in, they kind of fit, if I crumpled my toes. I walked around the house, wondering if I could get away with wearing them for an upcoming event.

The Library Wall of Shame

My sister is a very giving person. She'd eagerly share her last drop of red wine or last crumb of a chocolate cookie with me. But if you ask Sissy to lend me her Sandwich Library Card, this is where her charitable and sweet nature suddenly turns quite sour. She'd rather let her hair air dry on a humid day then surrender her library card. And if you know how Sissy hates her curly hair and would self destruct if she lost her hairdryer, you'll understand.


Sissy is a model library patron and could perhaps be the Patron Saint of Libraries. Her card remains free and clear of any fines and if you ask her, even after a few drinks, she'll know exactly when each book is due.


I think she paid five cents back in 1998 when a blizzard immobilized the town and she couldn't snowshoe down to the village library to return her books. The thought of not returning her books on time sends her into a Class III panic attack. She thinks the library police will issue a warrant. Throw her in jail. Put her in the fake stocks in front of Dan'l Webster Restaurant on Main Street.


Her books are neatly stacked on her beside table and she doesn't bend back the pages. You'll find no hidden tissues or splatters of coffee or crumbs among her returns. She uses a pretty little bookmark with a lovely grosgrain ribbon, and the thought of eating or drinking anywhere near a book is a flagrant violation of her 11th Commandment- "thou shall not eat nor drink within ten feet of a library book."

Unfortunately, I never leaned that commandment in Sunday School, but instead learned that one way to really upset my teacher was to look out the window and watch all my Catholic friends riding their bikes and playing tag because they had been dragged to Mass on Saturday. This was one reason why I wanted so desperately to be Catholic-I wouldn't have to be stuck in church on Sunday. And I loved their cute plaid uniforms, too.

I've had a problem with library books since the 4th grade when I left a towering stack of brand new library books out in a summer thunderstorm. There was nothing worse that seeing that wet stack of paper, the pages stuck together, my heart beating faster than the torrential rains that poured down from the skies and ruined my books. And when I tried to gently pry the pages apart, they simply disintegrated. Luckily, my father paid for the books and although I was grateful at the time, his generosity set in motion a disturbing yet unintentional trend that continues to this day and in fact has woven itself into the next generation of Jones', saddling them with this literary curse.

If only my father had made me pay for the books, forced me to sell lemonade on the street corner, rake leaves in the fall and shovel snow in the winter -this debt would have crossed a few seasons- perhaps I would have learned one of those invaluable life altering lessons. But instead, he settled the bill with the snippy librarian and I was free to abuse my borrowing privileges once again.

Over and over, I would lose books or return them well past their due date. I've always thought of the due date as the suggested date of return and that's where I got into trouble. Plus, one or two pennies a day that was levied against my card didn't break the bank. Eventually, I'd return the books, either shoving them through the book deposit slot well after the library ladies had loosened their buns or quickly emptying the book bag on the returns counter and fleeing into the fiction section, getting lost between the rows of Hoffman and Picoult.

When it was time to borrow a new load, I would hand over my card, they'd scan it and look pensively at the hidden screen, followed by a shake of the head, a purse of the lips, a genuine scowl of disdain.

"I know. I owe a fine. I have a terrible problem with returning books on time," I'd offer.



"Why don't you just take out one," suggested more than one librarian.


"Well, you never know if you've got a good book so I am ensuring that I will have something good to read."


And then I'd pay my fine, usually with a check because I don't carry much cash on me and I'd always throw a bit extra in to satisfy some self imposed need for punitive damages. But when I discovered that our library's fines go directly to the Town, and not the library, I stopped putting in the extra few bucks and paid my fines right to the cent.

This terrible cycle repeated itself over the course of the last few decades until a new no-nonsense librarian marched into the library and decided to fix my wagon. Raising her eyebrows just above her glasses, she made it known that I was a repeat offender who needed a stiffer sentence- humiliation.

"You have a $25.00 fine," she said in a very loud voice. Patrons looked up from their reading, turned their heads to look at the dead-beat borrower.

"Umm...I don't have my wallet on me," I said.

"What? Don't you know it's illegal to drive without your license?"

I'm surprised she didn't call in the law. But she didn't let me take out any books.

That's when I borrowed the husband's card. And that's where the circle of my library life finally closed.

My library tote, stuffed with a load of woefully overdue books, had been riding in my car for weeks, getting stepped on by muddy cleats and crushed by gallons of laundry detergent and milk. When I finally got round to returning the books, the bag was a bit damp- well, it was dripping, like a faucet with a bad washer. One of my water bottles had leaked all over those darn books. Weren't those caps supposed to stay put?

The nightmare of the summer of 1971 had come full circle.

But this time, I was on the hook for well over a hundred dollars.

The library was quick to write off the books as damaged based on my rather dismal track record. I think books read better when they share the same character flaws as the characters inside. But the library didn't agree. So I am left without a card. I can look, but I can't borrow. I can wander the great stacks, running my hands over the spines of Sally Gunning's, The Widow's War and Cormac McCarthy's The Road, but they never will ride the streets of Sandwich with me.

My sister, my neighbor, teen boy, teen girl and close friends have their cards under key- whenever I ask if they'll lend me their cards, they laugh.

I guess I should feel lucky.....the library hasn't figured out that a Library Wall of Shame might actually work. And the Police haven't issued a warrant like they did to that poor girl I saw on Inside Edition who had one overdue book. Based on my record, they'd have to call in the SWAT team. And I'm pretty sure they're a bit busy these days.