The Invisible Woman

Last year, Tim and I spent a weekend at a very nice, small inn/resort where the staff makes an effort to learn your name.  Or at least Tim's name.  Mine, not so much.

At first, I didn't notice that I wasn't there.  After all, Tim is the one who made the dinner reservations, selected the wine, paid for the meals.  He also likes his food prepared very simply, so he was always rearranging the menu items, which I'm sure made him stand out in the the staffs' minds.

"Welcome, Mr. Sinclair,"  they'd say as we sat down.  "What would you like?"

"What can we do for you Mr. Sinclair,"  they'd offer.  "Mr. Sinclair, can we get you anything else?"

It was kind of like being married to Norm on Cheers.  What was her name, Vera?

By the end of the weekend, I expected to hear them shout, "Tim!" when we entered a room, and have his drink ready before his bottom hit the chair. 

Gradually, I noticed that he got the big meet and greet, and I got.....nothing.  There was the hanging on his every word as though he was Einstein explaining relativity for dummies. There were the blank stares I encountered when I tried to alert them to the fact that there was a Mrs. Sinclair.  There was the subtle way the waiter stood with his back toward me when taking our orders.

Tim, naturally, was in complete denial, even as I transitioned from solid, to transparent to totally invisible.

The staff would rush up as we entered the lobby, concern etched into their faces.  "Mr. Sinclair, are you aware that there is some strange woman following you?"  they'd ask, casting dark looks my way.  "What can we do for you Mr. Sinclair?"  It only got worse as the weekend went on. 

"Is this woman bothering you, Mr. Sinclair?"  I could hear the unspoken question when I dared to sit at his table our final night there.  "Would you like us to call security?  We can have her removed.  No trouble at all.  Now, what would you like to eat, Mr. Sinclair?"

Umm.  Helloooo.  I'm his wife.  See the ring?  I would waggle my finger at them.  Sometimes it actually was my ring finger that I put up.

Finally though, the weekend was over, and Tim once again had to acknowledge that he had a wife.

A few months later, we had the opportunity to go back to the inn, this time with another couple who clearly thought my  stories were an exaggeration of the facts.  Until we got there.

"Welcome back, Mr. Sinclair," the woman at reception gushed as we checked in.

"Ahem,"  I cleared my throat.

"Be with you in a moment, ma'am.  Please step back until we finish with Mr. Sinclair, our favorite guest of all time, and the handsomest man on the planet."

Well, okay, maybe I exaggerate a little.  They didn't actually say that he was handsome.

But seriously, as skeptical as they were at first, eventually, our friends began to realize that I had been telling the truth.  And worse, my disease was contagious.  They were becoming invisible too.

"Afternoon, Mr. Sinclair," the staff greeted the four of us as we headed out for a walk.

I arched my brow at our friends.  "See?"  I silently asked.

They dismissed it as Tim simply being the first one out the door.

"Wine, Mr. Sinclair?"  the bartender asked whipping out a nice bottle of white to present to Tim with a flourish, as the four of us sat down for a pre-dinner drink.

I arched both brows, and confiscated Tim's glass since it was the only way I was going to get a drink without stomping my own grapes.  The other two were on their own.  From the slightly dazed looks on their faces though, they were beginning to come around to my side as they faded from view.

Tim, of course, protested vociferously that this was all in our collective imagination.  He insisted he was treated no differently than the rest of us peons.

But the clincher came when we sat down to dinner.

"Mr. Sinclair, I don't know who these people are that have somehow managed to sit at your table, but what would you like to eat?  You usually get the fish.  Shall we prepare it with a side of seasonal vegetables?  And I know you don't do bread, so I won't bring over the basket.  Also, here is a bottle of sparkling water which I know is your favorite.  Now, can I get you anything else?"

Somehow the waiter managed to avoid eye contact with any of the rest of us during his spiel, and successfully insert himself between the three of us and Tim by the time he was finished.

By now  though, it was clear to our friends that they had suffered my fate and ceased to exist.  They sat, mouths agape as reality sunk in.

Satisfied that my point had been made, I leaned past the waiter as he hovered over Tim, just in case "Mr. Sinclair" should need anything like an extra napkin, refill on his drink, more salad dressing, his chin wiped, to be burped.

"Perhaps you could ask him, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, if the people with Mr. Sinclair might actually get a little something to eat and drink too?"

Tim finally had the grace to at least look a little chagrined.  Not that that changed anything until after we checked out.  The three of us and Mr. Sinclair.

Suit Up

Last week, we were in the Bahamas where I had an unfortunate incident involving my bathing suit and my sunblock.  Apparently, the higher the SPF, the more corrosive the lotion.  Who knew?

It actually ate my suit, which makes me sooo happy that I have been slathering it on my skin for the last umpteen years.  Hmm, so I guess I can either opt for skin cancer or having the top six layers of my skin dissolved by helioplex.  Great.

When the (new) lotion began attacking suit number two, I figured it was time to either look into purchasing a new suit or find a nude beach.

Finding a bathing suit in the Bahamas;  how long could that take?  Two, three minutes?

Yeah.  Right.  If you have the ability to tan, are sixteen and weigh sixteen pounds and/or love bling, you're in luck.  Otherwise, not so much.

I began at the hotel gift shop.  Where they had a huge selection.  Four.  Three of which could have been sewn together and still not have made a large enough suit to cover what needed to be covered.  The fourth suit was a one-piece;  however, it looked as though it had been designed by a five year old who had been left unattended with a Bedazzler and a stack of Disney princess movies.

So we walked down the street to the little shopping area where I felt sure I would find a suit.  And I did.  Lors and lots.  Of  itsy bitsy teenie weenie bikinis.

I get that for most people, the purpose of lying on the beach is to get a deep, dark tan with as few tan lines as possible.  More power to them.  They are fortunate enough to have shades of beige and brown among their skin color choices. 

I, on the other hand, have two choices:  white and red.  For me, the purpose of lying on the beach is to see  if I can get someone to bring me many frozen drinks with little umbrellas in them to help me forget that I am baking in the sun under an umbrella, awning, three towels and a big hat.  I need SPF 60 just to make it from my room to the chair without resembling a lobster.

So when it comes to swimsuit style, more fabric is definitely the way for me to go in terms of sun protection.  Actually, more fabric is pretty much the way for me to go regardless.  At my age, there are just some things that are better left to the imagination...or left to someone with a severe astigmatism who has lost their glasses.  Something that I could fold up and stuff in my pocket with room left over for my wallet, keys, cell phone, ipod, tissues and make-up was not going to cut it.

My next stop was a neighboring hotel where they have a shopping arcade.

Bingo!  I found a suit right away, and it was on sale.  Oh lucky day.  So it was bright orange and I would look like a traffic cone, but at least it was made with more fabric than is in a Barbie outfit.  So it was four sizes too big.  Wait.  Surely, there must be other sizes or colors.  Frantically, I pawed through the racks.

How about yellow, and I could look like Big Bird, or bright green and I could be a beanstalk?  Nope.  All they had was the one orange suit and then lots of bikinis and a few one-piece suits that glittered so much I would feel like the mirror-ball trophy on Dancing With The Stars.

Finally realizing that I was going to have to bite the bullet and go into Nassau, we hopped a cab and decided to make a day of it.  And it did take pretty much all day.

Shop after shop, it was the same.  Suits that were made for sun worshippers or someone with a lot fewer inhibitions than I have.

No, I did not want to look like a french maid, cowgirl or pole dancer.  Seriously, do you have a lot of call for this stuff?  Are people flocking to your store to buy something that when you get it wet is going to look more like body paint and less like something you can actually swim in?

And what's up with the big gold medallions and rings and decorative chunks of metal replacing good old-fashioned ties and straps?  I wasn't aware that Mr. T was competing against Esther Williams in the swimwear business.

Not that there is anything wrong with a little style and flair, but how about when all that metal heats up in the sun?  That's gotta feel good.  Sort of like a cow at branding time.  I can just imagine hopping out of my suit in the middle of the beach as the neckline begins to glow red hot.

And didn't I read somewhere that sharks were attracted to shiny things?  What sick designer thought it would be a good idea to wear something that would attract a predator?  Perhaps they also have a line of clothing made of raw meat for people who go on safari, or one made of fresh sheepskin for those who like to go hiking in wolf country.  Pass.

And so, at the end of the day, I left empty handed but with my modesty and skin intact.  We did make one final stop though for a bottle of Woolite so that I could help my two remaining suits survive our vacation. 

We Should Have Called Her Houdini

Our dog, Chloe, is crate trained...more or less.  Less than more.

Every night she goes contentedly into her crate (okay, we put it on the edge of the bed where she can't get a toehold, duck her head, tuck in her paws and try to shove her into it while she somehow manages to grow eight more legs and cover herself in grease.  Imagine trying to stuff a giant squid into a thimble and you're halfway there. 

"I was framed, I'm telling you.  I'm innocent,"  she protests vehemently.

Every day, her first order of business is to liberate every item in her crate.  "Run and be free," she tells Bedtime Bear and Mr. Winkles as she tosses them hither and yon around the bedroom.  "Quick, everyone over the wall!"

Oddly enough though, given her feelings regarding anyplace with walls and a door, she allows herself to be put in her playpen during the day with nary a peep (okay, so we have to leave treats, toys, the TV remote, phone, laptop and gold Am Ex card).  Which is why I was excited to find a travel version made of canvas and mesh.  No need to worry about our precious bundle of hair frying herself on a lamp wire or ingesting a couch, bed or other tempting and tasty hotel room paraphernalia that they have for the sole purpose of luring good little puppies down the wicked path of ruin.

Chloe was not quite as excited about it as I.

Where I saw a safe and familiar environment, she saw a network game show challenge.  It was like watching Win It In A Minute as she charged the sides, teeth, hair and paws flying about in a frenzy while she hurled all six pounds  of herself repeatedly at the sides until it resembled a No. 2 pencil instead of an octagon.

She proudly looked up at me from atop the mound of pee pads, dishes, toys and bed crammed into a six-inch space at one end as I surveyed the damage that hurricane Chloe had caused.

"Look what I did, mom,"  she panted excitedly.  "And for my next trick, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!"

Believing myself able to outsmart the dog, I wedged the playpen between the bed, nightstand, ottoman, four chairs, eight maids amilking, seven swans aswimming and a partridge in a pear tree.  Satisfied that would hold her, Tim and I went out to dinner.

Upon our return, I put my finger to my lips and shushed Tim as we silently crept back into the room and peered down into the playpen...to see nothing!

"Chloe, Chloeeeee," we called imagining masked marauders dog napping our precious baby and holding her for a ransom.  Quick, where was the number for the navy seals, the green berets or the A-Team?

Suddenly,we were hit from behind by a small, fuzzy projectile of joy.  "Aren't you proud of me?  See, I escaped!  Watching all those David Copperfield specials really paid off, huh?"

Incredulous, we examined the playpen, looking for the escape hatch.  It seemed improbable that she had scaled the four foot sides, and the zippered door was still firmly zippered shut, but upon closer inspection, we discovered that one of the velcro straps joining the sides had been opened.  What we still can't figure out is how, since it was closed on the outside of the playpen with a buckle!    Like any good magician though, she refuses to share her secrets.

Still thinking I was maybe at least as smart as she, I brought the playpen with me to visit my parents two weeks ago.  This time, I not only surrounded it with massive pieces of furniture, I sprayed all the velcro closures with a bitter apple dog deterrent.  Ha!  I win!

Yeah.  For about five minutes.

I should have just dunked the whole pen in bitter apple, because when she found she couldn't push the sides or bite the velcro, she simply latched her sharp little puppy teeth onto the mesh and pulled.  Faster than you can say origami, she had twisted the shape into something beyond all recognition containing about four inches of real estate.

"Help!  Help!"  she yipped, looking balefully at me as though this were all my fault (the mother always gets blamed)."Maybe I should have said  bibbidy bobbidy boo instead of abracadabra." 

Totally defeated, I was investigating other options like crying, calling Tim up and whining, calling the Super-Nanny and whining, or sending a note up the chimney for Mary Poppins to find, when my father declared he could contain Chloe.  Foolish, foolish man.

"We'll close the baby gate to the family room(which is at the back of the house)"  he rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist, "unfold the pen, brace it against a few chairs, the bookcase, velcro it to the floor and tie it off.  There.  That ought to hold her."  He stepped back, overly pleased with himself.

"I don't know..." I shook my head.  He clearly didn't understand who he was up against.

"She's a dog,"  he scorned.  "If she can figure out how to get out of there, I'll shake her paw tonight."

She met us at the front door when we returned, paw extended, head cocked to one side, superior little smile on her lips.  I just wish we had bet some money on it.

So now the challenge was on.  Chloe vs my father.  They each took it as a personal challenge to thwart the other.  It was kind of like watching Wile E Coyote trying to outsmart the Roadrunner.  You just knew that whatever he's ordered from Acme is going to blow up in his face.  I kept warning my dad that he was outgunned, but he was nothing if not determined.

In the end though, my father did win.  He only had to rearrange the family room furniture, add the kitchen chairs, table, stove and refrigerator as reinforcements, tie off the playpen with kitchen twine, put the lock on the baby gate, and bolt a few things down to the floor.  Chloe was finally safe, and trapped in her playpen.

Victory came at a price though,which was that while she couldn't get out of the family room, we couldn't get in.  No family room.  No TV.  His system made Fort Knox look like it was was secured with a flimsy latch and a battered "Beware of Dog" sign. 

Even though she was well and truly trapped, somehow, I think that putting him to so much trouble might have been Chloe's next trick all along.