50-Hate: The Tennis Ladies

Prologue: I remember All in the Family. I saw the phrase "The Generation Gap" defined in my childhood home. I heard the battle cries, "Don't Trust Anyone Under Thirty!" and "Question Authority!" I may not have been old enough to shave my legs, much less burn a bra, but the message came through loud and clear: young = forward thinking; old = backward looking.

I see them everywhere in the county where Small Child attends school: The Tennis Ladies.

Toned, tanned, tended, and tenacious, they meet for coffee and lunch and conversation. Somehow, even after vigorous exercise, they always look put-together, earrings dangling and makeup intact. Yes. They play tennis in makeup. And lipstick. It's different here.

I've always been an outlier where this kind of girl is concerned, "in the corner" as Suzanne Vega once put it.  And "in the corner" was where I was Monday, at La Madeleine to be exact, in my version of exercise wear (black yoga pants, shapeless PTA t-shirt, sans earrings and makeup), shielded by my laptop as a trio of tennilicious ladies lunched at the table next. Definitely the kind of folks for whom "economic downturn" means "Lesser Lexus."

After a quick scan (two late20somethings, one working the ponytail-through-cute-ball-cap look and another with the best blond highlights I've seen in ages, and an oldersomething close to my age with the best matte red lipstick I've seen in ages) and a quick listen (kids, blah blah, car, blah, blah, kids), I returned to the chicken Caesar salad that has been my comfort food lo these many years. Move along, Blue. Nothing to see here.

Then suddenly, this:

"..for Obama."

"You've got be be FUCKING JOKING."

Up popped my head.

And there, calmly smiling with those beautiful matte red lips, was my mid-life sister.

PONYTAIL: Oh, no. No. Why?

MATTE RED: Because McCain and Palin scare the shit out of me.

HIGHLIGHTS:   Oh, come on.

PONYTAIL:   No, really, why?

MATTE RED:   Well, for one thing, they want to overturn Roe v Wade

PONYTAIL, SCOFFING: You know THAT will never happen. They're [the dems] just trying to scare you.

MATTE RED, REMEMBERING ALL TOO WELL: No, they do.

At this point, Ponytail and Highlights unleashed a stream of anti-Obama vitriol the likes of which I have never heard apart from AM talk radio. Vicious. Untrue. Unadulterated Hate.

Matte Red never lost her cool. She continued, pointing out that Sarah Palin is, essentially, stupid. That her presence on the ticket is pandering and insulting. It was clear that Obama would not necessarily have been her first choice. But she has been around the block. The others have not.

Matte Red glanced at me. I mentioned that perhaps the younger women didn't understand that the freedoms they take for granted have not always been universally enjoyed (okay, I may not have been that slick). I agreed that an Obama victory was critical, if only to shift the court. Matte Red shook her head in agreement. Ponytail launched again.

Their party was breaking up, and their spirited debate continued as they made their way out.

As they reached the door, Matte turned back, gave me the thumbs up, and said, "See you at the victory party." The other two were not amused.

In an instant, I passed through some kind of time warp, some kind of bizarro reversal. At that one point in that most red county in this most red state, the Generation Gap flipped.  

And I thought to myself, "Never trust anyone under 30. At least not anyone in a tennis skirt."

Afterword: I know. I said I wasn't going to write about politics anymore. So sue me.

Sunday in the park with....Annie?

Sorry I’ve been away from the blog for a while…lots of activity and little introspection.

Large Dog, small child, and I have a new hangout these days: the dog park. With big shade trees and lawn chairs for the humans, two fenced acres and three swimming pools of various depths for the dogs, and mountain views and tennis balls for all, it’s well nigh perfect. Peace reigns (mostly) supreme. The venue offers lots of opportunity to try out that old truism about dogs and their owners resembling each other. I won’t bore you with a treatise on this, but I will mention three pairings of note.

On our first visit, only one dog demonstrated anything remotely resembling bad behavior – Angel, a wire haired fox terrier who yipped at everyone, jumped wetly and uninvited into stranger’s laps, and – horror- chased balls thrown for other dogs. Her owner? Loud, coarse schlumpy woman talking LOUDLY on her cell phone.

My favorite? Another woman, a fully robed Buddhist monk, shaved head and all, with an incredibly peaceful female GSP, a dog she’d rescued from a situation of indescribable abuse. Great conversation and connection between very different yet oddly agreeable dogs and girls here.

Most telling? That would be Annie, a mixed breed with more than a tad bit of pit bull, I fear. Annie and an escape artist Pom (word in the park is the dog makes her way to the park and her owners [sometimes] retrieve her after work), joined at the hip, ran amok. In and out of the water, on and off of people, over and under and around dogs of all sizes and shapes. When other dogs would indicate displeasure, the duo would duck under a table – often in between folks’ feet – and spread their mud and mayhem. The lowlight was when they propelled themselves onto the picnic table where small child was drawing…right onto the artwork, tearing paper, spreading muddy paw prints, the whole nine yards. Flexible, small child found this amusing. Large Dog did not, and in a most unusual move barked and defended...no biting or anything, but he let the truth be known. I looked around for the most likely owner and settled on a nearby mid-life woman, unusual for these parts in that she was fully made up and chain smoking, who was holding forth in the unmistakable, strident tones of Someone Who is Not From Here (I know, I don’t have any room to talk, but at least I try to fit in). I said, nicely like the good southern girl I am, “Is one of these yours?” She relied, “Yeah,” blowing out a big cloud of smoke and proceeding to yammer.

After the first visit, Large Dog assumed a role best described as WalMart greeter. If he smelled or heard a new dog coming, he’d trot to the gate, wag a welcome, and start the pee-on-the-tree party. He’d also go to the gate when dogs left and whine a good bye. On Sunday afternoon, we were hanging out under the trees enjoying our lives when Large Dog’s head jerked up; he shot to the fence and gave three strong warning barks. Care to guess who was on approach? Annie and Ms. Annie. We left.

So why is this telling and (I know you’re asking) why am I telling it? It is absolute proof positive that dogs know things we do not. That they notice subtleties, whether those subtleties are danger or – in this case – merely intense annoyance. That, left to themselves, they work out their differences and can exist in large numbers in relative peace. That they can communicate with each other regardless of background or breed. The big strong ones don’t need to use their muscle. They know when to deal with something directly and when to walk away. The small peaceful ones know that trouble may come, but that it will go as well. Some will even stand patiently by while lesser animals retrieve their tennis balls, to a point.

As for the others? Our siblings need some company on the island, after all.

This post definitely ended up somewhere other than the place I'd planned...I'll try again for my destination of choice in a day or so...stay tuned!