Daring Rescue at Sea

Sunday was our "Second Annual Neighborhood Pontoon Party" and we all had high hopes for a day of fun. Like the fateful trip the passengers took on the Minnow, ours was to be a three-hour tour. (A three-hour tour.)

As you may recall on their voyage, "The weather started getting rough, the tiny ship was tossed..."  In our case, it began gently sprinkling and gradually turned into a light rain.  The weather didn't dampen our spirits though - largely because our spirits were in coolers.

Then...disaster!  Overboard and into the murky waters of Lake Wylie!  Tension was high.  Someone turned off the party music.  Our Skipper (brave and sure) maneuvered the behemoth boat around with precision and speed - which is difficult in a pontoon - and, just at the perfect moment, The Mate (a mighty sailing man) leaned far, far out over the water, reaching farther than he'd ever reached before. He finally grasped ...

...Keith's hat.  Waterlogged, but otherwise okay. 

The men were jubilant!  The Captain and The First Mate high fived each other.

The Captain and The First Mate

Music blared again, spirits lifted, the women danced, the men smiled.  And then...the unthinkable.  The angry wind whipped and Mary's yellow ball cap was airborne.

If not for the courage of the fearless crew, the yellow cap would be lost.  (The yellow cap would be lost.)  The men ignored Sweet Mary's protests and, with a battle cry of "No hats left behind," they sprang into action.  Again, for the second time in mere minutes, they executed another successful rescue mission.

Jerry, the HERO!

The big reach

                 










During the debriefing, someone remembered hearing Jerry remark, "We train for this all year but we hope we never have to use it."

If any ship I'm ever on "sets ground on an unchartered desert isle," I could do worse than having these guys with me.    

My Best Year

On Wednesday mornings I travel to the city to attend a class called "Living your Best Year."  This is a big deal for me.  My mind doesn't function at its peak in the morning and I don't enjoy driving in commuter traffic.  Nonetheless, yesterday I got up, got dressed, and started to drag myself out to the street where my car was parked.  Halfway up the hill, I realized I'd left my book behind so I went back and fetched it.  Then, as I entered the car, a button on my shirt got entangled in the seat belt latch.  The clock was ticking as I attempted to free myself and ultimately succeeded.  As I pulled out onto the street, I looked at the dashboard and saw a light pop on.  The illuminated icon looked like a laurel wreath surrounding an exclamation mark.

Of course I had no idea what the light meant, so I pulled over, got out my owner's manual and looked it up.  It took a while but I found out that this is the symbol for low tire pressure.  It seems like there could have been a more obvious icon for that, but the people who design dashboards don't appear to be concerned about being user-friendly any more than those who write owners' manuals care about clarity.

What to do?  I walked around the car and looked at the tires.  None was flat, but they all looked low,

especially the front ones.  I kicked them for good measure.  I'm not sure what I expected to happen but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.  I decided it would be safe to drive to the closest gas station and put air in them.

At the gas station, I found the air machine and it cost a dollar. "Quarters only." There's something annoying about the concept of paying for air, but I went inside and got change.  Back at the car, I sat inside, reading the manual trying to figure out how much pressure the tires needed.  After extensive reading, all I found was that the pressure should be indicated on the tire.  I crawled around, looking. [Did I mention I was wearing white pants? My mom always said white pants after Labor Day are a poor wardrobe choice and I see now that she was right.]  The tire pressure was, indeed, embedded on the side of the tire.  It was then that I realized how handy a tire gauge might have been.

By now, I was truly hoping a guy would come to my rescue.  As soon the thought materialized, I told myself that this sounded pretty sexist.  Although, in my experience, guys are generally more knowledgeable than gals on car-related issues, I decided to amend my wish anyway.  I didn't really care the gender of my rescuer.  A man, a women -- if a magical goat came along with an air pressure gauge, I'd take it.

No knight in shining armor arrived.  No powder-puff mechanic materialized.  No pixies, car fairies, no unicorns.  It was going to be up to me.  I crawled around some more, unscrewed the little nozzle caps, inserted the quarters into the air machine and blindly put air into each tire.  Nothing exploded so I took that as a good sign.  I turned the car on, saw that the light was still lit up and formed Plan B.

Plan B:  Drive my car to a nearby auto repair shop where the guys are professional, knowledgeable and, best of all, nice.  Go inside and throw myself on their mercy.

The young guy behind the desk got up, went out and put air in my tires.  He said that on cool days the air pressure goes down a little and that there probably wasn't even anything wrong.  Furthermore, you have to drive a little while for the dashboard light to go off.  All great information that I could use on the spot.  It was a wonderful experience and I was grateful.

When I asked him what I owed him, he said, "Nothing.  Air is free."

I finally arrived at my class.  My white pants were grimy and I was almost an hour late but I was floating on air.  Turns out,  I had learned a valuable lesson:  We don't have to live our best lives alone.  We can call in the A-Team to give us a hand whenever we want.  And, when you figure out who the good guys are, air is free.  I like that.  

Napping

Brody and his Grampy are best buds and they started playing as soon as their family arrived at our house for the weekend.  When mid-afternoon came, our daughter asked her father if he'd put her son down for a nap. Brody was clearly tired and we thought he'd fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

Obediently both guys went to the bedroom and lay down.  Fortunately, they left the door open just a crack so I was able to observe them.  A short time later I heard a thumping noise.  I looked in.  The guys were lying side-by-side and Brody just kind of rhythmically kicking Jerry's shoulder.  

A few minutes later, I heard the sweet sound of a two-year old singing.  I couldn't resist taking another quick peek.  Brody was sitting up but Jerry hadn't moved a muscle since the last time I'd seen him. 

The third time I checked on the guys, Brody was riding his Grandfather like a horse.  

Somebody had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.  It just wasn't Brody. 


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 


As long as I live, I will never understand how men think.  As Jerry and Brody were going in to bed, I told Jerry to remember to take the shams off the pillows.  As you can see, he did.

Finally, they're BOTH napping!

  

A High-Altitude Revelation

We were in Salt Lake City.  We'd ridden the train to the heart of the downtown. Now we are hiking up the canyon to the foothills of the mountains.  Our destination is a couple of miles away.  It's high altitude.  I'm looking down, watching my step, sweating, panting.  Then I look up, see the back of my husband, and break out in a huge smile.

 Jerry, carrying his backpack and dragging my suitcase.

It has just occurred to me that I have my own personal sherpa.  Just like all those climbers who "do Everest," I could never have done it without him. (I still could have used a canister of supplemental oxygen though...)

Here's a couple of other photos of a day in the life of my sherpa:

My Shopping Sherpa  (Great legs, right?)

My Garden Sherpa at work

From now on whenever people wonder why I am forever and always trying to pair up my single friends, explaining will be simple:  Every girl needs a sherpa.

The New Guy

At a party last week, I met a charming fellow who told me he was in his late '80s.  He was interesting, intelligent and an excellent conversationalist, a real pleasure to talk to. 

We were chatting away, thoroughly enjoying ourselves in our own little world when he said, "I'm blind, you know."

Well, I didn't know but I figured since he brought it up, he must want to talk about it, so I said, "Macular degeneration?"

"Yes." He responded.

Did it come on suddenly or was it gradual?" I asked.

"Gradually."

"Do you have any vision left?"

"About fifteen percent."

"Can you see me at all?" I asked.

"I can see your outline." he said.

I touched his arm as I leaned in a little.  "I have something important to tell you." I said and I paused for effect.  "I'm very, very attractive."


"I thought so." he replied.

We both laughed.

My Mantra

"My mantra for the month," I told Jerry, "is 'Don't put it down, put it away.'"

"Really?" he smiled. "Because..."

"A place for everything and everything in its place," I interrupted.

"...because I noticed that you just put your hat on the upstairs landing."  He grinned.

"That's because my hat belongs on the landing -- that's where I want it to be, on the landing," I said defensively. "I'm surprised you didn't know that.  And the bag of newspapers behind the hat?  It belongs there, too."

The books belong on the stairs.  Really.

Wouldn't it be nice if I actually lived the life that I already think I'm living?

The Sharp Shooter

Three of our neighbors just finished a mandatory gun safety course.  Then if they pass a test they can "concealed carry" as they call it.  As grateful as I am that I am friends with all of these men, I feel better being on good terms with my own husband.   Here's why...

Christmas two years ago we were in Michigan and, on a whim (or high from the eggnog), I made one of those stupid pronouncements that later I come to regret.  This one was along the lines of, "It would be fun to learn to shoot a gun."  What was I thinking?  Yeah, that it was one of my more moronic statements, I admit.  My son-in-law who, as it turns out, has more guns than I have silverware, hopped on that idiotic idea like a flea onto a very hairy dog and he ran with it.  Before the words had even finished tumbling out of my mouth, he had called and scheduled us a time for the next morning.  Turns out he had a friend who owned a rifle range.  (Gun gallery?) My husband Jerry decided to come along just for the fun factor.

I'll admit I was kind of excited. When I was a kid I used to shoot tin cans with BB guns and as an adult I enjoyed playing "Duck Hunter" on Nintendo, too.  I smugly thought I was a pretty good aim and was ready to prove it.  I didn't even try to worm out of the deal.  I just got up the next morning and got in the car with the guys.

The owner of the operation was there and brought me out a pretty little gun like a woman might carry in her purse.  He was very professional and gave me detailed instructions on how to stand, how to hold my arms and was teaching me all about gun safety when the place opened up for business.  People were pouring in and suddenly I realized I was surrounded by muggers-in-training.  (Did I mention we were in Detroit?)

It was about now that the owner realized the delicate gun I'd been practicing with was malfunctioning.  He went to fetch me another weapon but became distressed with the selection.  He toyed with the idea of giving me a much bigger gun but said it had "a much larger kick and you're gonna need to be prepared for that."  The more he thought about it, the more concerned he got and the more concerned he got, the less enthusiast I got.  Ultimately we jointly decided that I should postpone my debut as Annie Oakley.

Instead, I went into the shooting arena (which was like a bowling alley with targets hanging above where the pins would be) to watch Jerry and Brent shoot.  As soon as we got in there, I realized I was standing next to a very short person - a very short person with a gun in his hand.  I'm a very short person myself but, unlike me, this short person didn't look like he had achieved double digits yet.  There was a child standing next to me. The child was holding a gun.

I left.

When the guys were finished they picked me up in the lobby.   Brent was saying what a "badass" Jerry was.  (His word, not mine.)  Brent showed me Jerry's paper target.  Jer had fired three times and the shots had hit dead center of the bullseye yet I only saw two holes.   Brent had to spell it out for me.  "Two bullets went through the same hole, Chris."  He said.

Turns out my husband is a sharp shooter.  He knows it. Our son-in-law knows it.  All those mugger wanna-be's in Detroit know it.  You know it - and I know it too.


Mild-mannered Grampy or sharp-shooter?

Yes, I'm gonna try to stay on the best possible terms with my husband.  Oh, and I think I might take up archery.  

       



Peanut Butter

Some stories don't need words.

See what I mean?

THAT Woman

The lottery jackpot was $141 million dollars Saturday night and I'm pretty sure I've won.  If so, in addition to buying my friends Linda and Dave a lakefront home (as I promised them I'd do), and giving my hairdresser Doreatha the best tip she's ever had in her life (because she's THAT good), I'm gonna find someone with excellent taste to buy my clothes for me.  I tend to make bad garment choices so I could truly use professional guidance in this area of my life.

Earlier today I went to JC Penney because they are having a clearance sale on their summer merchandise.  To me this makes no sense at all.  Living east of Hell as I do, in my mind July is actually summer and so are August, September, October and a big slice of November too.  It appears to me that Penney's is getting rid of the lightweight stuff way, way too soon but I was armed with a 10% discount coupon and the sale/coupon combo is difficult to resist, even for me.

What treasure did I find on the sale rack?  A long-sleeved red tee-shirt that would be perfect to wear during the Christmas holidays.  It was marked $.97.  I asked the clerk if it was a pricing error and she assured me it was not.  She said, "This is really old.  It's from last winter." to which I (mentally) responded, "The newest stuff in my winter wardrobe is from last winter.  The oldest stuff is from when I was in sixth grade.  THAT is really old.  THIS is really new.  In fact, it's brand new.  New doesn't get any newer than that."

I bought the tee-shirt, and yes, I used my 10% off coupon.  I purchased an item that was under a dollar and I asked them to give me a ten-percent discount.  I'm THAT woman.

I am having a fabulous life!  I'm just not sure that winning all that lottery money is going to make my life that much better - but I've graciously decided I am willing to find out.  If South Carolina is a state where you can collect your winnings anonymously, then you will never even know I won.   Unless, of course, Linda and Dave invite you to their housewarming party.

Running Late

According to my husband, we were running late.  He'd planned to leave our house at 3:45 a.m. and it was now 3:55.  I had wanted to blow dry my hair.  Was that really so wrong?

I was surprised at how many people were on the road this early in the morning.  Surprised, largely, because I never am.  Jerry travels more than I do so he was unfazed.  ("Unglazed," according to Autocorrect.)

Jerry parked our car and we rushed to the shuttle bus.  I could feel the tension.  "What time is our flight?" I asked even though I had zero idea what the current time was anyway.  "Six." was the curt reply.

The line for security was massive and there was a huge group of people wearing teal ("real" according to Autocorrect) tee-shirts in it.  I wondered what their story was but Jerry grabbed me by the hand and steered me out of the line just as I was opening my mouth to ask.  

We walked the length of the airport to Checkpoint B where there was no line at all.  Not one person was in front of us.  None.  Zilch.  It was eerie.  I wasn't even sure this security point was open but, in fact, it was.  As we walked through what appeared to be our own personal security line, Jerry's tension dissipated.  We looked at the monitor to locate our gate.  When we got there, imagine my surprise to see this:

Just in case you don't understand what you're seeing here, don't feel like the Lone Ranger.  I didn't get it at first either.  Later became obvious.  It's not what you are seeing that's important, it's what you aren't seeing.  You aren't seeing a scrolling display that says "Detroit" with the flight number on it.  Instead you're seeing an advertisement for Delta Airlines.  Why?  Why is a valid question and I do know that answer.  There is no flight information being displayed because they haven't opened for the morning yet.  

And now I look up and I see I'm surrounded by people wearing teal tee-shirts.  I guess I have time to hear that story after all.

* * * * *

P.S.  It turns out that I had even more time than I thought.  When Delta finally opened for business, our flight was delayed.  After the delay, the flight was canceled.  (Apparently our assigned aircraft had been struck by lightning and damaged as it landed in Charlotte the night before.  Why this was not discovered until fifteen minutes prior to our boarding is beyond me.)

                                                * * * * *


For the curious ~ the story of the folks in teal:

The wearers of the teal tee-shirts are a friendly bunch of seventeen volunteers (varying in age from teens to grandparents) from Morning Star Lutheran Church in Matthews, N.C.  These happy people are affiliated with Pray America and their destination is Chichicastenego, Guatemala where the group will be building shelter for widows and their children.

A few of the Lutheran volunteers headed for Guatemala

This is not their first rodeo.  Morning Star Lutherans have made similar trips for six years now and one of those years they even went twice.  (They can build a dwelling in two-and-a-half hours.  Seems to me their crew would make great Habitat for Humanity volunteers, too...)

This group, and countless others like them, is just another in a long list of reasons to be ("robe" according to Autocorrect) proud to be an American.
And I am.  (Grateful, too.)  I've gotta say though, I'm not that crazy about Autocorrect.

The Tomato

Today, I am a happy woman.  Very happy.

Simple pleasures tickle me and today I just ate my favorite summer lunch:  a fresh tomato with cucumber slices.  Yum!

What's special about this tomato is that it's homegrown.  From my garden to my mouth in under five minutes, and that includes peeling and slicing the cucumber as well.  (A big thanks to Mr. Clif for sharing his homegrown cukes, by the way.)  I love, love, love fresh produce and this is as fresh as it gets. 

It's a minor miracle that I have a tomato to harvest.  First, I live in deep woods and little sunshine filters through.  Second, we have a large deer population that is defoliating plants down to the stems right now.  But not my tomatoes.    

This spring our friends Jack and Shirley were visiting from the East Coast.  Shirl and I like to get the guys involved in a project so that we can converse in peace.  This trip, she conceived window boxes that would sit on the ledge of our driveway instead of below a window.  The guys got right to work.  By the time the weekend was over, I had had fun talking with my friend PLUS had three lovely flower boxes AND the guys got to feel productive.  Win, win, win as I see it.

The driveway boxes were perfect!  I chose to paint them purple (and by "paint them purple" I mean I chose to have Jerry paint them purple.)  Jerry baulked. He said the color I picked was "garish."  Garish means obtrusively bright and showy; lurid.  It's synonyms are: gaudy, showy, loud, glaring, flashy.  Lurid means ghastly.  I know; I looked it up.  Clearly Jerry wasn't complimenting my taste.  Undaunted by this negativity, I persisted.  Unbeknownst to him, I had already watered down my color choice at the paint counter and I was adamant.     

"When Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy."  Jerry understands this folk wisdom at a gut level.  We have, after all, been married for decades so he's had plenty of first-hand experience in picking his battles.  Wisely, he relented and painted the boxes.  

In the center of every box of flowers I planted a tomato.  Imagine my surprise when they actually flowered?  I was beside myself with joy when fruit appeared and giddy with delight when I beheld the first streaks of pink!  I almost picked all the tomatoes at this stage as a strategic move to foil the deer, so certain was I that they would share my sentiments and chomp down all ten tomatoes before I could even taste one.  

Pictures lie.  The flower boxes are not really this garish color.

Apparently deer either don't like tomatoes or they, too, think the planters are garish because they've left them totally alone while at the same time demolishing the bulk of my peach crop which was growing mere feet away.  (They left two tiny peaches.  Why?  Is there something wrong with them or were the deer being polite?  Who answers these types of questions?)

Lunch was everything I imagined.  You just can't duplicate the taste of a freshly picked tomato, warm and juicy.

Today I am a very happy woman, indeed.  Oh, and Jerry says the color is "growing on him."

                       *  *  *  *  *  *                                         

P.S.  If you happen to have seen the boxes and actually liked the color, you are encouraged to post a comment.  Hint, hint.

Plenty

When I picked up a new prescription, I noticed on the side of the bottle is a neon yellow label that says, "WARNING:  This medication should be taken with with PLENTY of WATER."  The words "plenty" and "water" are in bold print and are capitalized.  Clearly, this information is IMPORTANT!  

Proof that I don't make this stuff up!

While I'm grateful for the eye-catching caution, I am left wondering how much water I need to drink with my little pink pills.  How much, exactly, is plenty?  Doesn't the very word seem out of place on a medicine bottle?  It's airy-fairy instead of precise and measurable. Come on, guys!  Couldn't we be a wee bit more specific here?  

My husband's beverage of choice is sweet tea and his consumption of it is legendary.  He has been known to drink endless gigantic glasses with lunch, then ask for a "to-go" cup for the road.  He drinks plenty.  By virtue of contrast, I'm never thirsty. I order water, drink a sip or two and I'm done.  I've had plenty.  

Sixty-four ounces then, or two?  Your guess is as good as mine.  

The Wedding

Satan's Mistress (aka my yoga instructor Mary Ann) married Jason the Giant Friday and the wedding was fabulous! FABULOUS!!!!!!!!  

Why?  Because the bride and groom had the foresight to rent a photo booth to entertain the masses during lulls in the action.  Since I knew a total of three other guests, it was easy for me to corral them all into the booth before they really even realized what was happening.  Sadly, the pictures had kind of a "deer in the headlights" look to them and I just knew we could do better.

I'm an overachiever and that boring, normal, sub-par photo strip just didn't sit well with me.  How to spice things up?  Hmmm... Immediately after we received our photo strip, the woman who'd been behind us in line emerged from the photo booth with a little red feather on her shoulder.  Hey!  There were props in there that we hadn't noticed.  Jackpot!

I was only able to convince two of the original three ladies to get back in line with me for a "do over."  We piled back into the photo booth, this time grabbing boas, hats and a mask.  We were much happier with our photo strip results this time.  We were so happy, in fact, that we began arguing about who got to keep it.  Never the shy one, I asked the photo booth attendant (yes, that appears to be a legitimate job opportunity) if he could make us copies.  He said no, but we could go back in again.  Since he gave us official permission, it was a done deal.  

Luckily, there was now only a short line.  The other adults were off doing whatever ~ listening to toasts, watching the bride and groom cut the cake ~ something along those lines.  There were few kids in attendance so nobody was really competing with us for booth time.  

By now, we were feeling like silver fox models. This time as we were squeezing in, Mary grabbed an adorable flamingo hat and plopped it on her head, Diane donned sunglasses and I grabbed the best prop of all: a tall, attractive man that none of us knew.  I threw a purple boa on him just as the flashing commenced.  At first he was stunned and looked bit confused but soon we were all laughing so hard that the first set of pictures we took were pretty goofy.  We just stayed in the booth, laughing even harder.  We took a second, then a third set of pictures.

And that's how we met Srini, Mary Ann's boot camp buddy and a genuine good sport.  I'm pretty sure that during the ensuing conversation I invited myself to visit his parents in India and I'm certain he volunteered to teach me (and a few of my closest friends) how to cook authentic Indian food.  If that doesn't have potential for a future post, what does?  

Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Rickman!!

PS  Your cake was delicious.  I ate two-and-a-half pieces of it while no one was looking.  Was that wrong?    

Metamorphosis

Wednesday night we were coming back from a trip to Georgia when we drove into a ferocious thunderstorm.  By the time it let up we were getting pretty hungry so we stopped in Greenville.  As we got out of the car, the air felt crisp, clean, cool.

Greenville is a charming city and we were strolling through it looking into the windows of artsy little shops and deciding which restaurant we wanted to try.  The longer we walked, the cooler the breeze seemed.  Finally, I remarked to Jerry that I was chilly and wished I had a sweater.

He replied.......

                         .....wait for it......

                                                      ......"It's 81 degrees out."


Slap me on the back and call me Bertha!  My transformation is complete - I'm a Southern Girl now, y'all.

Can you see goosebumps?

Blood Pressure Rising

You know how you find a doctor that you really, really like and then she moves away?  That happened to me.  My doc told me I could follow her to her new practice, but it was in a different city and I'm just not a gifted driver.  Plus, I'm basically lazy.  

Everything changed when Suzy got bitten by a baby copperhead.  (For you snake non-phobics, the babies are the most dangerous so this was the scariest.)
    
When I saw Suzy on Memorial Day, her foot was deep purple and swollen.  We got to talking about doctors - specifically how much she liked hers - and it was then I realized that I was willing to make that drive after all.  The icing on the cake was that Suzy sees that same delightful doctor that I used to see.  So it was settled.  I called the next day and made an appointment.

The receptionist scheduled my visit for two days later at 8:00 am.  I was so excited to get in so fast that I ignored the warning sirens going off in my head.  Anyone who knows me is aware of my aversion to morning.  Because I tend to get lost easily, I would have to allow plenty of driving time, then add more for school buses.  That meant getting up during the dead of (my) night.

Two days later I dragged myself out of bed and threw myself into my vehicle. I plugged the address into my GPS.  Nothing happened.  I put in the zip code.  Nothing.  Apparently this city doesn't exist in the real world.  

Suzy had given me vague directions on how to get to the office.  I regretted only half-listening to her now but I did have the address and plenty of time, so I decided to just go.  Clarity, as it turns out, isn't one of the things I excel at when I'm sleep deprived.  A map would have been nice, too.

Weirdly, I made it to the city without incident and I even found the highway.  What I couldn't find was the 7000 block.  The numbering went from 8000 to 6000.  I was mystified.  I drove in the other direction long enough to satisfy myself that it went away from town.  Back in the right neighborhood, I kept driving slowly up and down this same stretch of busy highway, like I was Nancy Drew, girl detective, searching for a hidden driveway or some secret clue.  

After way too many passes as well as a bit of horn-honking from the impolite drivers all around me, I decided to pull off the road and call the office.  Nobody answered.  Then it clicked.  It wasn't eight o'clock yet.  I was the first appointment.  Ain't nobody gonna be answering those phones.  

I drove up and down the highway again a couple more times and then I got the inspired idea to wander down the road a bit further, even though it defies logic. (I was sleepy, not stupid.  My logical brain was functioning perfectly well, thank you very much.)  Sure enough, I stumbled onto the office.  This may be the only city in America where the blocks are numbered 8000, 6,000, 5,000 THEN 7,000.  Kudos to them!  I admire creativity wherever it is.  Frankly, I was just shocked to find it in the numeric system.  Life is full of surprises!  

I was ten minutes late.  The driving itself was stressful and the knowledge I was late added to my tension.  After I was ushered in, the first thing the nurse did was take my blood pressure with this fancy machine.  It was 138 over God- knows-what.  I was so freaked out about the 138 that I couldn't focus.  I asked the nurse to recheck it and she took it with her stethoscope so it would be more accurate.  The top number was now 130.   This was much, much higher than normal for me and I was obsessing that I might get diagnosed with hypertension.  

My doctor visit went well.  It was definitely worth the effort to get there.  As we were wrapping up our talk, my dear doc decided to give me a shingles vaccine and then she hugged me goodbye. (I love this woman!)  

I asked the nurse if she'd take my b/p again.  She said yes, she'd do it right before she gave me the shot.  I am one big bag of phobias stacked on top of another and perhaps a blood pressure reading right before a shot isn't the best timing, but I was willing to take that chance.  

The nurse left the room for about ten minutes and I took advantage of that time by doing a relaxation meditation.  I went on a quick trip to the beach.  When we both returned to the room, my blood pressure was 114/70. Yahoo!  

I got the vaccine.  They did not, however, give me a sucker.

AND there's even some exciting news from my doctor visit:  When the nurse measured my height, I was a half-an-inch taller than on my last visit.  If I keep growing at this pace, in a mere ten years my weight will finally be a perfect match for my height.

                                              *    *     *

P.S. Snakebite Suzy's much improved and grateful that she didn't need to get the anti-venom shot.  It cost six thousand dollars.  That's almost more frightening to me than the snakebite itself!  Almost.  

While You Were Sleeping

Dear Mom,

I know it was just a little catnap, but I thought you might like to know what we did while you were sleeping...

I tried on your hat.

The baby tried a crayon.

Then...

                                        I tried on your shoes.
     
                           The baby tried a roll of toilet paper.

I finger painted with a paintbrush.  

The baby ate the paint!

I told Grandma I loved her.

The baby threw up on her. (No picture available.)

I'm glad you're finally up because Grammy and the baby fell asleep on the couch.

Love,

Your son (the future ice-climber)

P.S.  Did I mention the baby can crawl up the stairs now?

Simple Gifts

My favorite Mother's Day gift has to be the one my baby brother gave my mom when he was about four.  The nine-year-old me didn't "get it" at the time.  It took me decades (and having my own kids) before I truly understood the beauty of his simple gift.

That year Dad decided that Billy was big enough to pick a gift out for Mom all by himself.  Billy was excited at the prospect of a shopping trip were he could actually do the choosing.  He came back smiling from ear to ear.  He was wild with delight, truly thrilled with his purchase.  

"Mommy is gonna love this!" he told me.  "She can use it for so many things in so many ways!"  he enthused.

Mom always had a cup of coffee in her hand!

I was super curious about what this perfect gift was but he wasn't giving even the tiniest of hints.  I had to wait just like mom but, he assured me, it was great. When the day came and Billy offered our mother his gift, he just beamed.  

My mother was charmed by the gift and told the story for the rest of her life.
Billy had given Mom a present that he'd chosen himself...

...a ball of string.

Chocolate-Covered Strawberries

It's local strawberry season in South Carolina, one of my favorite times of the year.  As soon as I saw the strawberry sign by the side of the road, I whipped my car into the parking lot of the Peach Stand, went in and came out with a couple of quarts of tasty goodness.

At home, I decided to guild the lily by dipping some of the luscious berries into dark chocolate.  We were having a friend over for dinner and I thought that would be a yummy ending to a homemade meal. 

The chocolate I'd melted covered more berries than I needed and I knew if I didn't do something, I'd eat them all on the spot.  Instead I took a plate to my neighbor's house.  His granddaughter was visiting and I knew she loves berries as much as I do.  Together the two of them wolfed down the chocolate-covered fruit in no time.  Strawberry juice was running down their smiling faces.

That night dessert was a big hit at my house too.  When the meal was over not a trace of chocolate remained.  Or so I thought...

That evening as I was brushing my teeth, I saw my reflection in the mirror and got that same queasy feeling of awkward embarrassment that usually washes over me when I realize I've been talking all day with broccoli stuck between my teeth.  (Why does no one ever tell me?) 

My elbow was covered with dipping chocolate.

Classy.

In the Heat of the Moment

We were fast asleep in a motel somewhere between Charleston and Savannah when we were awakened by this frightening, loud blast of noise that didn't stop.    Even though our minds were fogged with sleep, we knew it was the fire alarm.

Here's where I'm supposed to say we rushed out of our room to safety outside.  However, that's not exactly how it happened.  It was more like everything we've ever known about fire safety got tangled up in the cobwebs of our sleepiness and we were unable to access it.  Mentally we went from being educated individuals to functioning like kindergarten dropouts.  

We all know that the first thing anyone is supposed to do in a fire is feel the door for heat.  That seems easy enough.  You'd think I'd at least get that part right.  And you'd be wrong. No, I whipped the door open, stuck my head out, looked down the hallway and didn't see flames or smell smoke.  

Next I put my shoes on, grabbed stray clothes, stuffed them in my suitcase, grabbed hanging clothes out of the closet, got toiletries, phone, computer, power cords, books, magazines....by now my arms are pretty full.  As I was exiting the room, I dropped the dental floss.  I kid you not, I bent over and picked it up.  That's right - I potentially risked my life for a partially used roll of dental floss that retails new for ninety-seven cents.  Wow.  That was monster dumb.

I am embarrassed of my behavior.  It was totally the wrong way to act in a crisis.  And where was my husband while I was scooping things up?

He was busy getting dressed.

Not that Bad

We were out in the yard this weekend planting when I was bitten on the neck by a vampire bat - or maybe a just an obese mosquito with the appetite of a vampire bat ~ it could have been either.  The results are the same:  I have a giant red welt the size of a hickory nut on my neck. It itches and it's ugly.

Speaking of ugly, let's talk some more about my current haircut.  Ever since I wrote about my recent salon experience, I've been running into friends who look at me and say, "Your hair doesn't look that bad."  While I appreciate "not looking that bad," it really isn't what any girl hopes to hear when others comment upon her appearance.

Jer read that post too.  He came home, looked at my hair and said, "Did you really get a haircut?" to which I replied, "Yes."

"Oh.  I thought you just quit styling it."

Charming.

The good news was that I go to a place with a customer appreciation program.  That is correct.  My ugly haircut was free.  At least it has that going for it.

T.V. Wars, Chapter Thirteen

 It's been a long, hard struggle but we are about to determine, once and for all, the winner of The Zimmerman Game of Wiley Wit and Cunning -- Ultimate Television Edition.

 

 

We'd been living in opposing camps on the television issue since before the first Bush administration.  Then, in January 2012, Jerry toted our only set to the Goodwill. I was thrilled!  I thought he'd finally "seen the light."

Deuce.

Then my February birthday rolled around.

Ad Out.

I've been looking for the perfect spot to put that flat screen TV that Jerry got me ever since.

 

Deuce.

 

Today, I found it.

 

Ad In.

Game. Set. Match.

By Popular Demand

Let's review...

Tuesday I wrote a blog about the worst haircut in my life and what do my friends and family ALL DO?  They ask to see a picture!  I'm not talking about just one or two random people here, I mean my sisters, my neighbors, my closest friends; people that I care about and who I thought cared about me.  Have I spent my entire life surrounded by a bunch of sadists? 

...and am I so masochistic that I'm going to actually post a picture?  Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am.  No surprises there.  Anything for a laugh.  People, this is a bad haircut.  It deserves to be laughed at.  No one understands that at a gut level better than do I. Okay, so here it is - the picture you've all been waiting for.  The feather on my left side should be on the back of some large, brownish bird not on anyone's head.

Yes, I am wearing a ski cap.  The original photo was in color but I had to change it to black-and-white so you wouldn't be distracted by my flushed cheeks.  It's 76 degrees in the house and I am wearing a winter hat that should, by rights, be in my Norwegian sister-in-law's closet not in mine.  I think I actually bought it for Jerry as a joke.  And now, the joke's on me!  Literally.

My humiliation is complete.  Satisfied, everyone?

The Goth Girl & Me

The tattooed Goth girl came at me with a pair of scissors.  She grabbed a fist full of my hair, then went for a razor and hacked at it. I felt tugging and could hear the sound of hair being ripped away from my head.  It was sickening, like a bird of prey attacking me. 

I kept unusually quiet - I didn't want to antagonize the girl holding the weapon.
"How many haircuts do you do in a day?" I finally ventured.

"Up to thirty-five." she responded.  "You have thick hair." 

("Had" I thought.)

"I put a lot of layers in it so it will lay nice."

When she was finished, she whipped off the black cape and was clearly proud of herself.  After I put my glasses on she looked at me again.  Then she put the cape back on and whacked at my hair some more.  Finally satisfied, she let me escape.  I thanked her (I did mention that she was holding a razor, right?) and as I got out of the chair, glanced at myself in her mirror.

Where I once had hair, I now have feathers.  Lots of them.