Road Trip, Part II

On my way to Michigan I stopped in Cleveland for a quick visit with my daughter Kate.  That girl can talk me into anything which is why my hair is now so short.  Does losing weight by getting a haircut count?


When the visit was over, Katie wrote out the directions to Detroit by hand.  She packed me little bags of sweets and treats to eat on the way and gave me a short pep talk.  Even though I had eaten the chocolate before the car rolled out of her parking lot, I still had carrots to munch on and felt pampered.


Much of the trip from Cleveland to Detroit is on the I-80 turnpike, a fast, stress-free drive.  As night fell though, I  realized two things.  First, I couldn't read the directions.  Second, Kate had sent me on I-696, the Michigan Autobahn -- zoom
zoom.  On both sides of me millions of vehicles with twinkling headlights were hurling through space at speeds that rocked the light fantastic.

My lane was different though.  We were traveling at a much more sensible speed -- at least those cars lucky enough to be in the lane behind me.  I know I was significantly improving their driving experience by allowing them that rare opportunity to relax and unwind because every time I looked in the rear view mirror, the line behind me was longer.  Clearly they were grateful. What a satisfying feeling!

Okay, right -- in my dreams.   Actually people were driving like there had been a nuclear explosion behind them and this was the sole route to safety.  Anyone behind me, the lone driver on the entire expressway driving the speed limit (a tooth rattling 70 mph), rapidly changed lanes and probably even flipped me the finger as they passed, but all I saw was a blur.   

So relieved was I to reach my exit alive that it didn't much matter to me that I tarnished my sterling driving reputation by calling my daughter Jessica six times for directions.  In the end, I only had to make one u-turn at one of those strange intersections with that peculiar sign that says, "drivers turning left stay right." That defies logic but somehow it all works out.  I eased my car into the driveway just in time to kiss my grandson goodnight.

So far, the worst thing that has happened to me on this trip is that I've been forced to pump my gas myself.  Most of it has even ended up in the tank.

It's all good.

What's in a Name?

Some neighbors objected to my categorizing the early morning animal I saw in our neighborhood as a rat. They said it was "an opossum." They also call cockroaches "palmetto bugs."

Road Trip, Part I

After mulling the idea over in my mind, I decided to embark on my very first cross-country road trip, driving from South Carolina to Michigan to attend my high school class reunion.   The unveiling of my plan was met with a dull thud.  Nobody except me was at all enchanted by it.  

Everyone in my family knows I don't like to drive and always avoid it whenever possible so, frankly, they all thought this idea was to ridiculous to even entertain.  At first, they tried to talk me out of it.  Then, Jerry actually offered to drive me up himself and just turn around and fly back.  That idea really added to my feelings of self-confidence and competence.

Their truly impressive lack of faith in my abilities fueled my desire to make the trip.  It was like the ultimate double dog dare! While it is true that during my first driver's ed class I drove on a sidewalk for about a third of a block, I did somehow pass the driver's test on my sixteenth birthday and I have held a valid license ever since.  The decision had been made and was is final.

Having thrown caution to the wind and abandoned all good sense and judgment,  I was so excited I couldn't sleep. Instead of leaving at 6:00 am like I'd planned, I left at 3:01, probably not my smartest move.  The first thing I saw as I turned my first corner was what some people might indelicately call a rat, but I prefer to think of as a bunny with a long, hairless tail. I've never seen a rat in the wild before (if you can call my neighborhood "the wild") and it seemed like a bad omen.

My first leg of the journey would be an easy eight hour trip from Charlotte to Cleveland, a straight shot up I-77.  I'm legendary for being a pokey driver, so I decided that this time would be different.  I would use cruise control and program it exactly for the speed limit.  The first hour flew by.  I checked the odometer.  51.6 miles.  I had expected it to be 60 miles so I was a little let down by that.  I rationalized that getting onto the highway was the slowdown.  I would make up for it the rest of the way.

An hour later I stopped at a rest stop.  It was still the dead of the night but the parking lot was full of cars. Nobody was walking around though.  That spooked me.  All the rest stop horror stories I've ever heard flooded into my mind.  I got nervous about getting out of the car.  As time ticked by, I became more nervous about not getting out of the car.  About the time I was getting desperate, another woman showed up, so I zoomed into the bathroom right behind her.  That rest stop break set me back about fifteen minutes. 

Forty-five minutes later, I was getting drowsy.  The more I thought about it, the sleepier I got so I stopped yet again at a rest stop and took a little cat nap that lasted a smidgen over three hours.  When I woke up, I decided that it was the same as if I'd have left at six am.  As an added plus, my snooze had served to break the trip up, so there wasn't so much ahead of me.  Since nobody really knew what time I had left,  I could still wow them by arriving early.  Then I hit Fancy Gap.  And fog.  Driving through the clouds is exciting!  (And slow.) 

After fog came rain, buckets and buckets of rain.  Other drivers stopped by the side of the road, but Mario Zimmerman pressed on and into sunny weather. 

The rest was an easy drive.  I rolled into my daughter's driveway just in time for supper.  Trip time: slightly under fourteen hours.

Take a bow, Chris.  You did it.  TA-DA!!

Three kids, three preschool stories.

Three kids, three preschool stories.  Art Linkletter was right.  Kids say (and do) the darndest things.

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

Josh had just been in pre-school a few days when I received the kind of phone call no parent wants to get.  The gal at the other end of the phone was so frazzled she could barely speak.

     "Mrs. Zimmerman, I am so sorry!"

     "What's wrong?"

     "I'm just so, so sorry!"

     "Is Josh okay?"

     "This happened so fast, I couldn't stop it!"

     By now, I am a total, complete wreck.  "Is my son okay?" I yelled into the phone.

     "Yes, yes.  But when we sat down to have lunch, before I could get him his peanut butter sandwich, he grabbed the hot dog that belonged to the kid sitting next to him AND ATE THE WHOLE THING!"

Yes, I'm a vegetarian.  No, my son isn't - a choice he clearly made in preschool.

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

I went inside to drop Jessica off at preschool and she was invited to sit in the circle.  She sat down next to a boy with a horrible runny nose.  Green stuff was pouring down his face.  We've all seen it.  It's gross.

The next day, same exact scenario.

The third day, same.

That evening Jessica said to me, "I don't want to sit next to that germy kid tomorrow."

I lit up!  Clearly my little three-year-old was a genius! I had suspected as much, and now here was the confirmation I needed.  Face it, how many kids talk about germs when they're three?  I bragged that night, oh how I bragged!  Told the husband, called the grannies, casually mentioned it to friends and neighbors.  I was on cloud nine.  My daughter, a future Madame Curie!

Next morning as I drop my smart and lovely daughter off at preschool, the germy kid and his mom are behind us.  Mom kisses her son and says, "Have a great day, Jeremy!"


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

Our house had a den off to the side of the dining room and tucked away on the inside wall of that room was a fish tank that contained Goldie, world's greatest goldfish.  You couldn't see the tank from the dining room, you actually had to step into the den to see it.  On this morning, I did just that and discovered my three-year-old Katie in her pink blanket sleepers, teetering on top of a box, placed upon a chair.  Her right hand was plunged up to her armpit in the water.

     "What are you doing?"  I asked.

     "Sshhh....I'm fishing and I almost got one!"  She replied.


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

The Doctor's Appointment

Monday I had a doctor's appointment in Rock Hill, an easy thirty minute drive from here.  I left the house with an hour to spare and drove in light traffic to the medical building next to the hospital without the aid of a GPS or Map Quest.  Normally this kind of wild spontaneous adventure is difficult for me but this time there was celestial intervention in the form of blue signs with large H's on them accompanied by arrows pointing the way for me.  I took the scenic route, but arrived with time to spare.  As a bonus, I found a spot to park that was in total shade - the only one in the entire lot. Clearly this was my lucky day!


The waiting room was not even half full when I got there and signed in. The receptionist was humming and smiling, obviously in a good mood.  Things were going better than usual for me, so well in fact that I was spooked.  I began to hear the theme from "The Twilight Zone" in my head.  Why were things going so well?  It was like I had stepped into someone else's life.  Perhaps the life of the woman who actually had the appointment this afternoon?  It was about this time that the receptionist broke the news to me that my appointment was scheduled for tomorrow. 


The question then became, do I calmly sit in the waiting room for 24 hours and 20 minutes or simply go home?  I chose option B, go home.


On the way home, I decided to treat myself to a cherry amaretto ice cream cone at Sayago's in Baxter Village.  When I got there I was able to pull directly into a parallel parking spot right in front of the store.  Maybe it really was my lucky day! ...Or not.  Because the doors were both locked when I tried them and then I noticed the "Closed Mondays" sign painted on their window.  I heaved a sigh of relief.  I was back living my own life again.

Teeth Revisited

A few weeks ago, I was horrified to realize that I am not supposed to swallow toothpaste.  Well, teeth are on my mind again today.

I am among the select few who really enjoy going to the dentist.  I love the feeling of having clean teeth, like stars are twinkling from my mouth.  (I remember when dental floss first became available my best friend's family bought it but we did not.  I hung around her house a lot and sometimes I would sneak into her mom's bathroom and use the floss!)  Occasionally I think about getting my teeth whitened, but some people who do that seem to have blue teeth and I don't want to be that old lady with blue hair AND blue teeth. 

Some kids I've known have been truly resistant to brushing their pearly whites.  One, in particular, springs to mind.  (She will remain nameless but she knows who she is.)  She hated brushing her teeth so much that she'd actually try to fake her mother out by squeezing a little toothpaste into her mouth so that if Mom smelled her breath, it would have that minty fresh odor.  She would always flunk the visual portion of the inspection though and get sent back to the bathroom for a second go-round.  Incredibly, occasionally she would still try to avoid the odious task and the entire scenario would unfold exactly like the first.  It was amusing to watch this battle of wills and the more often we witnessed it, the funner it got.  The time and effort it took to pretend to brush was well beyond what actually doing it would demand.  You have to admire that kind of dogged determination. (My own dear daughter was a member of the furry-tooth club well into her pre-teen years but I am happy to report that at this writing her oral hygiene is impeccible.)

This summer our community has had several boil-water advisories.  I've received multiple automated phone calls saying to "boil water five minutes before using it for drinking or cooking" until further notice.  A day or so later, I will receive an all clear phone call.  This morning I went to the website to pay my bill and found an "all clear" message on the home page.  The problem was, I had not received a "boil water" call so I didn't know the water was not potable. 

So now you see why I'm thinking about teeth.  Not only do I have to worry about swallowing the toothpaste, now I have to worry about swallowing the rinse water.  Maybe I owe an apology to those kids who stubbornly refused to brush their teeth.

Spiders, gnats and things

We like to think of our homes as secure, but they're not.  Every morning our window sills are covered with dead insects that were lured inside by the light of the previous evening.  They're little gnat-like things that seem to have an extremely short life cycle.

Last night I went into my bedroom to hang clean clothes in the closet and there on the door was a quarter sized spider.  How did he get in?  Who knows?  My disposition of most anything that creeps or crawls is the same.  I cover it with a glass, slide a thick piece of paper under it, take the intruder outside and let it go.  My karma ought to be pretty clear on the 'killing insects' front.  Not spotless, but pretty clear.

This particular spider was a jumper and was frantically jumping all around in the glass while I was carrying him to freedom.  It reminded me of a baby wolf spider which reminded me of my favorite spider story.

This story is a family classic.  It occurred roughly thirty years ago when my baby sister was paying us her annual summer visit.  At the time, my husband, son and I lived in a teeny tiny rustic cabin in the woods of Indiana.  There weren't any spare bedrooms but there was a loft with a large picture window and a beautiful view of the woods.  This is where my sister wanted to sleep.

The first night she was there we had a powerful thunderstorm, the kind where lightening strikes light up the room and before they fade there are loud bangs of thunder that put your nerves on edge.  A bolt of lightening hit nearby, followed by a bloodcurdling scream.  "Are you afraid to sleep up in the loft because of the storm?" I hollered up to my sis.

"No." she replied.  "I am afraid to sleep in the loft because there is a tarantula on the window."

I'm not sure but I think Jerry squished it.

Spell check vs Chris

Last night my friend Lee was over and we got to talking about my blog when she mentioned that I spelled 'judgment' wrong.  Her husband was mortified that she mentioned it but I was on cloud nine because, of course, it meant she actually read my stories! 


After the initial glow wore off, I got a little upset with myself.  I fancy myself a good speller generally, but everybody has a word or two that trips them up.  Or seven, in my case.  Spell check is available to everyone with just the touch of a key.  Spelling bloopers are inexcusable.  Inexcusible?  I'd better check...

I'm a bit obsessive so when I went back to correct my initial error, I had to check all of my posts.  In addition to the aforementioned judgment, I'd also misspelled raucous, tutorial, accommodate and reticence.  I totally omitted the 'w' in which in one place and made massive compound words where, according to the electronic genius housed within my computer, there were none.  Gameplan, carseats, WalMart, cablebox, houseguest, stairtreads all are two words.  They don't even have hyphens.
 

There were also a couple of words where I'd added an extra letter.  Necesssary, Beginnnings, hmmmmm...  How many 'm's are in 'hmmmm?'


There were a few questionable corrections.  I think 'hottie' is right and who really knows how to spell 'doozy?'  I stick by my guns on those.


Spell check wasn't 100% accurate either.  Everyone knows what 'tv' means.  'Unbeknownst' may be antiquated, but it remains an entry in dictionary.com and I'm fairly certain my husband spells his nickname 'Jer.'  My favorite spell check error was 'colonoscopy.'  The suggested spelling was 'cloudscape.'  Pretty much everybody reading would prefer cloudscape to colonoscopy! Spell check also has a big problem with possessives.  'The patient's' gets changed to 'the patients' and it picks that type of construction as wrong every time.
  

I'll admit I've been arrogant in not checking my stories more thoroughly.  But spell check isn't perfect, either.  Spell check: 16  Chris:  7.


And, Lee, spell check didn't pick up 'judgement' as being misspelled either.  Guess you are gonna have to read all my future blogs for me -- just to be sure.

The Near Death Experience

Near death experiences have always fascinated me and I have read pretty much every book I could find on the subject through the years.  My mother had such an occurrence during the birth of my younger brother.  She said she found herself walking up a staircase toward bright light and when she realized what was going on, she just sat down and wouldn’t move. Around her angry people were urging her forward.  She said, “Not without my baby!” and refused to budge.  In a flash, she was back in the delivery room and later found out that her heart had stopped during the birthing process.

On her deathbed years later, Mom told me that her parents – and angels – were in the room with her.  That knowledge gave me great comfort during the saddest time of my life. 

Jerry has always tolerated my interest in this subject but never participated in it.  That was about to change.  After years of fighting the idea, he finally succumbed to family pressure and scheduled himself for his first colonoscopy.  When the test was finished and he was in recovery, they called me back into the recovery area.  The nurse told me to try to wake him up and then she left the room.  Alone with my husband, I tried to rouse him.  His coloring was horrible.  He looked sort of ashen and he would not wake up.  It seemed a little nap could only improve his physical situation, so my attempts at waking him became more and more lackluster.

Suddenly he half-opened his eyes and said, “They were all around me in the operating room.”

“Who?”  Now I couldn’t wake him up fast enough!

 “There were thirteen of them…..”  He was still in a stupor.

“Did you know anybody?”

He was fading in and out of consciousness.  “No….don’t think so…..”

Long pause.

“There…..were women….thirteen….Brenda, Sheila…”  he trailed off.  “Jennifer and Marie….”

“Were they trying to tell you anything?”   By now, I’m so excited.  It’s driving me crazy that I can’t carry on my line of questioning because of his inability to focus.

“I…don’t ….no….no...Brenda, Sheila….”

“Were your parents there with you?”

“No…just Brenda, Sheila….”

Right then the discharge nurse walks in and says, “Oh, good.  You’re awake.”  Then she looks at me and says, “Yeah.  Your husband was captivated by how many people it took to perform this procedure today.  They were introducing themselves to him when he drifted off.  Altogether, there were thirteen of them.” 

“Brenda, Sheila, Jennifer, Marie…”

So much for my glimpse beyond the veil.

Win, win

After reading my last post, my daughters asked me to make a few clarifications.  Malibu Barbie wants you to know that she never dresses me.  Indian Princess Barbie says you will know if she's dressed me by whether I look good or not.  If I do, she did.  If not, then not.


Princess has a point.  Today, for example, I am wearing a (formerly) white tee shirt that my son-in-law intended for Goodwill and a pair of striped men's boxer shorts that at one time belonged to Malibu Barbie's boss.  I'm ashamed to admit that this is not even a low in wardrobe choices;  sometimes they are actually worse.  I know this because I have been looking at old photographs.  Talk about masochism!


I realized I've pretty much spent a lifetime looking frumpy, dowdy and generally wearing clothes that frankly weren't all that flattering.  Then I remembered:  I made a pact with myself when Princess was born that I wouldn't buy anything new until I got down to my pre-pregnancy weight.  My reasoning, I dimly recall, was along the lines of motivational. The thought was that I would inspire myself to lose those last few pounds faster. 


Well that was a dumb, dumb idea! Daughter is pushing twenty-three and I recently lost almost enough to get down to my highest weight during that pregnancy. About now would be a perfect time to admit defeat.  I could justify an entire new wardrobe with just that single sentence, one that will make me look like the hottie that is trapped inside me.  Except now I don't want anyone to see my wrinkly chest, my bat-wings or my chicken neck. 


So what I'm saying here is that I'm going to let vanity prohibit me from wearing more stylish clothes?  Isn't that the very same trap I set for myself originally?  Apparently these last few decades have taught me nothing. 
 
So, thank God Indian Princess got old enough to take charge of the situation!  Tomorrow she will be arriving for a week's visit.  She will probably take one look at me and drag me off shopping.  We will go directly from the airport to the mall.


She will get to do what she likes best (shopping) and I will get to do what I like best (spending time with her!)  So it's win, win. 


Ain't life grand? 

My suspicions have been confirmed.

I just read an interesting article on my facebook feed that confirms what I've always known.  The gist of this scientific piece was that studies show that daughters do not dress like their mothers. (Duh...did we, the people, pay for this study?) Interestingly though, they say that mothers who feel their daughters have fashion sense take cues for their own style of dress from their girls.  In other words, daughters don't dress like their mothers but mothers dress like their daughters.


So there you have it.  I'm being dressed by Barbie.

A story of skill, not stupidity

Those of you who know my husband Jerry know he’s gifted in so many ways.  He rarely loses things, can fix anything and if he’s driven anywhere once, he can find it again without the aid of a map or GPS. 

Yesterday after we finished kayaking and he’d carried both kayaks to the car alone, hoisted them onto the roof and securely strapped them on, he hopped into the car with me and he turned the key in the ignition but nothing happened.  He tried repeatedly but the car did not start.  I asked if we needed a jump but he said no, the electrical system was working. 


It is at this point that I would have had a meltdown.  Not Jerry.  Nope!  He didn’t panic, start crying or even shout swearwords, he just looked at his owner’s manual, pressed a button on the floor in front of my feet and off we went.  By the time we’d arrived home, he’d mulled over why the car refused to start, realized he’d gotten his key wet, used his air compressor to dry it and, voila!  Problem solved. 


This story isn’t about yesterday though, it’s about today.  This morning we had to take our niece to the airport and be there before six.  Being night owls by nature, we got everything ready last night.  We even printed out her boarding passes and took her through a dry-run of security.  When we were finished, we knew she could deal with removing her computer from her stuffed suitcase, putting her baggie of liquids in the bin, taking off her shoes and so on and so on, amen.  We got into our car at twenty to six and were off.
 

Traffic was light and we arrived without issues.  Usually we drop our departing guests off at the front, kiss them goodbye and expect them to fend for themselves once they walk through the airport doors.  This time however, because our niece is the tender age of thirteen, Jer decided to park in the parking garage so we could walk her in and see her safely through security.

As we approached the garage entrance, we saw the customary sign that says “Clearance 7 feet 4 inches.”  We didn’t think a thing about it until we felt a thunk and heard this loud crunching noise.  Jer, the most alert one of the three of us, instantly realized his error.  The kayaks were still on top of the car and they’d started the height bar swinging above us.  They began scraping as we moved toward the garage.  I panicked.  Thank GOD I wasn’t driving by myself because who knows what I might have done?  We were clearly committed to driving forward and forward only.  Although there was no one behind us, there was no exit lane and nowhere to turn around.  Our car was situated in what amounted to a single-lane driveway with concrete walls on either side.  I panicked again!  I jumped out of the car, grabbed the niece and we took off through the parking garage.  Jerry was left to his own devices.   

 

The girls had our own little adventure.  I have zero sense of direction and when we got to the door marked “exit” and went through it, we were in a stairwell where we could only go down.  I was beginning to feel like Alice in Wonderland.  Intuitively, I knew that going down was not a good choice yet there we were, so down we went. 

Now in the lower level of the parking structure, we aimed for another exit while I tried to keep my cool so as not to upset the traveler.  She had enough on her mind; we didn’t need to add fear to the mix.  We walked across the garage and went into another stairwell and were able to walk up four flights of stairs to an exit above.  Then it was only a matter of figuring out where the airport access was and walking into the terminal, which we did without incident.

 

By the time we got inside, Jerry was already there.  Apparently I married the star student of the 1969 Mt. Healthy High School Driver’s Ed class!  He had driven backwards through traffic until he got out of the lane to enter the parking garage, was then able to turn the car around and park it in an open lot.

 

He said it was a story in skill, not stupidity.  I’m sort of sorry I missed seeing that exhibition of driving prowess but at the same time no policemen did either, and for that I’m quite delighted.

Red Hot Mamas!!

It's over a hundred degrees outside today and that is hot in anybody's book.  When you open up the front door, you feel like you are stepping into an oven.  It's the third day in a row we've been under a heat advisory. 

Here's a little reality check:  It is July and I am in South Carolina.  What, exactly, did I expect July to be like here?   To be honest, all of the buildings I visit and all of the cars I ride in have air conditioning.  That's a big reason to be grateful and I am. 


Yesterday I had the bad judgment to take my niece to play croquet at eleven in the morning.  When we got back home an hour later, she threw up.  She doesn't tolerate heat well -- fortunately (for her) she lives in Michigan and their brutally hot season is short.
 
Unfortunately (for me) she has a facebook account and so the entire thirteen-year-old population of America knows of my error in judgment.  She didn't even bother to mention that her team won. 

Croquet is played on a field and a field, by definition, is devoid of trees.  That should have been my first clue.  This is a big problem for shade-loving mammals (in this case me and my niece.  Good grammar dictates that I should write "my niece and me" but I am flaunting convention and sticking with my choice of "me and my niece" - it's my story after all.  If you want hers, just look on facebook.) 

Today we are staying inside and eating ice cream for lunch.  Not with lunch, as lunch.

This I know

I never quite "got" E=MC² (or how to make a flat chocolate chip cookie) but here are a few things I did discover:

If I hold a baby over my head, I will get spit-up in my face.

No matter how cute the clothes are that I buy for my daughters, they won't like them.

If I am in a hurry to leave the house, I won't be able to find my car keys, my shoes, or my car keys and my shoes.

No one can accurately predict the weather.

If I wash the windows, it will rain - even if there's been a drought for months. (See above.)

If the new house has a swimming pool, you will feed all the kids in the neighborhood lunch every single day for the whole summer.

No one drops by to visit when the house is clean.

It is possible to have acne and wrinkles at the same time.

Although it takes months for me to lose five pounds, I can gain it back virtually overnight.

I always feel better the minute I step into my doctor's office.

Once we get in the car, my husband won't want to stop FOR ANY REASON until we get to our destination.Even if we only get invited out one evening a season, we will receive three invitations for that very night.

Kids think of handwriting as an irritating font that's difficult to read.

As soon as I put the last item into my grocery cart, everyone in the entire store will swarm to the check-out lanes.

If I have computer problems, any elementary school child can fix them.If I get a manicure this morning, I will end up gardening this afternoon.

Cashiers at gas stations don't like you to pay with change.This is by no means the sum total of my knowledge, but I didn't acquire any of it at school. I'm not saying that learning to use a slide rule wasn't important, I'm merely stating that it would have been nice to learn to balance the checkbook somewhere in that educational process.

If a cute guy smiles at me, I probably have broccoli stuck in my teeth.

A mystery flower

I'm not a coffee drinker but I just love the smell, so sometimes I brew a pot and just enjoy the aroma.  This goes against my frugal nature, so when the coffee is cold I toss it out onto a scraggly bush in my front yard.  The only reason this bush is alive today is that my inherent laziness has prohibited me from garnering the enthusiasm necessary to dig it up.


Imagine my surprise when the pitiful thing bloomed!  And, thrill upon thrill, the scent was heavenly.  Clueless as I am about native southern plants, I plucked a flower and asked a green thumbed friend to ID it.


"That's a gardenia," she said.  "I've been trying to grow one for about ten years now.  They're acid loving plants and very finicky."


Serendipity.  I love it.

Veiled threat?

"Mom," said my son the doctor, "did you know that it only takes one doctor and one judge to have a person committed?"  "And," he continued with an evil smile, "the judge never, ever overrides the doctor's opinion."


Hmmmm.......

Toothpaste

We found ourselves at a motel without toothpaste, so I called the front desk and they gave me a couple of foil pouches of Colgate.


The back of the pouch was gray and the small text was written in gray as well, making it virtually invisible but there was a dearth of reading material and it is well known that I am a glutton for punishment. That is how I stumbled across these horrifying words: "If more than used for brushing is accidentally swallowed, get medical help or contact a Poison Control Center right away."


I had trouble digesting that statement. My first thought was my doctor's reaction when I called and said I'd accidentally swallowed some toothpaste. Now most of you are aware that our son's a doctor and this is exactly the type of question I call and ask him. Anyone who knows him can pretty accurately imagine his response. Heck, most of you who don't know him can probably do that. It doesn't even take a vivid imagination to be dead-on accurate on this one. Fact is, even I am unwilling to dial his home phone to ask this question and I have strict orders on when I am allowed to call his cell. This query does not fall within those parameters.


That leaves me with calling Poison Control. Calling Poison Control because I've swallowed toothpaste seems a little extreme. When my youngest was little, I had a personal relationship with the helpful people at poison control and I know them to be tolerant and kind. I can't help but think that even they might have trouble stifling a laugh at this one though. I am, however, a world class worrier, and I am able to leap that chasm like a ballerina and twirl right into:


Who determines what a normal amount of toothpaste per brushing is? What if I've been using it like frosting on my toothbrush? Is that too much? What exactly is the amount that would cause me to fall into the "more than used for brushing" arena? Maybe I should call Poison Control and just ask for guidance on this issue - or maybe there's a tutorial on youtube? Is there a place you can buy individual toothpaste servings - kind of like a weight watchers for teeth?


I began thinking about the implications of poisoning myself with toothpaste. I am disinclined to want to put something into my mouth that can't be swallowed. It just seems downright wrong. I mean I saw that made-for-tv movie in the '70s starring Sally Struthers where she was in a plane crash in Alaska and survived by eating toothpaste and melting snow. What kind of toothpaste was that? That's the brand I want....the one that I could eat in a pinch, survive, and - as an added plus - have minty fresh breath to boot.


There's truly something disturbing about the idea that toothpaste shouldn't be swallowed. Truly. Disturbing.

I'm just askin'...

When your husband "accidentally" wakes you up hours before a civilized time while searching for his missing car keys and says "he's trying hard not to be mad" (at you), would you ever think to check for them in the pants pocket of a house guest?


I'm just askin'...

Adventures in moving

For the last year we have been living in the land of sugary sweet tea while all our household goods resided in maple syrup country.  This past weekend was the appointed time change that equation and, to add to the fun, we threw in moving our youngest from a basement apartment to third-floor living quarters. 

For years Jer has refused help from all but his closest friend (thanks, Jack) and stoically carried refrigerators and the like alone up countless flights of stairs on his back.  Lately he's been re-thinking this and now wants a small army of strapping lads to assist.  Most guys would be happy to accommodate our gorgeous daughter if she merely asked them, but she appears to have inherited his gene for reticence. She found one guy - one guy - to help. 

We got up early, early and rolled into the area at 10ish.  We had time for a quick stop in Hudson and then planned to go to Mantua to check out our house which we hadn't visited since last Thanksgiving and assess how much packing there was to do and develop a game plan for tomorrow's agenda.  Then Jer was going to drop me back in Hudson at so I could go to lunch with friends while he picked up the rental truck and got the lease and the keys to the new apartment.  We were going to start the move around three, giving Kate (who works nights) time to sleep.  I hadn't even stepped through the door yet when Kate called and said, "Don't be mad but John has to be at work at 4:00."

Mad wouldn't be an adequate description.  My husband morphed into a flaming ball of fury before my very eyes.  Thoughts of dragging a couch up three floors while I obediently followed with a cushion played in the film room of his mind, causing him to become unhinged.  "Get in the car!" he yelled, desperation in his voice.  "I haven't gone inside yet."  "We don't have time!  GET IN THE CAR!"  Now was NOT the time to remind him that I'd made plans to meet my gal pals in Hudson for lunch.  Nope.  I rode off to Kent to start the move.

Is now the time to mention that we lived in Kent for six months when we began our home project in Mantua?  We lived in the basement of a friend's condo which was within easy walking distance to the apartment that Kate was vacating.  This neighborhood had literally once been my backyard.

If you tell me a story about your third-cousin once removed, I will remember it for decades but I can go into a building, come back out and I won't remember which way I came from.  I compensate for this lack by paying strict attention to where I am, especially if I plan to do any serious navigation. Sadly, on this day, I was totally distracted both by the prevailing mood of the day as well as by texting my friends to apologize for missing lunch.  Therefore, I did not notice that we passed Katie's street before we got to the truck rental establishment.   Turns out I would be driving the Jermobile behind Jerry while he drove the rental.  Jer's mood did not improve when was issued a got a rickety van and trailer to drive cross-country but he was hellbent in getting Kate's heavy stuff moved by 3:45 p.m, so he took the keys, told me to follow him and zoomed off.  A man on a mission cannot be distracted.

About two blocks down, Jer turns into an auto parts store and I, who was in the wrong lane to follow him, wondered what's wrong with his vehicle as I pull in and turn around in the grocery store parking lot.  Of course I got stuck at a red light, but I never saw him go past me so I went back to check on him. By this time he wasn't in the auto parts place  either.  I cruised up and down this stretch of road a couple of time but he never came out.  Finally I decided that he knew where Kate lives, we'll meet up there.  And then I drive.  And drive.  And drive. 

When I got to the intersection of I-90, which I knew went directly to Hudson I realized that I was traveling in the wrong direction.   Now I realize that Jer made a wrong turn with his big rig, immediately realized it, turned around in the auto place while I was turning around in the grocery store lot.  He'd already left before the red light changed.  Jer rarely makes a wrong turn, so of course I made the assumption that I was traveling in the right direction. 

I realized my mistake but I was dreading arriving because now I'd piddled around being lost in what was once my own backyard for a good half an hour and, you might recall, my husband was in a foul humor before we'd even started this particular project.

When I got there, Jerry was happy as a pig in slop.  Katie had opened her basement window and was handing items out it and the yard was swarming with guys who lift weights for fun.  It no longer mattered what time we finished.  Later Katie asked me why I hadn't just taken her car and gone to Hudson.  I just didn't think of it.

What's enough?

Now that I'm "retired" from active mothering, occasionally I regret not having a career.  Or even a job.  It's not that I wouldn't enjoy being gainfully employed, it's simply that no one has called and graciously invited me to walk through their door and enter the working world.


Yesterday as I was starting my morning walk, I stopped to help my neighbor put some stair treads in his truck.  We got to talking about what's wrong with government, why we don't have cable tv, how we still don't know what we want to be when we grow up and wound up discussing ways to make a positive impact on our children.


As I was walking away, the thought struck me:  Could it be possible that I'm right where I'm meant to be, doing what I'm supposed to be doing? 


Maybe helping your neighbor really is enough. 

Springtime in the South

It's springtime in the south, the most beautiful time of the year here. 

Twelve months as southern transplants is drawing to a close.  Only the devil himself could have loved our first sizzling summer that stretched well into October.  We weathered the "worst winter we've ever had" if we are to believe the locals.*  But guess what?  Spring arrives in FEBRUARY!  After almost a year, I've finally found a time I love living south of the Mason Dixon line! 

(*Fall was a blur, a surprise to experience next year perhaps.  I went to Michigan to greet our first grandbaby and stayed five weeks.  When I left, it was summer.  When I got back, it was winter.  Go figure.)

Blossoms arrived before March did. Forsythia and Camilla bushes are blooming. The Bradford pear blossoms here rival Washington D.C.'s cherry trees.  Happy daffodils smile at me when I walk by them. A gentle breeze is blowing and it's in the sixties, the perfect temperature for a beautiful, sunny day.  

 Family and friends we left behind in the Great White North are clamoring to come visit.  It's been icy and snowing heavily for the last couple of weeks up there.  Meanwhile, I'm walking in the sunshine without wearing a sweater. 

Yeah, springtime in the south is spectacular.  Y'all.

I'm in LOVE!!

We met, of all places, at my brother-in-law's visitation.  I noticed him the minute I stepped through the funeral home door.  He was sitting quietly in the back of the room, wearing a crisp pair of khaki chinos and a colorful shirt with a button down collar.  A nice look, if you can pull it off - and he could, yes indeed, he could.


I was drawn to him, immediately wanting to make a beeline in his direction but circumstances intervened and I could not.  There was much to do and say to so many people!  Later when I glanced in his direction, he was gone.  Disappoint swept over me.  I had heard about him for years and now, my first opportunity to actually meet him had slipped through my fingers.  He was gone. 


My nephew wandered over holding a soft drink and mentioned that there was a small room at the back of the hallway with beverages in it.  Suddenly I realized I was parched and excused myself.  As I stepped inside the room, there he was, sipping on a diet Pepsi.  Because his frame did not include an extra cell of fat, I wondered aloud, "Why diet?"  "Like the taste" he replied.


The ice was broken and we began a casual, easy conversation.  He began to talk about his friends, his hopes, his dreams and his fear of being abducted by aliens.  I was spellbound.  Here before me was that elusive male that all females dream of - one that will actually talk.  He clearly had far more expertise in physics than I did, but he never once talked down to me.  He gently and patiently explained every concept in words that I could understand, answering my every question as it arose.  The conversation was fascinating!  Time flew by.


My nephew strolled in, glanced our way, came over and asked him if he could do an errand.  Before the entire sentence was complete, he had exited the room, willing to do anything to ease my nephew's pain.  "I was trying to rescue you, Aunt Chris" he explained.  "I'm afraid he can be a bit of a nerd."  Uh oh!  I realized people were noticing how engrossed we were in earnest conversation.  I went back to the visitation room and sank down in a chair in the back.  Soon, he slipped into the chair next to me and we picked up right where we left off, without missing a beat.


After the visitation, our group went to dinner at a nearby Asian buffet.  I ended up seated between my husband and my newly widowed sister-in-law.  He was at the other end of the table, happily surrounded by children.  There would be no further opportunity to talk.  As I walked behind his chair to get to the salad bar, he turned and quietly said, "I tried to sit by you, but couldn't make it happen." 


I had a warm glow in my heart the rest of the evening.  The attraction was clearly mutual!  After the meal ended and we left, I thought about the wonderful gift that this stranger had given me:  the opportunity to see the world through the eyes of a fifth-grade boy.


Thank you, Nathaniel.

When Hell Freezes Over

Dad is a colorful man and nowhere is that more apparent than in his speech.  "When Hell freezes over" was one of his favorite sayings when I was growing up.  I just hope he remembers telling me that because...


As everyone knows, I now live east of Hell in a place that is so hot in the summer that sweat, like tears, will pour down your face as you sit in air conditioning doing nothing more strenuous than, well, sitting.  Imagine my surprise last Saturday evening when it started to snow, snow and snow! A day later we had six inches on the ground.  Then it happened.  Snow turned to rain, then as temperatures dropped, freezing rain hit the snow-covered ground. 


Voila!  Hell (and everywhere north, south, east and west of it) has frozen over.  The trees look like they are straight out of a Currier and Ives print and the ground crunches as you walk.  It's truly beautiful.  Treacherous, but beautiful.


...I am so excited!  When will my pony be arriving?

Looking into the Eyes of the Angels

On October 20th, 2010, at exactly 10:55 p.m., the most beautiful baby in the history of humankind was born and I was there to witness it.  Seeing that baby enter this world was so incredible that it defies description.  For once in my life, I was at a loss for words.  My midwife buddy said it perfectly. "Now you understand why I have the best job on the planet." And she does. 

For five and a half weeks I stayed with that baby.  He cast his spell over me, until I was totally enchanted!  Time stopped and the world revolved around his pleasures and needs. That was okay by me.  I wanted to stay even longer - say, perhaps until he left for college?

My daughter and son-in-law were exceedingly gracious and the time flew as we all watched the baby grow and change.  He went from the sleepy infant to being the wide-eyed baby.  Now every day we Skype so Grampy and I can gaze at him lovingly and see his new tricks.  It makes us all feel like, although we are separated by the miles, we are still a part of his life.  That matters to us more than we ever could have imagined.

Next week he will be making his first airplane ride, coming to Granny's for Christmas.  (Of course Gramps lives here too and we will vie for holding time with each other and with Auntie Kate.  I've been plotting my strategy now for weeks and am confident I will win!) 

What they say about being a grandparent is true.  It is joy beyond description.

Merry Christmas!!

Laundry night from Hell

Yesterday was Halloween and here's the scariest story I know:  going to the laundromat.

Okay, so millions of people probably do this every single week, but I have been married with washer for many, many years.  Imagine my surprise to walk into the laundromat in 2010 and find that to wash a load costs as much as four giant Hershey bars.  I don't mean the check-out size guys either. I mean the JUMBO ones like you get at Christmas IF Santa smiles upon you.

I have been washing our clothes at a coin laundry for a half a year now.  When I add up the quarters I have fed the machines, I figure I could have bought and paid for a cheap washing machine on clearance about now, especially when you factor in the entire large load of clothing that got ruined when I washed them in a machine that either was leaking oil or had just had a bunch of oily rags washed in it.  Big splotches of oil appeared on every single shirt and pair of pants in that load of "darks" which included a substantial portion of my husband's work clothes.  Oops!

Now comes the scary story.  "It was a dark and stormy night...."  Actually it was Sunday evening around eight o'clock when we decided to throw our stuff into the back of the car and make a quick trip to wash our clothes.  The laundromat closes at ten, so we were cutting it short but we calculated we had about thirty minutes to spare.  As we roared off, we realized that we had forgotten our soap and only had a ten dollar bill, another bad omen.  We should have thrown in the towel right then but we didn't.  After careful consideration, we decided we had just enough money to purchase a couple of those teeny tiny detergent boxes that they sell in the vending machines on the premises and to wash and dry our clothes.

The laundromat was having a sale!  Wow!!  Ever heard of that?  In my mind I could hear quarters falling like in old-time Las Vegas.  Wait a minute.  I really did hear coins falling like in a slot machine.  It was the sound of the coin changer giving us ten dollar's worth of quarters. That was the only fun part of the entire experience.  It always makes me feel like I hit the jackpot!  Of course I always count the quarters to be sure that the machine didn't cheat me.  I have no clue what I might do if it did but I still count the quarters every single time.  So far, so good.

The small load washers were only a buck.  If you add a quarter you can get a second rinse, which is a good thing in my mind, especially when using public washing machines.  The soap dispensers are over my head, so Jerry bought the dry soap and filled up the compartments, put in the quarters and hit the "extra rinse" button.  Soon, we were lulled into a (false) sense of security by the swish, swish, swishing of the water.

Weirdly, we were the only ones in the entire laundromat, except for the Mexican gal who was casually cleaning out the machines and waiting to close the place.  Soon, I glanced over and wondered why there were no suds in the water.  Jerry checked and realized that not only had he put the soap in the dispenser meant for softener, but he had pushed the "extra wash" button instead of the "extra rinse" one.  This meant that we would watch our clothes wash twice without any soap and then see suds in the rinse cycle.

It was at this point that it dawned upon us that our laundromat trip was cursed!  Nothing could be done....we were going to need to re-wash the clothes.  Sigh.  After the first cycle was done, we realized that the soap in the rinse cycle compartment had not all dissolved which meant that, unless we intervened, the entire show that we had just watched would repeat itself. 

So that is how we get to the part of the story where Jerry is disassembling the laundromat dispensers, trying to wash the soap out during the actual wash cycle.  Thank God the gal who worked there was in the back watching Univision!  I kept going into the unisex bathroom (that's another story) and bringing out massive amounts of paper towels.  She could see me from where she sat, but obviously wasn't curious enough to investigate.  Spanish prime time TV can be pretty racy.  Maybe she just couldn't tear herself away.  It was just as well.  She probably wouldn't have taken kindly to seeing all the plastic parts of the dispenser laying on top of the machine.  Truthfully, it didn't do that much for me either.

Now, we are in a serious time crunch.  It's 9:45 and at last our clothes are in their final spin but the place closes at 10:00 and that's not enough time to dry the loads.  We grab our clothes and, as we go to put them in the dryer, the gal appears and indicates that the end dryers are the hottest.  She urges us to use them and so we do.

Meanwhile, I can hear her talking on the phone.  My high school Spanish is kind of rusty, but I understand she is telling someone over and over again that we are using "the hot dryers."  Obviously there is someone waiting for her who is not so pleased that we are just starting to dry our clothes fifteen minutes prior to closing.  She keeps telling us it's no problem, but we know it is.  So at the stroke of ten, we grab our damp clothes out of the dryers, pile them in the back of the car and drive off in search of a twenty-four hour laundromat.

When we finally find one, we go in and throw our damp clothes in the dryer and Jerry starts to feed the machines quarters.  We realize that we probably don't have enough money left to dry the loads totally, because of the fiasco at the last place.  We decide that when we run out of money, we will take the laundry home and if it's still damp, we will drape it all around the bathroom. Turns out we must have chosen the hot dryers here too, because our clothes dried rapidly.  We folded them, threw them into their baskets and rushed off. 

We make it home just before 11:00.  If I had had my wits about me, I could have pressed Jerry to buy us our own washer and dryer at this juncture.  I'm pretty sure he would have seriously considered buying at least one of the banged up models in the center aisle at the local Lowes.  

Timing, as they say, is everything.

Another Disaster in the Name of Environmentalism

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever..." ~ John Keats

...Or for one week, if you live at our house. 

Jerry had spent two weeks and more than a couple trips to the big box stores assembling his project, a replacement mailbox.  He primed the box and painted it a bright blue.  He put gold numbers on the front, then decided red would look better so he made the switch.  He took a 1976 Michigan bicentennial license plate and affixed it artfully to one side. 

He searched high and low for the perfect post and couldn't find one shaped just right. He explored the option of crafting his own.  Many of his specialty tools are still back at our Ohio home, so eventually he discarded that idea and eventually found a suitable post at the fourth (or fifth) store he tried.  He primed it then coated it three times with cherry red latex.  The color was a perfect match with the red on the license plate.  He put large reflective numbers down the side.  It couldn't have looked better.

Finally, it was time to erect his masterpiece.  He consulted the U.S. Postal website for the exact height they require.  He then dug a deep hole with the post hole digger.  (This was no easy feat in the land of the kiln-ready red clay.)  Jerry mixed and poured concrete and I helped him hold the post "just so".   

The concrete had set nicely by Monday.  Another job completed by my handy husband!  There was even a functional little flag for outgoing mail that our former bashed-up box did not possess. It was the Cadillac of mailboxes, a thing to be admired.  And so it was.

Neighbors noticed and were quite complimentary.  Jerry glowed with the pride that cometh with the knowledge of a job well done.  People immediately started using it as a landmark.  "Go past the Michigan mailbox....."
 
On Wednesday, Jerry decided to add a little hanging sign, indicating where our house is located in case we ever order pizza or, God forbid, need an ambulance.  Now it was perfect!
 
On Friday the recycling truck accidentally grabbed our mailbox instead of the container sitting next to it and snapped it like a toothpick.  I'm told the driver got out of his truck, and "cursed".  

I discovered the mailbox lying on its side on the lawn when I went to get the mail.  At first I was confused.  It briefly crossed my mind that perhaps a rabid Ohio State fan had rammed into it.  Then it dawned on me what had happened.
 
I called the recycling company on the spot to report the murder of our beautiful mailbox.  I feared they would give me a hard time but actually they couldn't have been kinder.  They said they would build and paint an exact copy of our mailbox and nobody would ever know it wasn't the original. 
 
They, of course, are wrong.  I will know and so will Jerry.


 

The Answer

And the answer is….

Thirty-nine.


The question:

How many golf balls did my husband find in our woods after reading yesterday's post?

Sneaking around in the woods

I was sitting at my desk looking out the window when I saw a neighbor from the top of the hill scurrying down into the woods that surround our house. He was dressed in blue jeans, a blue hoodie and he had a white plastic bag in his hand. I couldn't see what he was doing, but he was moving rapidly, bending down every so often and putting something in his bag.

I was about to call out when the thought occurred to me that I don't really know him all that well and perhaps he was harvesting a crop of weed that he had planted in the spring. I have read about people doing that in National Forests. Who would notice here?

Did I really want him to know that I was observing him? I decided to just keep quiet. (I did wonder why he wasn't wearing camos though. They seem like a better choice if you are going to engage in risky business. Women really do think differently than men do, don't they?)

He ran around in the woods for fifteen to twenty minutes and then, like a Cullen, he vanished as mysteriously as he had arrived.

Later that evening I was walking with a mutual friend and entertaining her with this very story. At the exact moment she was belly laughing, whom should appear but Mr. Woods Walker himself? "Hey, Doug," she said, "Chris was wondering if you were harvesting pot in the woods this afternoon?"

"One hundred and seventy-seven." He replied cryptically. Then, before I could ask any questions, he was gone once again.

One hundred and seventy-seven? My mind rushed. "Should I rush home, pack a quick bag and get out of town?" I thought. Overactive imagination? Guilty!

On the other side of the woods, there is a golf course. He had picked up one hundred seventy-seven golf balls.

Lunch at home

Yesterday the rain gently fell. It's been a long time since this has happened here. The earth was parched and fissures large enough for a toddler to drive his big wheels into began appearing. The rain was definitely welcome. At least before lunch.

My husband is the kind of guy who doesn't brown bag his lunch. I'm not saying he won't, just that we've been married over thirty years and he hasn't yet. This last move from OH to SC, we bought a house so close to his office that if traffic is light and he eats fast, he can come home for lunch. Not only is this a cost effective measure (as I see it), it has the added benefit of better nutrition as well and no one is arguing about that. It's just a fact and we both know it. It's pleasant too and kind of breaks up the day for us both. He's not able to come home every day, but he does when he can and yesterday he did.

I have no idea what we ate, which seems odd since it was only twenty-four hours ago. I do know we were eating watermelon when we heard the first loud boom. Boom! Bang, bang, bang. A limb from a tree fell, not remarkable in itself since we live in the woods, but worthy of note because it fell on Jerry's car. We didn't see this but we heard it and knew at a glance what had happened. The limb wasn't large - the diameter was about the size of a lady's forearm but it did a lot of damage. The point of impact is unclear, but the roof is smashed in, the windshield shattered and the hood and the side panel over the wheel are all dented pretty badly.

A tree limb altered how I spent my afternoon. Instead of doing laundry, I called my insurance agent, filed an insurance claim, talked with an auto glass repair shop, conversed with our assigned insurance adjuster and made an appointment with an auto body shop. I was assured that this claim wouldn't significantly raise our insurance rates, since we haven't had other claims with this company and they consider this an act of God. I prefer to think of it as an act of Mother Nature rather than God. In my mind, God isn't spending lunch hour throwing branches at cars, but, of course, I cannot be certain.

Today (instead of doing the laundry) I spent the morning at the auto body shop getting an estimate. This shop has insurance people on staff, so my claim was expedited and I now know that the repairs for the vehicle will run $2,005.00, which means the insurance company and the Zimmermans will split the bill almost 50/50 because we have $1,000.00 deductible.

While the gentleman was appraising the damage, he point out to me that the car had sustained significant hail damage somewhere along the way as well. There are tiny dings everywhere. He said that these can be fixed using some paintless procedure but that it will probably cost in excess of $2,500.00 and it is a separate claim, thus necessitating another $1,000.00 expenditure on our part and, of course, if we file another claim so soon, it will raise our premiums.

I'm not quite sure what I am going to do with this new-found knowledge on hail damage to my husband's car. He hasn't noticed these dings himself yet. Jer's pretty fond of his vehicles and I think if he knew, it might drive him nuts. Nuts!! That reminds me! The adjuster said the damage might be caused by nuts falling out of trees and bouncing off the car. If that's the case and we get the car fixed before all the nuts fall....

How many lunches could a person buy for two thousand dollars? Maybe it's not so cost effective to serve lunch here at home after all.

Phantom Phone Calls

Late last night my husband and I were sitting at the table talking when his phone rang. He looked down to see who was calling him and it was.....me. Unbeknownst to me, my phone had called him from my front pocket. We were both kinda surprised because we knew he wasn't even the last phone number that I had dialed from that phone. How did this happen?

To place a call on my fancy phone, I have to touch a button to turn the screen on, slide my finger across the screen to unlock it, press the phone icon and then either dial a phone number, push a button to see recently dialed calls and choose one or scroll through my phone book. It just amazes me that even with all these safeguards, I still am able to accidentally automatically call random people and not even know it. Once - and I swear this is true - it was nearly midnight when my phone that was sitting on my nightstand just dialed a friend. I could hear it ring from the bed. I picked the phone up just in time to hear her answer in her sleepy voice. I panicked and hung up on her. How stupid was that? All cells have caller id. I had to call her back, explain and apologize.

As uncomfortable it is to make these types of calls, it's even worse to receive them. The moral dilemma is how long do I listen before I hang up? Anyone who has ever met me knows I am in love with the spoken word but to be an unknown presence privy to a private conversation creeps me out. I have a powerful whistle, but even whistling at top volume won't alert the speaker to my hidden involvement in the conversation. The only thing to do is to hang up and do it fast. And yet....

Our son called in the middle of the afternoon (that alone should have been a tip off). When I said "hello" I heard what I thought was him finishing up a conversation to somebody else before focusing his attention on me. While I waited, I half listened to his voice and eventually I realized that he was talking to a couple of residents about a patient's diagnosis. It was kind of like an episode of ER and I was mesmerized. Still, I waited patiently to hear why he'd called me until it finally dawned upon me that he had "butt dialed" me. It was "take your mother to work day" and he didn't even know it! 

I hung up and called him back. He didn't answer of course.  He was at work.

Focus

August is turning into September and the first cool breeze since I moved to the Cay in South Carolina is blowing. I opened all the windows to smell the fresh air and immediately I heard raucous birds calling to each other, crickets chirping, the buzzing waves of cicadas and the hum of some industrial strength mowing machine on the golf course which lies on the other side of our woods. It's amazing how loud it is inside my house! I have never had the pleasure of open windows here before because with the summer (that some say is the hottest they remember) came oppressive heat, humidity and air conditioning. As a rule, I am not crazy about air conditioning but rules are made to be broken. Even I can see its charm when summer heat is at its most brutal.

What a wonderful way to start the day! Open windows, gentle breezes, nature sounds. As I sat down to type, I heard some twigs snapping in the backyard. Maybe somebody is back there! I have a fertile imagination and so already I am mentally calling 9-1-1. About this time, I realized that I didn't know where my cell phone was which could impede my ability to make the aforementioned call, should I truly deem it necessary.

There's a lot to be said for land lines. One of their best features is that they are always in the same place and you know right where that place is. (Unless you buy a cordless model and then you'd have the same drama that I was facing.) We don't have a land line, so I was faced with the chore of finding my cell.

I went into the bedroom to search for my phone, realized that my bed wasn't made, grabbed a corner of the top sheet, yanked it halfway up the bed when I heard a "thunk" outside the window. I dropped what I was doing and looked out. There is a nut tree behind the house - I don't recognize what kind it is. The nuts look sort of like hickory only a little larger but they are not pecans. Anyway, nuts are dropping off the tree onto the deck below and making loud noises. Also there is a squirrel in the tree running up and down the trunk, probably looking to score a few of those nuts. That explains the noise. In thinking about the noise, I realized that I was supposed to be searching for my cell phone, so I turn around, left the bed unmade and started looking anew.

The first thing my eyes fell upon was some laundry, so I started picking that up. Then I remembered the cell phone and wandered off into the bathroom where I found more laundry, but no phone. Then I meandered into the guest bathroom to pick up the towel and put it with the other laundry.

I went to the basement bathroom, grabbed the towels and walked to the laundry room where I deposited all the laundry in the hamper. I then check out the new paint job in the lower level bedroom. I decided I really like the color we chose, felt satisfaction, basked in its glow, came back upstairs where I heard something outside again. I went back to the bedroom, realized I was hearing rain on the leaves, turned away from the window, saw the unmade bed, walked around to the other side, pulled the sheet up to the top, then remembered I was supposed to be looking for my cell phone. Next I went to the living room where I saw yesterday's paper on the sofa, so I gathered it up and took it to the recycling basket in the basement.

Back upstairs, I remembered I was searching for my cell phone, and I had been downstairs twice but neglected to check for it. I went downstairs for the third time and this time I actually looked around but saw no cell. Once more I came upstairs, looked in the bedroom yet again, still didn't find the phone but did notice that the bed wasn't made so I stopped and made it.

When I walked into the kitchen I saw my cell phone sitting directly behind the computer screen. I heaved a sigh of relief. I am no longer worried about a possible break-in, have found my phone and (added bonus) I have made the bed, taken the newspaper to be recycled and picked up the laundry. I settled in to type, put my fingers on the home row keys and realized that sometime during the massive search for my phone, I took my glasses off and don't know where I laid them down.

It is now noon.