We have a neighborhood Halloween party tonight and Jerry has selfishly declared that he is going to be Glinda the Good Witch yet again.
This story starts the summer three years ago on a Saturday morning. I love to go saling (yard saling) and that is where I found THE DRESS. I stumbled across this fabulous costume at a school fundraising sale and it was priced to sell, too. I was sooooo excited! All little girls dream of being beautiful princesses, don't they? I certainly did and still do, so a pink dress made of thousands of yards of tulle with silver sparkles and puffy sleeves really spoke to me. The tag inside said "one size fits all" and that clinched it for me. I bought my prize and brought it home.
The thrill was short-lived because when I tried on Glinda's gown, I couldn't zip it all the way. Now this brought up a disturbing question. If "one size" truly "fits all" then where does that leave me? I will be the first to admit that I could use to lose a few pounds, but I've never shopped at the big girls' shops, either. Truth is, I consider myself mildly overweight, not morbidly obese. Clearly the Chinese factory worker didn't agree - and compared to her I probably am pretty danged big - but this outfit had English writing on the tag, so obviously it was meant for an American audience. The dress was about a foot too long for me so I know it wasn't made for a child either.
Halloween rolled around. Our daughter Jessica and her new husband Brent came to help pass out candy. I dressed Brent up as a flashy pimp. He wore a bright red vest with sequins and a huge blue hat with an ostrich feather. He wasn't too enthused about getting dressed up but after he saw how cool he looked, he kind of got into it. I made Jessica "his girl" with a mink stole and a long sexy gown. Since I couldn't wear my outfit because it wouldn't zip, I wore my default costume, Little Red Riding Hood holding the basket full of candy. It's cute but been there, done that. We were scrounging around for something for Jerry to wear when I had one of those light bulb moments. He could put on Glinda's outfit and I'd sew the back shut for him. That is exactly what I did, so I only have myself to blame.
It was about then that the fun started. When he got outside, our neighbor saw him and brought over a blond wig and a sash like Miss America wears. His costume was the hit of the evening. Everyone commented on it, several moms got their picture taken with him and he was having a blast getting all the attention. Red riding hood, the pimp and his girl could have been invisible for all that anybody noticed us.
Some of the littlest kids wouldn't even come up our sidewalk to get candy because the sight of Glinda/Jerry so disturbed them. One little girl said, "Mommy, why is that man dressed like a lady?" She replied, "It's Halloween, honey. You can be whoever you want to be on Halloween!"
I'm all for moments in the sun and we certainly got our money's worth out of that outfit, wringing out every ounce of fun we could. Everyone enjoyed that Halloween and the pictures I took of Jerry as Glinda have surfaced all over facebook and even popped up as part of a presentation his boss did at work. When people see them, they laugh.
The problem is this: I have lost ten pounds this year and now I can actually wear THE DRESS myself and zip it up. This is a big deal for me so I feel I should get to be Glinda. Jerry claims squatter's rights though and his trump card is that nobody in our new town has seen him in this costume yet.
One of us has to be the big man here and, in all honesty, he does look charming dressed in pink tulle. Who could resist him? He can wear the outfit one more time and I'll try not to begrudge him his fun. He doesn't know it yet but I have even borrowed a wig, found a pink tiara (with marabou) and gotten a glittery silver wand for him to carry. He will be the hit of the party, that's a given.
As for me, I toyed with going as a munchkin - I've got that shortness thing going for me - but then I found myself the coolest witches' hat ever, made with velvet and feathers so I'm going as Elphaba (better known as the Wicked Witch of the West.) As an added bonus, I have a wand that shoots blue lasers around the room so I will be able to cast real spells. As a final plus, everyone knows that dressing totally in black is slimming.
Happy Halloween.
Time does fly and our beautiful grandson Brody celebrated his first birthday last week. I have been lucky to spend so much time with him during this year and two weeks ago he came to visit, bringing his mom and lots of baby paraphernalia with him. What a joy to have him here! We're all crazy in love with him.
He's got three little teeth now, pulls up on things, stands alone briefly, is clearly thinking about stepping out on his own but for now seems content to crawl like he's in the Army - rapidly and with purpose. He also has a great personality, smiles a lot and laughs with abandon when he finds something funny which is often.
His Grampy taught him to crawl up the stairs and as soon as he learned this trick he spent a lot of time going up and being carried down. They both genuinely seemed to enjoy this activity and neither his mom nor I objected because it kept them busy for rather large chunks of time.
The next day Grampy had to go to work and Brody started to crawl toward the staircase, stopped and looked to be sure that I was following him then went up one stair to the landing, turned and looked at me again and waited. I had not started up behind him yet so he was sitting level to my face. Just for a second, the most impish, mischievous expression crossed his face then he smiled his angelic smile and leaned over to me.
I swear in that moment while waiting for a kiss from my first grandchild, I thought he was absolutely perfect in every way. Then, he leaned in further and.....
.....bit my cheek.
That cheek chomping hurt but I couldn't stop myself from laughing even though my daughter scolded me that it was an inappropriate response. Men! You can never truly know what they are thinking and that goes for cute little one-year-old men-in-training, too.
Happy Birthday, Brody!
Jerry was telling our friend Mary Ann about how strict his mom was when he was little. I'd heard this all before - how he got up every single Saturday and helped clean the entire house, not just pick up clutter but do real cleaning like dusting, vacuuming and stuff involving soapy water. He used to squirm into his bed dressed in his next-day's school clothes and try not to roll over in the night so his clothes would stay unwrinkled and his bed would always stay made. This got me to thinking.....hmmm.....maybe I could use some of this early childhood training to my advantage.
We've been married thirty-some years and Jer's been darned good carrying his load (and then some) around the house. He can fix anything, cheerfully does, can cook, do laundry, vacuum and loves to play with kids, too. We never established a regimented ritual like his mother had during his youth though. My bad.
Last Wednesday I remedied this oversight by make lists. I made myself one and anything that I didn't want to do I put on a list for him. I will admit I was kind of goofing around; I never intended to do anything with these lists. They were still fun to write though.
My list: pay bills, do laundry, bring down winter clothes from storage, straighten bookshelves, put away left-over junk from our move, hem two pair of pants, alter another two, clean out fridge, clean upstairs.
His list: seal the wardrobe in the laundry room, install a threshold in the basement closet, wash the windows, repair the tub, clean out the garage, hang a picture.
These lists were in no way equitable. Mine was a powder puff, Barbie list and his was a macho, Stretch Armstrong one. One was everyday ordinary and one was unusual over the top - requiring skill, specialized knowledge and stamina. Writing them really was just entertainment for me, a way to avoid paying bills for a little while. (Bill paying was supposed to get easier with the advent of computers and online banking but now it takes me way longer than writing out the checks and mailing them used to. Convenience? I think not.)
Jerry got up Saturday morning way before I did (I'm not going to rehash that stupid early bird vs. night owl thing again), found the lists and started working on his. By the time I was alert and aware, he'd already removed everything from the wardrobe and had tackled sealing it inside and out. He was busy trying to fix the closet floor. Hey, I'm not dumb...I left him to his own devices, rationalizing that it probably felt comforting to him to be productive. I went on my merry way, squandering more time goofing around online paying bills (or looking at emails and facebook, to be brutally honest.) Of course I got distracted, well duh, so when lunch time arrived, I realized that Jerry was just finishing up washing the exterior windows. I stopped what I was doing, went around inside and removed all the screens.
While I made him caprese salad, he washed all the interior windows. Let me repeat that for emphasis. While I was making him a salad, he washed all the interior windows. All.the.windows. All. How could it take me longer to make a salad which contains only four ingredients than it takes to wash an entire house full of windows?
There is only one explanation. My mortal husband had somehow morphed into a combination of Wonder Woman, Batman and every other super hero you can name. Seriously, how can anyone clean that many windows so fast? We had purchased a soaper dealie and a squeegee on the end of a long pole a couple of weeks ago which might have seemed like a new toy to a bored guy, but still. He washed seventeen windows inside and out in under an hour. Like he said, they weren't perfect but they were so much improved that I didn't want to put the screens back on. It would have lifted my spirits had it not been for the crushing guilt of watching him work like a maniac while knowing I had not crossed one thing off my list yet. Now all the junk from the wardrobe was on the family room floor and all the screens needed to go back in. They were going to take precedence over my list items and, btw, the bills weren't finished yet.
The rest of Saturday followed suit. Jerry: work, work, work. Chris: starting to pay bills, getting distracted. Sunday came. In the early afternoon we went for a lovely kayak ride followed by a relaxing walk. When we got home, I started to clean the laundry room (not on my list) and Jerry piddled with something in the garage. Around three o'clock he announced, "I'm finished with my list. Come see the garage."
The garage had been totally transformed! You could actually walk on both sides of the car and he'd installed a little ball on a rope so I could pull in and park perfectly every time without getting out to check to see if the rear of the car was actually inside then pulling up until I hit the wall, which was my habit. It was a Better Homes and Gardens garage. Jerry went off to do what people do when they have leisure time and I went back to the bills.
At 12:15 a.m., I called it a night. Half my list was crossed off. The house was (mostly) clean and the laundry room looked terrific. We got a lot of small projects accomplished too - and the bills are paid. It was a win for the team. The idea worked so well (for half of us) that I think we'll do it again. Next time he can write the lists.
Yesterday was a perfect August afternoon, sunny, mid-seventies. The humidity had dropped slightly and I could finally wear my blue jeans with a light weight tee shirt and feel almost comfortable again.
We decided to go kayaking to enjoy the wonderful weather. A slight breeze was blowing, making the waves a little choppy which translates into more kayaking fun. Lots of speedboats were out and when their wake rolled by, we felt just like we were on the ocean riding on boogie boards. Life doesn't get better than this! It seemed odd that not a single person was tubing though - our guess is they think the water is too cold. Obviously, they never did a "polar bear" swim in any of the Great Lakes. Your lips wouldn't even turn purple in this water.
After boating, we went for a walk around the neighborhood. That's when I noticed all my southern friends were wearing their sweatshirts. In my mind, it was a perfect August afternoon. In theirs, it was a chilly October day. I guess I still have a little more acclimating to do.
Ice cream season is winding to a close, even here in South Carolina and finally last week I got my husband to take me to "The Village" so I could try the amaretto cherry at their ice cream parlor. It had chunks of chocolate in it and I anticipated it satisfying me on many levels.
I stepped up to the counter and ordered a scoop of my new flavor of choice. I had eaten lunch at this shop earlier in the summer, tried a sample of the amaretto and fantasized about having a serving of it ever since. (My mom used to say that when you're young, you talk about guys; when you're middle-aged, you talk about food; and when you're elderly, you talk about aches and pains. It's clear what category I fit into these days!)
Tonight was my night. Immediately I was handed a generous scoop of pink sweet stuff and I took a teeny tiny white sample spoon to eat it with so I could savor the experience longer.
Meanwhile, Jerry ordered a hot fudge sundae. The clerk was youngish - maybe in high school, maybe in her early 20s, it's so hard for me to tell these days -but suffice it to say that she was definitely in the "talking about guys" stage of her life. Still, one would think that she would know what a hot fudge sundae is, especially considering that she works in an ice cream parlor. An odd look crossed her face though and she sort of fumbled around behind the counter for a couple of minutes. Then she vanished into the back room and came back holding - and I am not kidding - a recipe card.
A little more uncomfortable silence elapsed while she stared at the card and then she left to go back into the kitchen again. This time a lady came out and said, "We have a designer menu of sundaes. Would you like to look at it? What options would you like?" Jerry replied, "Ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream." She said, "No nuts?" he shook his head and that was that.
The girl came back. She danced nervously behind the counter a little more and then came out from behind it, looked squarely at Jerry and said, "What kind of ice cream do you want?" Jerry replied, "Vanilla. Vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream." My husband is not known for his patience but sounded pleasant and calm when he responded to her. For that, I was grateful.
So I'm standing in front of the counter, taking itsy bitsy bites of my delicious ice cream while we are waiting and waiting and waiting. We are the only customers in the shop so it would seem like making a simple sundae wouldn't be this time consuming, but it was. The lady came out from the kitchen again and said, "Y'all take a seat and we'll bring the sundae out to you."
We went outside on their patio and I was eating away while Jerry watched. Normally I would wait for him to be served too, but it was a warm night and ice cream melts. A couple more minutes and his sundae arrived. The whipped cream on it looked delicious and Jerry put a giant spoonful on top of my diminishing cup of ice cream. He then swirled his whipped cream right into his sundae, mixing everything up making a smooth sweet chocolate dessert of soft serve consistency.
I put the huge spoonful of the whipped cream in my mouth all at once and instantly regretted it. This was horrible! I could feel the globs of fat on the roof of my mouth. Yuck. Thank God there was only one spoonful. I wasted several bites of my precious ice cream washing that feeling out of my mouth.
I told Jerry that the whipped cream was disgusting, but he'd already stirred it into his sundae so it was a moot point. "It's fine," he said. As we sat enjoying our evening, the lady from the kitchen appeared yet again. "How is your sundae?" she asked. (At first, I thought it was a little odd she singled out his sundae and didn't mention my ice cream but on second thought realized it was obvious to her how my ice cream was, because it was gone.) "Okay," replied Jerry.
The lady continued, "We make our own whipped cream here and we ran out earlier. When you ordered your sundae, the cook made more but he forgot to add the sugar. He's back there making more right now and we'll bring it out for you when it's done." "Nah," said Jerry, never one to make waves. "I'm almost done anyway. This is fine." "Are you sure?" "Yeah."
My amaretto cherry ice cream with large chunks of chocolate surpassed my expectations and achieved number one status on my list of favorite flavors. Jerry's sundae was, to be quite frank, not so stellar. It cost roughly three times what my single scoop sold for, disproving once and for all that old adage, "You get what you pay for."
We went back for ice cream again last night. I got another cup of amaretto cherry but Jerry chose to go a totally different route, this time making himself a little sundae at the yogurt bar. So, in fact, "you can teach an old dog new tricks." He skipped the whipped cream too, which confirms it.
Brody (the most perfect grandson in the world) is visiting us and is a most mellow, gentle little man. In addition to being "Mister Congeniality," he must be having a growth spurt because he has been a little Cheerios pig the past couple of days. He has developed a cute two-fisted eating style and has ploughed through almost the entire box of cereal and not the snack-pack size, either.
The word "snack-pack" sucks me back through time and deposits me smack in the middle of a tour of Kellogg's of Battle Creek. In my youth our family lived about a half an hour away, so I toured that plant plenty - from annual spring field trips to family vacations, with tours thrown in whenever we had out-of-town guests as well. Yep I - and most kids who lived in the area - became well-versed in the fast and furious world of funnels filling endless boxes with sugary goodness.
What I remember vividly about the event was that there was a yellow stripe painted on the cement floor with signs everywhere saying, "For your protection, stay to the right of the stripe" which you can bet your Apple Jacks I did and did obsessively too. Never did one saddle-shoed toe even graze that yellow danger zone, no sirree Bob. I prided myself on being a model student and model students did what they were told, end of story. The plant was loud and scary and I did my level best to focus all my attention on getting out of there alive - which I clearly succeeded at, I might add.
It did not escape my attention though that the man who was leading the tour was wearing a hardhat but I was not, which seemed like a kind of shabby way to treat a guest in my elementary-school-sized mind. It was noisy in there, hot and icky but there was an up side to it too which made all the drama worthwhile. At the end of each and every tour we were ushered to a cafeteria where we received not only a snack pack containing two of my favorite cereals of all time - Sugar Smacks and Sugar Pops - but a scoop of vanilla ice cream with Froot Loops sprinkled all over the top. Whoever thought of that glorious finishing touch was a genius and it was the highlight of my personal tour every single time I took it, including the last time when I was an adult and took my own son to see cereal being made.
My daughters never experienced the pleasure of the tour though because somewhere along the way Kellogg's stopped giving it, citing "industrial espionage" as the reason. Really? I can understand why spies wouldn't stoop to asking random kids in the area their nefarious cereal questions because most adults (even spies) aren't that comfortable conversing with children. In truth, they probably didn't even think of it. But why the spies didn't take all the pictures they needed in the decades that we all were encouraged to visit, I can't say. Maybe they were just too busy munching Sugar Pops from their free snack packs to bother.
I spent today on my hands and knees, scrubbing the wood floors. I finished at around 4:30 so I had half an hour before it was time to start supper. I decided to read on the deck. As I was turning to leave the kitchen, I looked at the refrigerator and thought, "If I just clean out the fridge, the entire first floor will be sparkling clean."
Don't do it, Chris! Don't do it! Can't you just hear the ominous background music? Wish I had....because when I opened the door, a jug of cranberry juice fell out and as it was falling, the top flew off. Not only was I drenched in cranberry, so were my shoes, the kitchen floor and the interior of the fridge, even underneath the drawers.
So much for "virtue is its own reward." I am grateful though that it was the juice that fell because right next to it was a quart of milk with an expiration date of July 30th.
I have a wonderful Oreck vacuum that we bought at the Habitat for Humanity Restore for thirty-five dollars. Jerry installed new brushes and it's almost as good as new. Almost. It vacuums fairly well and is feather light, so I can carry it up and down the stairs with only one hand. The only problem is that when I turn it on, it sounds like an airplane is taking off in the room, so I wear an industrial set of ear muffs like the guys on the runway wear. When I have them on, I can hear only blissful silence.
I vacuum a lot, especially very early in the morning. So if you call me at, say, 8:15 a.m. for example, (well, any time before 10:00 a.m. really) I'm not in bed asleep, I'm vacuuming.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Banking is big business in Charlotte which is where most people who live in our little town work, so it's no surprise when you go to a party here that you will be surrounded by folks employed at banks in one capacity or another. Last night was just such an occasion and I put my big, fat foot into my mouth when I mentioned to one bright and witty woman I'd just met that, for me, her job as an auditor sounded dry and boring. She spent the remainder of our conversation trying to convince me that her job was anything but. She jet sets around America, eats out almost every meal, has a maid to clean her (hotel) room, and sees something interesting and different every single day at work. For her, auditing is clearly a good career choice, but for me...
Who am I trying to kid here anyway? I could never land a job as an auditor because no one in their right mind would hire me to be one! One of my friends once did her Master's thesis on ADD and later when I was musing upon whether or not I was afflicted with that particular brand of malady, she said, "Are you kidding me? You are the POSTER CHILD for ADD!!" She said it with conviction so I knew she meant it. Then she looked at me and started to laugh. She laughed a lot harder and a lot longer than I felt was appropriate. For a hot second, I hoped she peed her pants a little but my feelings of irritation passed quickly. Probably because I got distracted....
I know that my attention span isn't all that long but that's normal for me - it's always been that way - and I make adjustments for it. It does interfere with my life somewhat, but not necessarily in a bad way. I like to think of my little interruptions like commercials on TV programs. Sometimes funny things happen during the breaks but eventually I get back to the main event.
For example, getting the house in order this week is top priority because our kids are coming to visit and I want it to look extra nice. It took me two days to clean the guest bedroom and the closet, but on the up side, I did go through my entire wardrobe, try on and evaluate every single piece and take a huge pile of clothes to Goodwill.
Today I am tackling the kitchen. Midway through cleaning out the fridge, I found some dipping chocolate and I knew I had some pecan halves in the freezer. Two + two = chocolate covered pecans! (See, I can do math.) When they are totally set, I will put them away and get back to my cleaning. As time ticks by it will seem more and more like cramming for an exam, but I am accustomed to working well under pressure. I have had a lot of practice at it.
My cleaning style drives Jerry crazy because one day's work often bleeds into the next and in the interim the whole place is a mess. Clearly, he does not have ADD. HE would be a wonderful auditor. The first company where he interviewed would snap him up immediately. Fortunately, he already has a job that he thoroughly enjoys. I'm the one who is not .... how do they say it...[ahem] gainfully employed. It's not that I'm not looking, it's that I have pretty specific job criteria [part-time, wildly creative, with fun, flexible co-workers and bosses who recognize the value in my varied life-experiences and therefore pay me more than I could ever imagine in my wildest dreams] and nothing has come up yet. When it does though, I'm all over it. If you know of such a job opportunity, please call me immediately.
While I'm waiting for the phone to ring, I guess I'll go back and finish cleaning the kitchen.....or sweep off the deck....or do the laundry....or maybe play the piano...My new friend the auditor is also an accomplished knitter...maybe she can help me figure out a pattern for socks....I wonder what time she gets home from work....there's a little time before I have to start supper....what should I fix....maybe I should call my friend the ADD expert....I haven't talked to her in ages...
That's what the commercial break sounds like in my mind. Now back to [cleaning] my regularly scheduled broadcast. Maybe.
P.S. I wore my new old shoes to a party last night and nobody -- not one single person -- pointed and laughed. Several people who knew the story were surprised at how nice the shoes looked. Nobody was more stunned than I was when I realized that using porch stain on my shoes actually worked!
A while back I broke my foot and when it healed none of my shoes were comfortable. Then, during my waitress phase, I happened upon Crocs and have been wearing them pain-free ever since. They're great except for one small thing - they're not stylish, a fact which my daughters mention, well, every time they see me. I needed something a little dressier for occasions when Crocs with jeans wouldn't do.
Enter the NAOT shoes I bought on sale during a visit to Salt Lake City in 2005. Now frugality (and college tuition) prohibits me from going wild buying shoes like my own dear mother did. She had an entire closet devoted to shoes, aptly referred to as (drum roll, please) "the shoe closet." That was an enchanted place where dreams were born! Sadly, all that followed me into adulthood from it were the memories.
With a nod to Mom's memory and a great big gulp, I bought the mint green shoes for $50.00, and, that like I said, was the sale price. They were unbelievably comfortable though - maybe you really DO get what you pay for - and I wore them everywhere, including, as it turns out, to tile and grout the kitchen floor of our house in Mantua.
What was I thinking? The shoes did not weather that event well. Both the toes got scuffed up pretty badly and their upscale look immediately vanished. I loved the feel of these shoes so much though that I toyed with the idea of replacing them and looked them up online. That's when I realized what a deal my $50.00 shoes were.
These shoes are made in Israel and the current sale price for my style is $130.00. Faced with my internal spending constraints, I knew that was never gonna happen. I looked on eBay but didn't find any within my shoe budget there either. Still, I kept the shoes. They were so comfortable. Sometimes I wore them around the house when I didn't have anywhere to go. Occasionally I even wore them in public, although even I knew that they looked horrible. But they were so comfortable!
Did I mention that these shoes were mint green? Nobody, I mean NOBODY makes mint green shoe polish. I called the company and asked if I could buy a little dye in this color to repair the leather and they said no. That didn't seem very friendly to me.
Next I bought some Rit Dye and tried that. What did I have to lose? The results were disastrous. The shoes actually looked worse now that they had Koolaid colored toes. Still, I kept them. I'm not proud. Comfortable shoes are difficult to find and I liked having one pair that weren't plastic.
Yesterday while staining our deck Carolina Mud Brown, I got bored. As fortune would have it, I was wearing "the shoes" when inspiration struck. I started staining them with the deck stain. I figured, how could they look worse? It was so exciting to watch them go from icky to cute again! When I was finished staining them, I took a Sharpy marker and colored an accent band black. Upcycling at its finest!
As it turns out, I can wear the brown shoes places mint green never would have gone. Only you and I will know the secret. You won't tell, will you?
Both of my daughters have an impressive history of getting boys to do, well, pretty much anything the girls want them to. We have an entire photo album filled with pictures of boys with moussed hairdos, boys with green goop on their faces and cucumber slices over their eyes, boys soaking their feet in peppermint foot soak. There are pictures of boys dressed in prom dresses, in cheerleading outfits, and my favorites of all -- the boys with the colorfully painted fingernails.
You have to be pretty persuasive to get a macho guy to let you paint his fingernails pink!
Once my oldest daughter, now retired to wedded bliss and motherhood, actually shaved the chest of one hairy, hairy senior in high school. God love him, he was working pouring asphalt that summer - a hot and miserable job. At work, he would sweat profusely but after that fateful evening's shaving, he refused to remove his t-shirt because he knew the other guys on his crew would never let him live down his hairless chest. (Later he admitted that when the hair grew back, it itched like crazy.)
Tonight my youngest daughter, a Chelsea Handler* in-training as well as a waitress at an upscale eatery, convinced one of her coworkers (who will now and henceforth be referred to as "naughty, naughty Erik") that it would be funny to pull a little prank on her mother. (Me.) I know that naughty, naughty Erik is not to blame for this hoax. No, he was just the latest victim, lured into Katie's web of deceit. Katie should be a lawyer. She is very persuasive. I have my own laundry list of things she's convinced me to do against my will, so what chance does one of her peers have to resist her?
(*Chelsea Handler is a comedian that is known for her elaborate practical jokes.)
Waitressing and I go way back - back to the time when we were waiters and waitresses, not just the generic "servers" of today. I loved the thrill of a crazy busy shift and understand the boredom of a quiet one. Serving is a demanding job, but if you perform it well, people leave money on the table for you. How cool is that?
Tonight, just as we were finishing dinner, the phone rang.
"Hello, is Katie there?" the very professional sounding man said.
"No, you've reached her mother. I am in South Carolina. She doesn't live here."
"Well, this is the contact number on her application form. I am calling from her work trying to reach her because she didn't come in this evening." he said.
"She worked the morning shift," I replied.
"She was supposed to work both, but she didn't show up." he countered, smooth as silk.
"I will have her call you right away," I said, already hearing imaginary ambulance sirens and feeling my blood pressure soaring to new heights.
"Thank you," said he and he hung up.
Now, only kids will think that calling somebody's mother and scaring the heck out of her is funny. All mothers know that I went into panic mode and saw hundreds of scary scenarios unfold on the movie screen of my mind. Mentally, I was already packing my bags and buying airline tickets, on my way to rescue my baby.
Not for one second did it occur to me that this might have been a prank phone call, so trustworthy and believable did this guy sound. He missed his calling, too. He should have been an actor.
I called Kate. She didn't pick up. I called again. And again. And again. I had the feeling that she was avoiding me, which relieved me somewhat and caused my fear to morph into irritation. I texted her that she had to CALL NOW. I called again. I got a text from her but I was already calling again.
Finally she picked up and said, "Gotcha! I'm actually at work. That's what happens when we get bored. It was my friend Erik who called you." I didn't believe her, so she sent me a picture of them to prove it.
As my blood pressure was falling back into the normal range, I thought next time there's a lull in the action, maybe she could just paint Erik's fingernails pink.
I just saw a bakery truck on the road and on its side was the slogan, "Nobody Doesn't Like Sara Lee." This somewhat surprised me because for years I've been singing their jingle, "Nobody Does it Like Sara Lee." I started thinking about times when kids' creative interpretations of what they heard didn't quite match what was said and also of those times when they tried to remember something, but came up with a near miss.
Jessica was finally getting old enough to wear big-girl underpants. She looked up at me and said she wanted a pink pair of "on-dah-butts." Made sense to me!
* * * * * * * * *
...then there was her little cousin who couldn't remember his new friend (Matt's) name so he called him "Carpet."
* * * * * * * * *
Little Elizabeth was looking through Granny's button box, a huge tin of sparkly treasures. She came upon several stick pins with a glass drop of blood at the top. Granny saw her puzzled expression and said, "The Red Cross gives those to Grandpa when he donates blood."
A horrified Elizabeth replied, "Oh, YUCK! I don't eat blood, either!"
* * * * * * * * *
Jason and his mom Pam were in a crowded pediatrician's office. Pam was reading a magazine when Jason got excited. "Mom, Mom! God's in the waiting room."
"Yes, dear. God is everywhere."
"No, Mom, God's in this waiting room."
"Yes, Jason, that's right. God is in this waiting room too..."
"MOM! God from my Sunday School Class is here!"
Pam looked up to see a little boy from Sunday School - a little boy named Noah.
* * * * * * * * *
And, finally...what color are fleas?
Everyone knows this answer! Fleas are white. "Mary had a little lamb with fleas as white as snow."
Even though my house is usually a cluttery mess, I am a very picky person. If we hang a picture a fraction of an inch off, it drives me crazy. If we move it so it's right and it leaves a visible nail hole in the wall, that drives me crazy too. Crazy, crazy.
Usually when choosing paint colors, I am all over it. I get color samples, stress over what goes with what, ask three or four artistic friends, sleep on their advice then cautiously proceed with the decision. I buy a paint sample, paint a piece or two of poster board, hang it on the wall and see how it feels living with it. After a couple of days, I allow myself to get a gallon of paint and take the plunge.
This approach to paint selection was born by experience about three years ago when we had to repaint a wall. There's this certain shade of red that's vibrant and exciting and I wanted it as an accent color in my dining room. It falls on the orange side of the red family and it's tricky. Tinted one shade too orange and it would be like living inside Cinderella's coach. That's the exact color we painted onto our dining room wall - and painted over two days later. With that mistake corrected, all the colors in the house were perfect!
We were so in love with those colors that we painted stripes of them on a yardstick and brought it with us to our newest home. Since we already had the colors we wanted, painting this house was a breeze. I guess that's why I let my guard down.
Last weekend while I was moving furniture all around and cleaning out closets, my husband was looking for something to do outside to avoid getting sucked into my project. He hit upon the idea to stain the porch, the deck and the stairs going up the hill. He asked me to go help pick out the stain, but I said no, I trusted his judgment. What was I thinking?
Jerry was gone a long time and when he came back, he was smoke-billowing-out-his-ears mad. He had purchased a five gallon bucket of pumpkin colored stain - in your face pumpkin - and paid a premium for the privilege. This was a serious error on his part and he knew it. That this color was never going to see the bristle end of one of our paint brushes was beyond obvious to us both. That it was a "custom color, non-returnable" was also clearly evident to anyone who could read.
The literature that came with the stain said that it was guaranteed to last for nine years. After reflecting upon what it would be like living in the third ring of Hell with me for nine long years, my husband wisely decided to take the stain back and throw himself on the mercy of the paint clerk.
Later, much later, he arrived home once again. Dark tint had been added to the orange stain. I didn't think enough tint could ever be put in there, but Jer painted a sample board to check. By this time it was twilight so we couldn't really see the results well enough to decide. Jerry had already prepped the porch though so we rolled the dice, took our chances and painted it. In the morning, we climbed up our driveway to survey our paint job from afar.
A miracle had occurred! Somehow, bumbling fools that we clearly are, we'd managed to buy the perfect porch color, in spite of ourselves. People will marvel at our clever choice! This porch will never look dirty because we stained it the exact color of South Carolina mud.
Crazy, crazy.
My husband is a do-it-yourselfer from way back and Jerry's been working especially hard at making our newest place liveable for over a year and a half now. These have been big projects, coming at us like a freight train. Our place was abandoned to foreclosure, had water damage, was moldy and had been vandalized. Drywall hung off the ceiling like skin peeling off sunburn. We knew we were walking in to a real party.
A month ago, I decided to surprise Jerry by having a professional lay the hardwood flooring in our bedroom. Even though Jer is perfectly capable of doing this himself, our neighbor Charlie does it for a living and so we were delighted to give him our business. The thought of no longer walking over carpets covered with evidence of a lifestyle that we do not embrace lifted our spirits. Of course everything from the bedroom needed to be removed and the carpet disposed of before this process could begin. This all was accomplished while I was in Michigan and the floor was finally laid on Friday. We could not be happier with it.
The floor is gorgeous and, of course, we decided to rearrange the furniture as we brought it back in. By "we" I mean me. Jerry wasn't really onboard and he kind of grumbled when he realized that this would involve a lot of heavy lifting. He moved the bedroom set from the basement to the master bedroom on the first floor and took the master furniture to the basement. The bedroom ended up looking noticeably improved with less stuff in it. We left the excess in the living room.
Jerry'd already invested a lot of time and energy carrying heavy things up and down staircases but I was on a roll! Inspired by our success, I decided to exchange the loveseat upstairs with the one in the living room downstairs and had him take two overstuffed chairs upstairs in its place. While Jer was moving furniture, I took everything out of the bedroom closets to clean them out and I put the all of the junk on our bed to sort through.
Meanwhile, Jerry felt the loveseat in the living room wasn't the right color to show off the new paint on our walls and, while I lobbied for re-painting, he fought for a new sofa. (It didn't occur to either of us to just take the loveseat back upstairs and bring the two chairs back down.) We ended up going to Ikea where we found the perfect color loveseat for $775 and bought a couple of throw pillows instead.
When we got home, it was evening already and time to go to a farewell party for a friend, followed by a sunset after-glow event. We wound up leaving our house a giant mess and returned too late to do anything but fall into bed. We couldn't sleep in our bed though because all the stuff was stilled piled on it, so we ended up sleeping in our guest room.
Today our house looks like we've just moved in. Stuff is piled randomly everywhere. I find this kind of situation extremely stressful and early on Jerry bailed to start a new project - outside - where he can keep out of my way.
It will not surprise my family and friends when I tell you that I decided to clean out my basement bedroom. We recently bought a beautiful round oriental rug and it fits nicely under the bed we brought downstairs yesterday. It's an ornate antique bed, the kind with a headboard that comes nearly to the ceiling and all kinds of carving. During the move a piece of the ornamental work that belonged on the side rail fell off. Jerry mentioned that he needed to borrow a clamp from Mary Ann but that didn't really register with me. I decided that this was a little job and I could handle it alone. By this time Jerry was pulling out of the driveway on his own little quest to purchase stain for our porch and deck. (Wives will recognize this for what it is - an attempt to "get out of Dodge" while the getting is good.)
I stepped into the garage to get the Gorilla glue. That stuff is great and I love using it. It was on the third shelf, so I had to stand on tiptoe on top of the cooler which was conveniently located in front of the workbench. I know better than to do this balancing act, but I'm under five feet tall so this scenario presents itself pretty often and laziness sometimes wins out. When I secured the Gorilla bottle and got back into the bedroom, I realized that the tip was glued shut so I took off the cap to pour a tiny bit onto the wood piece. Way too much gushed out so I ran to the bathroom, carrying the whole drippy mess in my hand. On the way a blob dripped onto the new carpet. I grabbed it with my index finger, continued my journey to the john, set the bottle down on the vanity, cleaned my hands, the bottle, the sink and then went back to clean the carpet. I saw a drop on the sheets on the bed and cleaned that first. By the time I started looking for the spot on the carpet, it had vanished.
I could not find the glue drip! I looked. I ran my hand across the carpet. I got down on all fours and looked some more. I laid down on the floor and peered at the rug's surface. I stood up and ran my bare foot over it. I looked some more. I took off my glasses and looked. I put my glasses back on and looked some more. I tried feeling for it with my hand again. I was tumbling into the insanity zone where I do the same thing over and over and expect different results. I was still looking when I heard the car pulling into our driveway.
Are there fairies or elves that follow me around and clean up glue drips from my carpet? If so, could I exchange a couple of them for fairies, elves or even gnomes of the clutter-removing kind? On second thought, I'm gonna need more than just a couple. This mess is bigger than usual.
My first five years of childhood were spent in a gang of two, my brother and I as partners in crime unwittingly terrorizing our parents. Some of our best work occurred while Mom was grocery shopping and Dad was supposed to be watching us but was actually napping. We dragged the mattress to the stairs then rode it down like it was a sled; we tunneled through bales of hay in the barn; we stuck knives in outlets.
One day we added baby lotion to the fish bowl. The reasoning escapes me, but maybe it was as simple as we thought it might make it smell pretty. Mom was fairly put out at us for that one. (I don't remember which one of us had the bright idea to add the lotion to the water but I do remember that the fish died.) We wanted to get back on Mom's good side, so decided to entertain ourselves in the bedroom while she cooled down.
During this unsupervised portion of the evening, my brother -- a creative thinker even at five -- struck entertainment gold when he announced that he would be opening a Cowboy Barbershop and I would be his first customer. I had way more hair than he did and he had a cowboy hat, so this arrangement made perfect sense to both of us. After elaborate preparations including the sheet around my neck, shop opened. By the time Mom discovered us, all the hair below my ear on one side of my head had been meticulously shorn. She burst into tears. We were scheduled to have our pictures taken at Olan Mills the next day.
The years roll by. Now I'm the mom and little Kate is in the bathroom a long, long, long time. That she's in there too long should have registered with me, but it didn't. Suddenly, she bursts through the door, glowing with pride! She had taken her little safety scissors and scalped herself. She said, "Now I look like my cousin Levi!" And she did.
I was laughing so hard I couldn't catch my breath as I dialed Mom's phone number. "You cried, didn't you?' she asked.
Same story, two different responses. That's what makes life so sweet.
Fifteen years ago, our son moved out of his dorm room and into his first apartment. For some reason, he expected us to help him move - and we did. In honor of all the parents sending their children off to college, here's that story:
People who live in air conditioning are pansies. Our son is a perfect example. Josh lives in a fancy apartment in Indianapolis. He is a student and I remember the weekend we helped him move from his dorm room into his new apartment.
"Wow!" my husband Jerry said. "This is a nice complex. How can he afford this place?"
I tried to allow a respectful moment of silence (after all, the man is my husband) but instead I burst out laughing.
"Oh," said Jerry. "We're paying for it."
That night we stayed in the new apartment. I slept in flannel pajamas in a goose down sleeping bag. Still I dreamed of Arctic winds and woke up in the dead of the night freezing. It was mid-August.
The next day we worked moving more furniture until noon when we decided to go out for lunch. We found a quaint little pizza parlor with outdoor seating. I noticed our son looking around. "Isn't there anywhere inside to sit?"
"No."
He hesitated like he was going to say something else, then allowed the waiter to lead the way to our table. August in Indiana is like August most everywhere else in this country: hot. This day was no different, but we were sitting on a covered patio and a pleasant, warm breeze was blowing. You might have thought we were in the middle of the Sahara Desert with the sun beating relentlessly down upon us.
"Are you sure you want to stay here and eat?" Josh said.
Now Jerry is not a patient man and when he gets hungry he wants to eat and he wants to eat right now. He'd been working hard doing heavy lifting all morning and he was hungry. "This is fine."
The waiter came and asked us for our drink orders.
"Ice water," said Josh.
While we were waiting for the drinks to come, Josh fanned himself and remarked about how hot he was. When the waiter reappeared with the drinks, he served Josh first. Before all of us at the table had even gotten our drinks, Josh was finished. "Could I get some more water?"
"Sure. Are you ready to order?"
We had an interesting lunch. The pizza was excellent and before the meal was over, the waiter brought an entire pitcher of water over and set it in front of Josh. Beads of sweat were trickling down his forehead and he had intensified his fanning efforts. The entire conversation consisted of him grumbling about the heat. Then he started chewing the ice cubes. "When we're done here, want to go get ice cream?" he said.
We stopped at one of those designer ice cream saloons where a thimble full of the flavor-of-the-month costs slightly less than a house payment. We were licking our cones on the way back to the car. I glanced over at Josh. Melting ice cream was running down the side of the cone, onto his arm and dripping off his elbow. Only he was having this problem. The rest of us had rock-solid ice cream. I was beginning to wonder if his internal thermostat was out of whack.
When we got back to the apartment, it was like stepping into the freezer section of the grocery store. "Thank God we're home!" said Josh.
I went to search for a sweater.
My class reunion on Saturday night was the best one I've ever attended. There was no band which meant we could actually hear each other talking, so talk we did. The event was scheduled from 4:30 until 7:30 and we closed the place down after 10:00. I woke up on Sunday morning hoarse. I guess we're finally old enough to throw a good party.
(I'd like to publicly thank Colleen's husband for buying me a drink even though I am aware that Colleen told him to do so. It was the only beverage of any sort I drank all night and by the time it came I was parched.)
I did not bring my own dear husband to the reunion because he knew no one and I didn't want to feel I had to waste time by filling him in on all the back-stories that went with each conversation. Plus, he refused to come. Said he didn't want to attend his own reunion, why would he want to come to mine? It's hard to argue with that kind of logic.
I stretched my memory to recall things about everyone I talked to. I told Tim I was sorry that I hit him in the stomach and made him cry at that basketball game long ago. I talked about the notes Betsy and I passed in Mrs. Morey's math class. I thanked Glenn for dancing with me at the twice-a-year mixers in junior high. I forgave Tom for declaring his undying love for Diane while simultaneously telling me he wouldn't date me if I were the last girl on earth. (Sixth grade was a tough year for me.)
I told Robin I remembered that slumber party where she told the scary story about the lady with the beehive hairdo who never washed it and then ants got in there and they chewed through her scalp. I admired Teri's beautiful, long nails. I reminded Jamie about how kicked me in the mouth while practicing his cartwheels. I mentioned to Steve the time we skipped Sunday school to go hang out by the river. I told Pam she owed me the quarter that she borrowed at the county fair in eighth grade. That was actually a joke (or was it?) but, to her credit, she fished around in her purse for one.
It seemed weird to me but not one of these people I talked to seemed to remember any of these insignificant events. I could have dug deeper into my treasure box of memories but I was so busy having fun that I didn't bother. Plus, I felt certain that at least Tim really did remember, I mean - come on! How often does a girl punch you in the stomach hard enough to make you cry?
During a lull in the conversations, one of the sweetest (and cutest) boys from our class came up to me and announced that he'd had a crush on me in high school. (Information, it seems, that might have been more useful forty years ago.)
"But you knew that." he said.
"No, this is the first I've heard of it."
"Yes you did. I told your best friend."
"Well, she didn't tell me." I replied.
"I told her not to."
Mystery solved! Apparently Kendra is one of a select group of women in this world who can actually keep a secret. Although I felt a twinge of regret for what might have been, how cool to find evidence at this late date that my friend was a woman of her word!
Every class has that painfully shy girl with the long brown hair. Ours has dyed hers a flattering shade of red, had it stylishly cut and was dressed to kill - great outfit, beautiful jewelry, the whole deal. Absolutely everything about her looked perfect. Most of the evening she stood sizzlin' at the bar surrounded by guys - both single and married - who were falling all over themselves to buy her drinks. That's gotta feel good! She looked absolutely terrific. Said she gained confidence when she had her first child at age forty. You go, girl!
After the party was over and I had stopped at the beer tent to say my final farewells, I immediately went back to Detroit. As much fun as reminiscing can be, it can't compare to waking up to your daughter bringing her beautiful baby boy into your bedroom to play. All of the women I talked to in the Class of '71 would agree with that.
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.
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."
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. 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.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
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.
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.
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.
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.
I'm all for moments in the sun and we certainly got our money's worth out of that outfit, wringing out every ounce of fun we could. Everyone enjoyed that Halloween and the pictures I took of Jerry as Glinda have surfaced all over facebook and even popped up as part of a presentation his boss did at work. When people see them, they laugh.
