Thursday, May 22, 2008

a thoughtful phone call from my daughter

"Hey, Mom, you know whose relationship ours reminds me of?"

"Whose, sweetie?" Hmmm, maybe Ma and Laura Ingalls? Joan and Melissa Rivers? Carol and Marcia Brady?

"Homer and Bart Simpson!"

"Ha ha--that's funny! Hey, wait a minute . . . that makes me the Homer!"

"I know--isn't that funny, Mom!"

"Why, you little . . . D'oh!"

Need some advice from y'all

I gots money burnin' a hole in my pocket!

Well, it's not actually in my pocket yet, but soon . . .

Hubby is Mr. Responsible and Mr. Grown Up and Mr. Do Things By The Book (read that Mr. Non Adventurous and Mr. Not Interested In Getting In Over His Head and Mr. Not Live On A Whim) and wants to save our Economic Stimulus money until October to use for our second half property taxes.

Me? What do I have to say about that sensible plan?

BORING!!!!

Okay, Okay. He's right. I know that. But for goodness sake, let's stimulate that economy!

Is it wrong to want to set a little aside and spend it on something I can't live without? I think not!

I'm in the market for a new digital camera. We'll have a new grandbaby to photograph after all! I don't want a simple "point and shoot" style camera--I already have one of those and haven't been happy with it. I'm looking for a much higher quality photograph.

I've been looking at higher end models, but there's no way on God's green Earth that I'm spending $5k on a camera. If I had $5k to blow, I'd leave my family behind and spend a month on a tropical island drinking fruity umbrella concoctions and having Jorge the pool boy rub oil all over me. And maybe suntan lotion too . . .

But I have swerved . . .

So I'm asking all of you for your opinions/advice/good-bad-ugly camera thoughts. I've admired so many of your photos. In fact, now that I really think about it, I'm struck by how many of you are serious about your photography. I'm totally asking the right group of people for their input : )

Thanks!

(WARNING: Giving me any sort of camera advice surely means I will, in the end, post nothing but baby pictures. Proceed at your own risk!)

Monday, May 12, 2008

That's right, Monday, I pwn you!

Last Monday at work was insane. Partly because it was, you know, Monday, and partly because we were down 2 people. Two people! Insane, I tell you.

On Monday mornings I'm by myself in the front and I'm responsible for

  1. the customers (a mass which easily matches the size of China's army)
  2. alphabetizing the completed prescriptions on the shelf (of which there are at least a squillion. And you all know I don't exaggerate ever.)
  3. unpacking and labeling the order
  4. putting together the "owes"
  5. completing the paperwork and phone calls required to nail down all the miscellaneous details of the order.

On a good day I can keep up with the demand and finish all these tasks sometime between noon and 1 p.m. when other people arrive to assist me. Last Monday I didn't finish all the details until 3:00.

Three o'freakingclock!

This week, however, I kicked Monday's ass.

The order was complete and all the work was caught up without assistance by 11:00 in the morning.

Of course, there were almost no customers that day.

And oddly there was a relatively small number of prescriptions being filled.

Oh, and maybe I should mention that the order was approximately one third the normal size.

But still, 11:00 in the morning, people!

I rock : )


In Which I Name My Granddaughter

Mother's Day! Did y'all have a good one? Me too! In fact, mine was surprisingly great, considering I had to work.

Number One Son made a lovely breakfast; my whole family stopped by the pharmacy to say hello and bring me flowers; my lovely daughter and her boyfriend not only brought flowers, but they also brought me chocolate--good chocolate! They are so in the will : )

And the capper to the day was that Pharmacist Greg, in honor of memememememeit'sallaboutme, made us lunch and strawberry shortcake for dessert. Does it get better than that? I think not!

The shortcake was nothing less than divine. Greg purchased shortcake that's made by a small local company called Little Rae's Bakery. They use all-natural ingredients so their products don't have that store bought taste or consistency.

One of my favorites from this little company is their ginger cookies--all moist and flavorful--and they're called Ginger Twinkle. Isn't that a delightful name? In fact, darling daughter--if you're reading this . . . and you should be . . . because, you know, it's all supportive of you to humor me in my silly hobby--don't you think Ginger Twinkle would be a perfect name for your baby girl?

Think it over. Talk to Dan about it. Get back to me.

On second thought, name her whatever you like, I'll just call her Ginger Twinkle anyway. And when she's old enough to wonder, she'll ask you, "Mama, why does Grammy call me Ginger Twinkle? Doesn't she know that's not my name?" And you'll answer, "Because Grammy is a crazy lady." And your sweet little one will ponder for a moment. She'll remember all the "eccentric" times she and her Grammy have had together. Then she'll look up at you and say in a knowing voice, "Ohhhhh. I get it."

But if you end up having a boy . . . hmmmm . . . how about . . . Ginger Twinkle?

Too gay?

Anyone?

Friday, May 9, 2008

it's not exactly like ADHD

It's the details I tend to fixate on.

fix·ate
Pronunciation: \ˈfik-ˌsāt\
Date: 1885
intransitive verb 1 : to focus or concentrate one's gaze or attention intently or obsessively

My cell rang on Tuesday morning. It was my friend--my Non Son--Young Guy. His voice was too tight. Too high. He was trying hard to hold it together, but it was obvious that something was really wrong.

"Can you come see me?" he asked, his strangled voice quiet and scared.

"Yes, of course. I'll be there in a half an hour."

"Thank you," he answered, "but you'll have to come to the basement door."

I was left with a half hour of drive time--time to wonder "What's going on? And why the basement door?"

When I arrived at his house, I immediately noticed two funny half-circle imprints on the upstairs door. And the door jamb looked odd.

Guy came out from the basement door and has never been more grateful to see me. His eyes were a little red. He hugged me very tightly. He was shaking.

Guy had just been released from a night spent in jail. All charges were dropped because the marijuana he grows is for his own medicinal purposes and under a legal permit.

But the pre-noon raid . . . Well, that would have been enough to terrify Arnold Schwarzenegger.

It was just like what you see on Cops. If you watch Cops. Which, I never have . . . because that would be all white trash of me . . . and I'm so much classier than that . . .

Anyway. The imprints on the door were from the battering ram. Is that what it's called? That tool police officers use to break down doors? Like they do on Cops?

As Guy told me the story, I kept getting hitched on the details. I was trying to imagine myself or my husband being awoken by the front door exploding open and the loud voices of the unknown swarming into our home.

I wanted to ask Guy what his first instinct was when he heard people breaking into his house. Did he think he was being robbed? And when he realized it was the police, was there an instant of relief that it wasn't armed criminals--the instant before wondering what was going to happen next? I didn't ask him. It would have been inexcusably insensitive of me.

He was handcuffed and held on the floor of his bedroom--at gunpoint--before they carted him off to the county jail for 24 hours. He'd been asleep when they burst in.

Again, the details of this process fascinate me.

He was confiding in me the ordeal of being held at gunpoint, and I was wondering how many people (after all, what do you need to do first thing in the morning?) actually wet themselves when the cops burst in before the residents are awake. But I thought maybe this wasn't the best time to ask Guy about that either . . .

We went out for awhile. Concentrating on grocery shopping seemed to calm his nerves a bit.

We came back to his house. Looked around at the aftermath of the raid. Put groceries away. Made lunch and talked for awhile.

When it was time for me to leave, it got a little awkward. He lives alone. He longs for human touch. In moments of distress, he craves mom comfort. But I don't know exactly what the boundaries are. I instinctively did what I would do with my own kids.

I stood behind him--behind the kitchen chair he was sitting in--and worked my fingernails over his scalp.

"Is this okay?" I asked, a little nervous that I was making a huge assumption in acting so maternally toward him.

"It's perfect," he sighed.

I put my arms around his neck and kissed the top of his head. "You can call me any time," I offered.

Still sitting in his chair with his back to me, he reached up and wrapped his long arms around me, hugging my shoulders. "Thank you," came his quiet voice. "I appreciate you. You have no idea how much."

That is the moment. That is the glittery, magical, gold infused moment I have always wanted with him. The moment declaring once and for all that my presence in his life hasn't been a mistake.

And it would have been a beautiful moment if I'd been paying attention. It probably would have brought tears to my eyes. But I was only half listening because I was lost in the details . . . the details of his backwards hug.

While he was saying the most profound words to me he'll probably ever say, what I was thinking was this:

"The way I'm leaning over and how his hands are placed on my shoulder blades, can he . . . ? Nah. He probably can't feel the back fat."

We've never met, yet she seems to have unrestricted access to my thoughts . . .


Thursday, May 8, 2008

I put work-out clothes *on* today--that counts, right?

So . . . it would seem that I've been away from my formerly pious devotion to daily exercise since I hurt my foot. Which was . . . February?

I've been feeling so out of shape. Maybe it's because I'm so out of shape.

Dammit. And I had worked so hard!

It's time to get back on the horse, so to speak.

A couple years ago I joined Curves. It was a good way to ease back into regular exercise after being away from it for a whole bunch of years . . . let us not speak of it . . .

But the Curves work-out just doesn't do it for me anymore. Then I had a brilliant, but short lived, kickboxing career. The one that Dr. Buttface says I am now too old for . . .

Having notched Curves and the kickboxing place on my bedpost, there are only two gyms left in town to join. The Expensive One and The Rinky Dink One.

We can't afford The Expensive One. So, guess which one hubby and I attended orientation for tonight?

The one hour orientation was delivered by a personal trainer with weird spit things happening at the corners of his mouth, making it impossible for me to look directly into his face. Also? You have to imagine his presentation with a native Floridian accent. It went a little something like this:

"Well, I don't like that machine. I don't know how it works.

"That one's broke.

"This one I'm not even going to bother showing you because it's rickety--shouldn't even be here.

"I don't like this one, the exercises it does can be done on other machines.

"We have other handles and cables for that machine--they're in the back somewhere . . . I think . . .

"That one's broke. So's that one . . . "

But what can we expect from a facility with a yearly membership of $4.97?

Being poor and flabby in a small town sucks . . .

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

No. This humiliating story is not based on true events. That would just be pathetic.

So, remember a long time ago I wrote a post about a "conversation" that had occurred between me and a much younger guy? No? Don't remember and don't care? Let's just revisit it, shall we?

That post has nothing whatsoever to do with this fictional story:

One average, overcast Washington day, a Woman went to see her friend, the Young Man. The Young Man’s life had been thrown a curve or two and the Woman was there by his side to help ease him back into the day.

They talked, they shopped for groceries and the Woman fulfilled the Young Man’s need for human contact and kindness. The Young Man was beginning to feel better.

Returning to the Young Man’s home, the two began to unload groceries. While still at the car, a friend of the Young Man’s happened to drive by.

“Hey,” the friend greeted, “what are you doing today?”

“Stuff,” replied the Young Man.

The Woman’s back was turned, but nonetheless, the sneer in the friend’s voice—and the quick glance he must have shot her way—were unmistakable as he said to the Young Man, “Have fun doing 'stuff'.”

“Ha!” the Young Man’s laughter rang out, “I don’t THINK so!”

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Further evidence of my illustrious career as an "adult"

It happens every time I meet someone new and am offered a cup of coffee or tea or any other grown-up type refreshment.

"I'm sorry," I reply, embarrassed, "I still have kid taste. I have never acquired a liking for grown-up beverages."

When I was a newlywed, my sister-in-law was disheartened to learn that I just didn't enjoy a hot cup of tea. She asked her mother, "Mom, some of our best times together have been over a cup of tea. How am I going to bond with my new sister?" And she was right--though we like each other immensely, we never really have bonded.

It's the same when it comes to wine. Last month when Bossy came to town, we had all enjoyed food and drinks and a wonderful time together. But then several of the women began to discuss ordering a carafe of wine. And suddenly it felt like Thanksgiving and I was a kid sitting at the adults' table. Sadly, I just can't share in that culture.

Not only does my tongue cringe at the taste of wine (cheap or expensive--it makes no difference) but I can't taste anything I'm supposed to be tasting. I can't appreciate it. I have no idea how a particular wine would compliment a particular food. It's like an entire language that I don't speak and will never comprehend.

Until now.

Today, with the help of a knowing comic, I have learned a new strategy to handle those times when I have to masquerade as a grown-up. As of today, I can fake my way through any wine conversation:




toothpaste for dinner

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Yes. I really am this immature.

"I'm almost as tall as you! I'm almost as tall as you!"

I hear it every day of my life. And I'm fine with that. After all, I'm somewhere 'round 5' 1"--I should hope my son would eventually be taller than me!

But today something changed. Youngest got a haircut and somehow he looks even taller this evening than he did this morning. Must be the spiked front.

And tonight when he once again informed me that he'd be passing me up any day . . . well, it just sounded a bit like a challenge to me. And I do not back down from a challenge.

Call it stubbornness. Call it childishness. Call it whatever you want, but I'm not willing to lose this battle quite yet.

If the kid is going to use his hair for advantage . . . well, two can play at that game . . . .


Before:




After:


That boy's got nothin' on me : )