It's funny the things we keep.
Last year, when my mother died and her house sold, we had to clean it out. During our excavation (Mom was a bit of a hoarder) my son-in-law found her medical records. For no known reason, I wanted them. I couldn't bear to part with them. Several weeks passed before I screwed up the nerve to look through them. On paper, thin and delicate as old lace, her breast cancer odyssey unfolded. There it all was. From the lumps, first diagnosed as Fibrosis, to the radical mastectomy. She was 32. I read every word. I'm pretty sure I held my breath the whole time. Even now, I can't glance at the non-descript brown folder without a lump gathering at the back of my throat. Because reading through her medical journey, I couldn't help but see her as someone other than my mother - a real person. A 32 year-old female caucasian housewife to be exact. I thought of her, alone and frightened in a cold exam room. My dad wouldn't have been with her - he wasn't the type. In his defense, this was the early 60's and men stayed out of their wives doctor's offices in those days. I tried to imagine what she might've been feeling and thinking. My mother was not one to identify or talk about her feelings, but it didn't take a shrink to get inside her head. I know her first thought would've been of me. I was only four years old. She and my dad couldn't have children of their own, so after ten childless years, they adopted me. Cancer, often a death sentence back in the day, might keep her from being what she'd wanted more than anything - to be a mom. I knew she worried about my well being. Could I thrive in a world without a mother? Knowing my mom, any questions she might've had remained unasked, to avoid inconveniencing the doctor. Of course it wouldn't have mattered much, pre-surgery they didn't have many answers to give. They kept the best for last - she simply woke up without her breast. That's what they did in those days, lopped it off if they found cancer while the patient still lay unconscious. They didn't get options, or time to think. Like thousands of women before her, when she came to, it was without a breast, and that's how she found out she had cancer. I know she kept what must've been a terrifying heartbreak to herself. That was who she was. As I scrolled through her records, one small sentence struck me: Physical examination reveals a young, nervous, female. It was the nervous that got me. She'd have to have been dead to not feel nervous in that situation. But, of all the illnesses my mother survived, it was the nervous she never got over. Maybe this is when it began. Maybe it started out a kernel, in a child from an alcoholic home, where it burrowed and sprang to life in her early thirties, during her first bout with cancer. No one can know. All I know is her acute anxiety shrouded her life, and mine, until her death. It was the inability to calm herself, to quiet her own mind, that drove her to the many risky behaviors that eventually took everything from her - her money, health and dignity. A cruel,relentless force that she couldn't control. To me, it was the saddest diagnosis of all. It's been almost a year since she passed and I still try to reconcile who she really was with who she appeared to be. I grieve over our conflicted relationship and the wounds we could never heal. Mostly, I miss her. Had she lived, tomorrow would've been my mother's 80th birthday. So, wherever you are Mom, happy birthday. I know some lower level angel is lighting your cigarettes while you lay out your bingo cards. You know what they say, "Talent borrows. Genius steals." And no one said it better than Macy Gray. Every time I hear this song I think of my mom: On and on and on I've searched What I'm lookin' for is not here on earth I can't stand, I can't take no more So I know that I gotta go So long everybody, don't be sad for me Life was a heartache and now I am finally free Don't know where I'm headed, hope I see you someday soon So long everybody, I have gone beyond the moon All I ever wanted, love and the peace and the harmony Just to be, to live and shine, when I get ready I up and fly And I can't remember none of the things that I want to forget It's the best satisfaction no less, ask if I'm free and I'll say, "Oh yes" I know that now, my mom is finally at peace, and free.
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The thing about the roads we choose to go down in life...we can choose different ones at any time.
I think I'm taking a detour. This year, I've been lucky enough to get re-acquainted with a few people from my far distant past. Almost 35 years past. The dreaded high school years. Ack. No one was more surprised than me to find out how much its meant. When I left my hometown, I barely glanced in my rearview mirror. So long, suckers. I never looked back. To say I haven't kept in touch would be a gross understatement. I didn't pine for home. Ever. Don't get me wrong. Contrary to what some might think, I was not ashamed of my more humble beginnings. In fact, I felt a certain sort of pride (Girl, Interrupted) peppered with a generous dose of affection. But, it was a chapter I'd closed and as far as I was concerned, it didn't need to be opened. I held onto many painful memories from those days, I didn't want to dwell. Let's just say it was a dirt covered onion I didn't intend to peel. Then, life happened. My mother died (The Mother Load). To my astonishment, several old friends were kind enough to come to her memorial (The Things We Keep) including my best friend from high school. I felt awash in gratitude and a little ashamed. They'd all taken time out of their Saturday to help me grieve, to wish me and mine the best. I hadn't held up my end all these years. It was then I steered toward a different road. I reminded myself that more than one truth can exist at a time. Along with the painful, there's the sweet. I could pick what I wanted to think about, what I wanted to remember. I picked the sweet. When my book got published, I joined the social media fray, begrudgingly. I made a conscious decision to not include my high school in my personal info, or to try to Friend anyone from the good old days. Preferring to stay in the present. After my mother's memorial, I changed my mind. I've since been graced with a peek into many of my old cronies lives. I've seen their children, grandchildren, dogs, cats, spouses. I've peeked in on their vacations, celebrated their victories, felt sadness if they suffered. Some would argue that a virtual relationship via Facebook isn't a real relationship. I would agree. But, call it what you will, whatever it is, I've felt a part of it all. Even just a little feels like salve on a wound. Because of my newfound fervor for old friends, hubby and I met up with one of my girlfriends from school, and her husband, during our recent trip to Florida. Just like in the movies, the years fell away. We laughed, gossiped, solved several of life's more serious problems, broke bread, shared wine. She opened her heart and her home to me, introduced me to her friends, hosted a shindig to celebrate my book. William Faulkner wouldn't have gotten a warmer welcome. I felt like a literary star and the prodigal daughter all at once. I had the time of my life and I am still reeling over her generosity. My heart feels full with all sorts of warm fuzzies and I'm not a warm fuzzie kind of gal. Maybe I am now. I realized then what I'd really missed. My friends helped raise me. Let's face it, after the age of 12 our friends become our sounding boards, our parents shift into the background with their white noise and unwelcome advice. Our friends informed our opinions, values, helped discern what was important, what wasn't, they helped picked our clothes, our hairstyles and our peer group. They were there during the toughest part of life...adolescence. When your whole life could fall apart if a pimple showed up on your chin. Lately, when I think about home, it's in grateful appreciation. I remember with a smile how my best friend and I used to ride our motorcycles to the dump, singing (badly) at the top of our lungs. We'd go there to smoke, to bitch about our parents, to talk about whoever wasn't there, and laugh. We weren't allowed to go during hunting season. Our parents worried we'd get shot. Those were different days, my friend. We'd have sleepovers, which at my house involved working my parent's turkey farm, as my friend in Florida reminded me. We'd have to pick up and chuck the dead ones. That was some kind of fun for country kids. I have a great life with a great man and all the joy filled trappings that go with it. Kids, grandkids, a home and career I love. My life would've gone on quite happily had I never reconnected with old friends. But, there's something important about mixing the old with the new. It's humbling to know there are people who knew you when and still love you. So, while I might not need them to make my life happier, I want them. And isn't that the best kind of relationship? One you want only because it makes your already rich life, richer? And, I am rich indeed. There’s something so moving about the absolute confidence young children have in our judgment.
They trust us. They believe to their core that we wish them well. Over the past several days, I got to know my granddaughter, and I lived these truths. Amelie lives on the opposite coast so I haven’t seen her as much as I have my other grandkids who live nearer. In fact, it’s safe to say she didn’t know me at all. But, we got on like a house afire. Without a thought, she’d hold my hand. Sit on my lap. Get in my car. She believed everything I said. That, my friend, is a terrifying responsibility. Unfortunately, I’m one of those who can’t see my own life while I’m in it. It’s only in hindsight that I see the light. Like a grain of sand in an oyster, my often-painful life experiences evolve, and become a pearl over time. When my kids were small, I was still a kid myself and unable to appreciate their devotion and dependence. I did my best, but couldn’t see the wonder. For some reason, spending time with Amelie allowed me to fully realize what I’d had…and missed. The way she’d lie next to me on my pillow and tell me her stories, breathless, anxious to please, to get out all the words. And no matter how inane my reply, she'd soak it in, because if I said it - it meant something to her. Despite my many shortcomings, she felt I deserved her attention and affection. Just like that. When asked by her Dad why she felt sad that we were leaving, she said without pause, "Because I love Mimi." Isn't that the way it is with kids? Faster than the speed of sound they fall for you, and you for them. Then, it hit me. I am a lucky soul indeed. Multiply Amelie times six and you’ve got my life. I’ve got six grandkids who fill me up with all things good and true. They like to spend time with me, they make me feel clever and laugh at my jokes. They sing me songs, show me their dance moves, draw me pictures, and call me on the phone. They are funny, smart, eccentric, and they give me so much more than I could ever give them. There’s a lot I don’t know about parenting, or grand parenting – except this: It is an honor to be loved by a child. As threatened...a progress report on our mini-remodel that actually feels pretty major. That's our knocker. And we love our knockers around here. That's our entryway gargoyle. Making everyone feel welcome. Or creeped out. Whatever. Speaking of our entryway... This is the family room/kitchen before. Dullsville. This is what it looked like when we first looked at the house. This is not our furniture. NOT. That was then...this is now... On to the Master. When I saw this photo online I thought it was a garage. Turns out it was more of a brothel type deal. We didn't do much to it. That's the kind of people we are. As you'll see in the following photos we have a pillow situation. Hubby has two master's degrees but he is not qualified to arrange the pillows. It takes a pillow master. Which, I happen to be. Next up - the stairwell. Who cares about the stairwell? Me. Snoooooze....but not anymore! The media room. It was, and is, tacky city. But, we've pretty much run out of steam to do anything to it other than put stuff in it that we don't have room for anywhere else. This is it before...you'll notice it doesn't look much different after. No, your eyes aren't playing tricks on you. That IS leopard print carpet. Meow.... You will notice that the original photo is of much better quality. Naturally. The guest rooms. I only have before photos of one of them. This is why I would suck at food or style blogging. I never remember to take the pics. No, I don't know what that is growing on the walls. They might've filmed The Ring in here. This room was one well away from having a dead girl climb out of it. Or, it was some bio-terror experiment gone awry. This last room has no before photos. It was just empty. Now it's not. This blog takes as long to read as the remodeling did. But, that's it. Almost.
Just the living room (still waiting on the furniture. Why does it take 10-12 weeks to get it? Does anyone know?) and the landscaping. Stay tuned. For a lot of my adult life, I've professed to be an agnostic. I'm usually too lazy to take a stand, so this fit. But really, what I stood for was atheism. Most of the religious turned me off, regardless of their faith. Still do.
And don't get me started on biblical fantasies. Virgin births? Voluntary crucifixions? Resurrections? Eternal life? Indeed. I admired Christopher Hitchens, not only for his superior writing skills, but for his steadfast belief in nothing...right up to the end. During the illness that took his life he said, "If anyone hears me retract my atheism, know that I'm delirious and don't mean it." Then I discovered an uncomfortable truth (are there any other kind?). It's easy to diss life after death when no one you love is dead. When my mother died last year, her death was the first to have a real impact. Ours was an uneasy relationship. Complicated. But I loved her. A formidable presence in my life, her absence seemed (and still sometimes does) intolerable. For the first time, I felt jealous of those with blind faith. I started wondering (hoping) I might see my mom again. Somewhere. But, where? Then our seven year-old granddaughter Adelia got a crushing diagnosis. The odds are high we will all outlive her. If that doesn't turn your absent theology on its thorny crowned head, I don't know what will. So, I've had cause to re-examine what I believe. Not long after my mother's death I found myself on a plane. For reasons I can't remember now, hubby was taking a flight later in the week, so I flew alone. I'm a nervous flyer, even though I've done it my whole life. Not the white knuckle, head in a bag kind, but I think about dying when I'm in the air in a giant tin can. Who knows what goes on in that cockpit? Why is the door always shut? Anyway...I'm superstitious. I always wear the same jewelry when I travel and I would never get on the same plane with a rock star - everyone knows that's a death sentence. This particular flight was turbulent. Way more than normal - that stomach dropping, heart stopping turbulence that has everyone's lips moving in silent prayer. Except for mine, of course. What sticks out in my mind about that trip is the calm. The first thing I thought, well the second after "oh shit" was that my mother had preceded me and would somehow pave the way should the plane go down. She would be there. A tremendous relief trickled down my arms. I spent the rest of the rough flight in peace. Before anyone gets weepy over my religious conversion...it wasn't exactly that. The hyper religious still pretty much get on my last nerve. Bible stories, to me, are just that. And, I don't believe some guy in a white beard and a toga is orchestrating all of our lives. Who has that kind of time? I believe that random shit happens. I believe we sometimes get more heartbreak than we can bear and what doesn't kill us often doesn't make us stronger. I believe the human condition is frail, terribly flawed, and glorious. I believe we all have a responsibility to each other and our place in the world. I believe we don't understand how it all works, what the origins of man really are, or whether or not our behavior impacts the weather. I believe we make our own hell, here on earth. I believe our spirits are separate from our bodies and somewhere in the universe they abide. I believe if we're open to it, the presence of those we loved that have gone before us, can be felt. Some would say my way of thinking is convenient. I've changed what I believe to fit my circumstances. I'm okay with that. If faith is "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen," then I have it. I believe I haven't lost my mother, nor will I lose my granddaughter. I am assured by this hope and convinced of its truth. We will meet again...on this side or the other. We bought our granddaughter, Adelia, a new bicycle for her birthday today.
I'd guess no one gasped after reading that sentence - hardly earth shattering news. Grandparents buy their grandkids stuff all the time. But, this bicycle came at what feels like an intolerable price, in a way that has nothing to do with money. We have a bunch of grandkids. After the first two girls arrived, we did the usual toy/clothes/crap buying that usually follows for birthdays, holidays, etc. As kids do, they'd lose interest in whatever we'd purchased in about two days. We decided we wanted to give something more meaningful. We opened savings accounts for them, and all those preceding. So, every year, instead of a pile of junk we put money away for each of them to hopefully entice them to go to college. No more gifts. As anyone who has a history with me, or this blog knows - our granddaughter Adelia has lived with an undiagnosed Cerebral Palsy like illness for several years. Specialist after specialist threw up their hands and tossed out CP after ruling out everything else. Ataxic Cerebral Palsy to be exact - which was not good news. They thought...maybe... The hope held firm in the maybe. As long as she went undiagnosed with a maybe trailing there was a chance, wasn't there? Maybe there'd be a medication. A therapy. A miracle. We hoped. Let me tell you what I've learned about hope...it is NOT the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. It's the thing with a boa constrictor's grip that strangles you like prey. We held tight in its grasp, willing and breathless. So, every year we put money in Adelia's account like we did for everybody else. After all, she might go to college. And, every year we'd watch her deteriorate, her struggle more obvious. But, she could probably still go to college. This week, after nearly four years, she got a final diagnosis from a round table of some of the best doctors in the world at one of the finest hospitals - they were half right before. She is Ataxic but does not have Cerebral Palsy. It's a different sort of Ataxia with most of the same terrible, debilitating, life shortening, symptoms and some different ones just for shits and giggles. I won't bore you with the details but the fact that this disease made itself known around the time she turned two means its course is more determined, relentless. Adelia won't go to college. Somewhere in my head, I knew this already. The temporary CP diagnosis should've gotten us all used to the idea, but I couldn't face it and we kept counting on her future. Her savings account proved she'd have one, didn't it? As long as we kept putting money in it her chances increased. Until they didn't. The maybe got lopped off. Now we talk about her quality of life, not its quantity. We're planning for now, not later. We're taking money out of Adelia's savings account to buy her things that she can enjoy now, that might make her living less encumbered. We're going about it like we need to. Her new bike is a special needs, adapted bike...a high-tech, raspberry pink, hella sweet ride. I feel like I'm walking under deep water with lead in my shoes. They call it crying uncle because you're crying while you do it. Adelia got a normal bike a couple years ago, before her mobility was as challenged as it is now. But still wasn't able to do it. "Dad...where's the tools?" she'd ask. "That bike doesn't work." That's Adelia - the bike's broken. She is not. "She's gonna love that new bike, Mom." My daughter, the unsinkable Kayla Mead, tells me. "She wouldn't ever know what it's like to ride one if it weren't for this," she assures. I mumbled something, but I don't remember what. We both go silent. "Don't be sad, Mom." Sad? Sad is an aspiration. I search for comforting words, thinking I've found some, I start to speak but the lump in my throat keeps it down. I stay quiet. "I'm so excited for her to get it. She'll be so happy," Kayla says. I still say nothing. She prods,"Mom?" As always, I'm battling tears and Kayla is propping me up. "Adelia is still with us. We'll have a lot of days ahead of us to be sad," she continues. "But today is not one of them."
I'm scattered.
The last eight months have been tough. Illness, death, surgeries, retirement, moving...all those serious life changes they warn you about. You know, all the stress inducing ones. In the background, a granddaughter suffering with a debilitating disease and to a much lesser, but still off putting degree, this Mother's Day was my first without a mother. So, I find myself in a daily quandary, my brain a-jumble. I stare off into the abyss, overwhelmed, hanging on the ledge not really trying to pull myself up. Getting by is fine for now. I have 3 pairs of glasses and often can't find even one pair. I walk (limp) into a room and can't remember why I'm there. I'll make a phone call and feel surprised when someone I know answers. Making a grocery list feels like writing a thesis. Yet, oddly, I find myself thinking about Father's Day. Perhaps to get a jump on it, to not forget. Even though my father is dead. My husband is a father, my sons-in-law are fathers...so maybe that's it. Or, maybe not. Lately, I've been thinking about my stepfather- who is just as dead as my father. He and my mother were married over 30 years. A miracle of midwestern stick-to-it-ness if you ask me. But, stick with it they did. Until his death several years ago. I've discovered when you're feeling a little beat down, your brain goes places it never would if you felt stronger. You don't have the energy to keep at bay the feelings you'd squashed before, or you realize in a weak moment you feel differently all together. Barely a teen when my mother and stepfather married, I felt no love for him. Just a casual disdain that grew into a lazy hatred then settled into an annoyed apathy. He was an alcoholic. Cruel, unreliable, unpredictable. Both my mother and I knew it from the get go. She married him anyway, as bad men were her comfort zone. I can't say I felt disappointed. Experience had already taught me that fathers were absent, uninterested, unavailable, violent. He ruled our house in a surly silence, where something always felt like it was moving in for the kill. We waited every night till eight o'clock when he'd stumble off to bed, in a drunken haze and our collective sigh of relief signaled safety at last. If you'd asked me to list his good qualities, I couldn't have. But, I would've been wrong. He had some. I just never gave him his due credit. He was the first man to ever tell me I was smart. He was the only parent I had who told me I could, and should, go to college. When I got a B in history because my teacher didn't believe in giving A's he drove to the school, without my mother, and had a talk with the teacher. My stepfather was 6ft. 4in, 250 lbs. He came back with my A. He expected me to get A's and if I didn't, his disappointment could bring me to tears. He taught me to work. He fought my mother when I wanted to get a job while still in high school. He lost. He spent all day catching a rabbit for my science project. He was falling down drunk...but this isn't exactly a Hallmark card, is it? He thought I needed limits set, not money handed out. My mother disagreed. After he had the stroke that signaled his downfall, he mellowed. He became a loving, adoring grandfather to my daughter's daughter. He'd let her do anything to him she wanted. He never raised his voice or his hand to her. But old habits die hard, and I kept watch, a bundle of nerves when they were together. She still points to the stars and reminds us that Papa Ed is there among them. When he finally died, 12 long years later, of various smoking and alcohol related diseases, I felt nothing. Not sad. Not relieved. Now, I feel something else. Not love exactly. But a grateful affection. Not for the man he was, but for the man he tried to be, but couldn't.
I'm on crutches.
Luckily, its temporary. I don't think I have the temperament to deal with all the jackasses that come out of the woodwork when you're impaired. I'd be dragged off to jail, hobbling. Take the TSA. Me on crutches: "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to go through security." TSA Jackass: "They'll hold your crutches when you go through the body scan." Me: "Ummmm...I can't stand up without the crutches. I can't put my weight on my leg." Jackass: "Hmmmm....they'll give you a cane." Note to anyone who doesn't know - you can't just give someone who needs crutches a cane and wish them Godspeed. Walking aids are not interchangeable and should be prescribed by someone with an actual medical degree, not a guy with a bully club and a highlighter pen. Me: "I can't use a cane. That's why I have crutches." Jackass: "Hmmmm...can you take your shoes off?" Me: "Does it look like it?" Jackass pointing: "Well...they'll have to do a full body pat down then. Wait over there. She'll take care of you." TSA World Women's Wrestling Champion: "Can you take off your shoes?" Me: "No." WWW Champ (three times my size, pulling on latex gloves): "I'm gonna have to pat you down. Do you want to go to a private room?" Never go to the second location. Me: "No." Champ (snapping gloves): "Okay. Raise your arms up at your sides like this." She mimics Christ on the Cross as a helpful visual aid. Me: "I can't STAND WITHOUT MY CRUTCHES." Champ: "Hmmm...okay, well...do you have any foreign objects implanted in your body?" Besides that giant dildo? Me: "No." Champ: "Okay....well...front first." So, there in front of an entire airport full of people, the Champ gave me a thorough grope. Zealously serving and protecting her country by ensuring my boobs weren't locked and loaded and a scud missile didn't lurk in my crotch. Champ: "Can you take your shoes off?" Me: "No." I thought we'd covered that. By that time hubby finally made his way through wearing that look he usually reserves for deviants and TSA's. He wasn't allowed to accompany me. He had his own security to maze to meander in case he'd stashed a life threatening quarter in his pocket or the surprisingly deadly extra ounce of shaving cream. Champ: "I need to put those crutches through the scanner." Me: "I CAN'T STAND UP WITHOUT THEM." Champ: "Oh....right...I'll get a chair." I sat. Champ: "Can you take your shoes off?" After I cried Uncle and hubby helped take my shoes off, Champ swooped off with my crutches. After it was determined I'd stashed no James Bond type foolery in them and I posed no threat to national security, they let us go. This trip to the airport was the first I'd been on other than therapy. While on it, I saw the light. For the most part, the general population has an appalling disregard for the physically limited. They shoved past me to get ahead. Can't possibly go half a second slower. They ran me over to get on, and off, the elevator first. They jumped ahead of me to get on, and off, the plane. For me, this is a minor blip in an otherwise healthy life. For my six year-old granddaughter Adelia, it's a lifestyle. She has Cerebral Palsy and can't walk without braces and a walker. Her everyday life is an exhausting struggle to get from point A to B. God forbid she should ever decide to get away from it all and take a trip where she can expect public embarrassment and complete disregard for her dignity as a rule. I learned big lessons that day and will forever be on guard. That old cliche is a cliche for a reason. You can't know what its like to be someone else till you've walked, limped, or rolled, in their shoes. It won't kill me, or you, to take a breath and show some consideration for someone who relies on the compassion of others. We don't really need to harass the disabled, do we?
I read recently that France has lost its chic. Its je ne sais quoi.
Their President is out of control. While the French have always looked gracefully, and stylishly, the other way where "the other woman" is involved, particularly Presidential women, de Gaulle forbid he should comport l'affair on a moped, in the passenger seat, wearing a suit with cheap shoes and a giant Daft Punk helmet. A President cheating on his wife and his mistress with yet a third woman is the height of panache. But, in a bad outfit? Mon Dieu. The French are up in arms. I so get it. There is never an excuse for bad shoes. Except for hip surgery. My once impeccably shod tootsies are mourning their old, fashionable life, when their daily wear looked like this:
The perfect gladiator look. Minus the toga. Wouldn't be caught dead in a toga.
I remembered why these were so awesome in the 80's. Because they're awesome. My leg is coming from who knows where.
Marie Antoinette was so right. Eating cake in these shoes is so much better. That's what she meant, right?
I agree. These are fantastic.
I have hip problems because I apparently only have one leg. But it's wearing an adorable shoe.
There it is! I do have two legs. These are my Goldfinger shoes. I think James Bond would love them.
I'm a sucker for an ankle strap.
Brought these back from Italy. Can you blame me?
A shoe that looks like a velvet corset. Sigh.
Another pair from Italy. Had to.
I can't resist a pink shoe. Or a rhinestone buckle. Or shoes, period.
I hate getting caught on the Yellow Brick Road unprepared.
Gained an ankle strap. Lost a leg.
These are for when I mean business. 5 inches of business.
This is what I'm reduced to after crutches. These might as well be flat. I'm pouting just looking at them.
These are me, now, on crutches. The heel is so non-existent that it wasn't worth showing. Except for its pink. To make myself feel better I bought these in several colors. But still. So, not the same.
If you hear I've bought a moped. Shoot me. I'm a wreck.
Hair's on end, clothes on backwards, holes in pants (not the cool kind)….that's when I'm going out. I don't know what's happened to me. Old age? Bad hips? Don't give a shit? All of the above? Back in the day, you'd never catch me out unless I was fully loaded. Hair done, face on, heels. A trip to the grocery store presented a fashion opportunity, not a dreaded chore. Okay, I didn't always look great at the grocery store. Or, maybe I did... Often, I put on a baseball cap and flats for a quick skip to Ralph's or Whole Foods. Of course, my hair was freshly washed, but maybe not blown out. My face wasn't photo ready, but still. A dab of concealer, a hint of blush, a berry lip stain. My baseball cap was cool, maybe something pricey, hard to find, from the early 20th Century, African American Baseball League perhaps - just cause I'm a white girl didn't mean I couldn't get all hip-hop on your ass. And, my flats came from Kate Spade or Tory Burch. Oh, those were giddy days. Last week, I made a mad dash to the grocery store. I'd been cooking for days, getting ready for surgery, putting stuff in the freezer for hubby. I waited till the last possible minute to go. I needed the ingredients in, like, three seconds. So, I grabbed my army green drab jacket (Hubby calls me Castro when I wear it) tennis shoes with no laces, and took off. I didn't look in a mirror before I left. Let's face it. Who cares? I remembered I needed to pick up a prescription. So, I stood in the pharmacy line, waiting. My head itched. I scratched the top. Ack. When did I last wash it? I groped further back. The hair there felt flattened and matted. Bed hair. From which night? I looked around, kinda embarrassed. I noted the quarter-ton woman in animal print leggings, tank top, her braless boobs doing a gelatinous dance around her waistband, and shrugged. Feeling a little better, I patted my hair into place, a reflex I suppose. During the pat down, I hit something crusty. I froze. Crusty? Ewwww. The hair over my ear stuck stiff to my skin. Without calling attention to myself (I kept the gagging sounds pretty well under wraps) I did some more exploration. Whatever crusted to my hair, clung to my ear. I scraped at it and held my finger out. Red. WAS I BLEEDING? Did I have blood RUNNING down my head? OMG. I looked around again, thinking I'd see horrified faces, pointing, or someone motioning the paramedics in my direction. Nope. Just Tina the Tiger in her leggings and long, swaying, boobs, picking the three teeth she still had in the front with a 50% off coupon, not glancing at me at all. Then I did what primates have been doing since we've evolved from the dirt. I smelled it. Hmmmm….it didn't smell like blood. Upon closer inspection it looked a little too orange too. I had no choice. I had to taste it. Marinara sauce... from the pizza I ate at lunch. Huh. I finished my finger snack, got my prescription, and went on with my shopping. In for a pound... If you're ever in the congo and you need the lice picked out of your hair…I'm your girl. "Can you believe it?" I told my daughter on the phone when I got home. She laughed, loud, for like, five minutes. "I'm a hot mess," I said. "No, you're not, Mom," she said. "You're savory….a feast for the eyes." |
Archives
November 2017
IF YOU LIKE THE BLOGS YOU'LL LOVE THE NOVELS IN HER TWISTED CRIME SERIES |