DREAMS DO COME TRUE

I just did the humanly impossible. I walked into the grocery store to pick up a prescription for my granddaughter and never bought another single item. This has been my dream for years. It was so easy! And to achieve this dream? I simply walked down the kitty litter aisle. NO temptation there. I am allergic to cats.

I wish I could say I did it on purpose, but it was totally accidental. I realize now that, to save a small fortune on groceries, all I need is a plan of attack. When I shop, all I have to do is to stop wandering down the candy and chip aisle on my way to the milk and eggs.

When I purchase bread I should go via the kitchen gadget and picnic items aisle. Then, in the summer when I can’t resist temptation to buy picnic stuff, I can stroll past the greeting card and wrapping paper. That will work if there are no birthdays, weddings, or holidays coming up. There are only so many aisles that don’t provide temptation. It would be much easier if they had a farm machinery aisle or an aisle or two of hanging fish eyeballs.

I am both thrilled and depressed with my shopping feat. Thrilled because I finally did it—depressed because of the low quality of my dreams.

THINGS THAT MAKE YOU SCREAM

Chocolate makes me scream. More accurately, when someone steals the chocolate I hide in my cache for emergency cravings. It is an open throated scream that causes every shingle in the neighborhood to stand on end and salute.

It’s the things that don’t make you scream but send you into shock that you have to worry about. A week ago my six year old grandson impaled himself in the neck with a large pair of scissors—then pulled them back out, and proceeded to bleed—on everything. Fortunately, after an exciting ambulance ride, he came home a few days later perfectly fine, and showing off toys that had his brothers balancing the profitability with the pain.

I however, have new wrinkles, some new scar tissue on my heart and a video that randomly replays the accident scene in my mind. I was the lucky one who got to clean up.
On the serious side however, please reinforce to your children and grandchildren. ‘If you must carry something sharp, ALWAYS carry it with the point down.’ It is NOT something parents say just to use up their word allotment for the day. Some things are just not worth all the cool toys.

ANOTHER IDEA GONE SOUTH

For months now, I have been hinting to Rick that we should get bikes. I was very subtle. “Honey I want a bike.” He didn’t take me seriously, so several times a week I would throw out some more delicate hints.

“If we had a bike we could lose weight and get in shape.” Apparently that wasn’t highly motivating so I tried the pocket book. Everyday I drive nine miles to help home school my grandchildren while my daughter takes online classes. Rick drives about six miles to work.

“You could ride to work and I could ride to Ariana’s.” Think how exhilarating that would be, and all the gas we will save.” I was rewarded with a blank stare laced with a tinge of horror. Definitely the wrong tactic.

A few days later I came up with the ultimate argument. “Honey we need to do more together. If we got bikes we could ride. We could even go on bike holidays. How fun! Packing tents and food. Camping—just the two of us.”

OK, I got carried away with that one. Ricks idea of camping is a five star hotel. Pairing sleeping in a tent, with sweat, pain, and work was not an alluring argument. It was time for the direct approach.

“Rick, we are going to buy bikes today.”

We chose comfort bikes. Rick wanted the bike with the biggest seat in the store. “Don’t you have any bigger ones than this?” he asked.

“Honey, do you want to look like you are sitting on a flying saucer? Any bigger and you’d scratch the paint off of cars as they drove by.”

A basket was a must have for my bike. I planned on riding it everywhere—grocery shopping, garage sales, hauling plants, and anything else I could dream up. “Don’t you have any bigger baskets?” Rick gave me the ‘why don’t you just hook up a grocery cart to the front tire’ look. I settled on a small basket on the front and a bigger one on the back.

The next day we took our first ride. We decided on a little six mile jaunt, three miles each way. At the end of the first three miles was a moderate hill. It would help us get in shape for all the riding we planned on doing.

Rick led the way. I followed. So much for camaraderie. We tried to talk, but even screaming we couldn’t hear each other. The first time I tried to make a hand signal for a turn I almost fell off my bike. I could have died for all Rick would have known.

I had another brush with death trying to ride up that hill. My heart was pounding out of my chest so hard that I had to ignore the fact that my legs felt like telephone poles stuffed with lead.

The worst part ride was the last eighth of a mile. We live on a gravel road. It is all up hill, and after we conquer that, our driveway is even steeper. Not only did we have to drag ourselves, but we had to push our bikes. I wanted to pitch a tent, spend the night and make the rest of the trip next week.

Honey,” I panted. “Next time let’s load our bikes in the truck, drive down the hill, park the truck, then unload the bikes and go for a ride. Then we can load them back into the truck when we are done and drive up this stupid hill.”

My husband picked this moment to suddenly become little Mary Sunshine. “Oh Honey, we’ll be riding up this hill in no time.”

Our bikes are parked in our sun room. I spend most of the time I am home in the kitchen, looking out at that bike. Rick has ridden his to work and for exercise—almost every day. I stare at mine and curse my big mouth.

GIVE MY REGARDS TO BROADWAY

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I love to sing. The problem is I can’t sing. That point was brought home clearly by my son Adam recently.

He called for my birthday. When he asked me what I was doing for fun, I told him I was in a musical.

“You’ll be happy to know that you can still show your face in town because I don’t have a singing part.” I said.He laughed.

“Don’t get too comfortable. I may just try out for a singing part someday soon. It could happen. They are letting me sing in the church choir.”

He snorted in laughter again and said. “The church choir doesn’t say no to anyone.”
“Who died and made you a comedian? Not lonely that, but when you call someone on their birthday it’s just not polite to throw around insults! Especially when the birthdayee is a hair away from senility and could write you out of her will. Besides, it’s not true. My friend Terry told me they asked him not to come back.”

Adam was really laughing now. Apparently, he thought I would better serve my talents in standup comedy.

My singing disability is not because I don’t practice. The problem is I think that if you practice wrong for so many years you just get better at being really bad. I love singing show tunes in the shower and one day when I walked out of the bathroom after one especially rousing vocal concerto, I almost tripped over my kids and their friends who were rolling on the floor of my bedroom wiping away tears of laughter.

One of my all time favorite songs is, ‘Give My Regards to Broadway.’ My dream has always been to walk down the street like they do in my favorite musicals and sing at the top of my lungs. I am happy to say that dream came true for me several years ago.

We were in the New York Subway and when the train thundered down the track and I felt secure that no one could hear me, I threw my head back and belted out my full throated tribute to Broadway. It was amazing. Part of my jubilant feeling came from the shock on the faces of my children as they tired to get as far as they could from me and still catch the same car on the subway.

No one threw money my direction, but on the upside, they didn’t throw rocks either.

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BARE NECESSITIES

Iran has nukes! Wall Street occupiers are on the rampage, and EMP’s, which may be in our future, could take us back to the early 1800’s. The television was blazing with the import of world events one morning as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror preparing my face for the day.

What if we had to evacuate? No problem. Rick and I had essentials crammed into two back packs with a list of things to grab at the last second—sleeping bags, food, headlamps, plus batteries, a small stove with fuel, and a bucket for a potty. However, no where on that list had I even considered my personal needs. That is where my mind went now.

A mass evacuation would mean being surrounded by other people. This was a problem. I wanted to look like I didn’t care what I looked like. I wanted to be one of those people who look good without makeup, but in order to achieve that look, I needed some makeup. What could I take to achieve the look, and where would I find room?
My moisturizer was definitely a necessity. Just because I hit the road running, didn’t mean my face had to look like a road map. No one would hold a little moisturizer against me. I could squeeze that into my back pack. I picked up my bottle of foundation. It was a little jar. People who looked good naturally didn’t look as white as a jar of paste. It would fit easily into a pocket of my jeans.

My blush is also tiny, and would slip into my pocket. It would give me that natural healthy glow. Even though my eye shadow containers are small, I could not bring them or my mascara. They were too obvious. But, to make sure my eyes didn’t disappear, I played around with a couple of eyeliner pencils. I found a light brown one that looked totally natural. Not only did it fit in my pocket, but it would darken my eyebrows, subtly line my eyes and, on the practical side, would double as a pencil in an emergency.

That took care of makeup, but what about my hair? I needed a couple of rollers but where would I hide them. Of course! My bra—plenty of room. Who knows what other goodies I could store  there?

Back to my hair. I have to admit that I have a genius for this emergency preparedness stuff. I could slide bobby pins all around the hem of my shirt. They wouldn’t take any room and I could curl my hair with them. I could also wear elastic bands on my arms and put a comb in my back pocket. This was almost too easy.

Now, about my bangs? I look terrible without bangs and when they get long they make me crazy. I picked up a pair of toe nail clippers—no! I found a tiny pair of scissors. After all, it’s not like I want to slice my bangs off with a knife, and the only other alternative I could picture was to lay face down, with my hair on a rock, while someone took another rock and slammed my bangs until the hair fell off.

What else would I need? Toothbrushes. I needed at least one. I would take two and carry the extra in my bra too so I people didn’t know I had another one. Is it my problem if they didn’t think ahead and their teeth fell out?

Let the end of the world come. I was going out in style.

IT COULD ONLY BE A MAN

This year I forayed into a different creative arena—community theater. My husband often thinks I am in the full throws of Alzheimer’s. He constantly accuses me of forgetting things that I know he never told me. I decided that memorizing lines would prove to him that I was not the mentally deficient one in the family. In truth, I learned once again, that there are many men out there who have lost their minds.

I found my evidence in the bathroom. There is no delicate way to say this, so brace yourself. When I went to the bathroom, tucked away behind the stage, I sat down and almost screamed. I was staring into a double sized full length mirror. It was definitely not my best side. Now who would do something so stupid? It had to be a man.

After the first jarring moments however, I could see possibilities for such a decision. You could take the time sitting there to fix your makeup, hair, or maybe even pluck your eyebrows and still make curtain call. Genius or stupidity—hmmm.

The bathroom has always been a tacky subject. When I was growing up and dating, I would rather endure horrific pain than to have to excuse myself for a potty break. Only the very real threat of wetting myself and everything else in the near vicinity made me give in to my shyness. Apparently, my timidity lingers on.

In our huge church building, some genius—it could only be a man, designed the building to have only one men’s and one women’s bathroom. Not only that, but they are tucked away in the same corner, right beside a drinking fountain.

It wasn’t a problem when my children were little. I could take one of them by the hand and pretend they were the ones who had to go. Now I have to brave it by myself. After all, it’s not like I can randomly grab the hand of some child wandering down the hallway.

 Here is the typical visit. First, you greet the group of women standing against the wall chatting. That’s not so bad. It’s greeting the man who inevitably walks up beside you then peels off to the right into the men’s room while you peel left into the women’s, like a great bathroom choreography.

I once overheard a man say that nothing was worse than shaking someone’s wet hand because you knew they had just come out of the bath room. That man has led a sheltered life. I can think of a whole lot of things worse than that. However, our church is famous for it’s handshaking.

Since hearing that comment, I make sure to completely dry every speck of water off my hands before I leave so I can shake hands with the man or men who will inevitably be outside the door. Not that it is any great mystery as to where I was when they see me walk out the door that has WOMEN boldly emblazoned on the outside. After all these years, I still haven’t come up with the perfect ice breaker for moments like that.