Just You Wait
I am not the bravest soul. (See “Fraidy Cat“). I am afraid of downhill skiing, motorcycles, clowns, and – I confess – sushi.
But I summoned up my courage on Monday, and went to the Day-After-Christmas Sales.
The scariest part of D-A-C shopping is the parking lot. I don’t mind parking far away, but just entering the lot is terrifying. Cars pulling in, pulling out, parking so close and crooked that side-view mirrors flinch. And of course the shoppers themselves are trotting between the parked cars with packages and kids swinging in the freezing breeze.
But I had gifts to return. (Not the Alpha Muff Power Combo–I’m keeping that.) But a couple of old-ladyish sweaters. So I pulled into the place with all the scary clown cars trying to kill me, and parked, and left my precious vehicle to fend for itself.
The stores had put out every bit of merchandise from the stockroom, just to make sure you could sort of see everything they had ever ordered in retail history. Only In the tiniest of sizes of course. Except for the boots – boots they had in size eleventeen. Of course, you couldn’t really pull a hanger from the rack to see anything.
And you couldn’t really form a line at the register. You just had to form a ‘cluster’.
Most people dread waiting.
But not me. I love waiting in line. (or clusters.)
In line at the supermarket, I can read trashy tabloids. I can get consumer opinions on what the other guy is buying (“Is that the best brand of blackberry jam? The seediest?”). I can make faces at little kids fidgeting in carts.
In line at the After-Christmas Exchange Free-For-All, I learned about pregnant teenage daughters, and that women who wear size fourteen have husbands who think they are a size ten (which is really sweet), and that my husband isn’t the only guy who buys dopey gifts (which is really reassuring).
I love waiting in general.
I don’t even mind traffic jams. I sing to the radio, or make up stories which I may even write down someday. Or I just chill. I appreciate an enforced slow-down. (Except of course when I need a bathroom. Like when I was caught in the unmoving miles at the end of a weekend on the Cape. (To my friend, Chris, who was with me in the car: I apologize. And I also apologize to all the other vehicles who had the bad fortune to be stuck on the same road as me. I’m sorry for the way I treated you. It may have been thirty-seven years ago, but I am sure you remember me.)
The most stressed-out waiting seems to happen at airports. People just freak when the plane is late. What’s up with that? Planes are always late. And it’s a wonderful thing.
I love long delays. I’ve had to spend the night at the airport hotel where the World Wrestlers (who say they are ‘entertainers’) were staying. I once read two long novels in one uncomfortable chair. I’ve purchased overpriced jewelry in the airport store. Once I missed the plane because the bus-like thing that takes you to the midfield terminal broke down on the runway. With me in it. But I ended up having dinner with a handsome man (don’t worry – that was back when I was single.)
So stop rushing. Take a breath. Read something trivial. Or something deep. Eat chocolate. Don’t worry about being late. It’s not your fault. You are relieved of all responsibility. You have permission to do nothing. It’s not your fault. The flight was delayed.
Waiting frees your mind.
I’ve already decided my perfect retirement hobby. The sport when you appear to be doing something, but where you are really doing nothing. But waiting.
Fishing.
Just What I Always Wanted
Christmas can be a stressful time.
Many folks have trouble sleeping, what with worrying about buying presents, making dinner, travel plans, family issues, etc.
So I think I should apologize for having added to your anxiety.
I’m sure it has been difficult surviving these past few days wondering incessantly:
Did my husband buy my Christmas present at Cabela’s?
Finally the suspense is over.
HE SURE DID!
Since I’ve experienced the spectacle of Cabela’s first-hand, I know that there are a few girly things you could buy there – a NY Yankees lace-collared sweatshirt, powder blue camouflage mittens, silk long johns, even a purse with a secret compartment for packing your ‘piece’.
Do you see what he chose?
Look closer.
Yup… that’s not my present to him. That’s his present to me.
The Alpha Power Muff Combo set.
With 24dB NRR protection.
And not only that! As a bonus it comes with High-Grade Poly-carbonate Eye Protection, with FOUR (count ’em) interchangeable colored lenses.
One of the lens options is pink. That is as feminine as all get-out!
And my sweet guy chose this present for the most loving of reasons. He wants to spend more time with me. Because now we can go to the firing range TOGETHER.
Awww…..
Can you imagine? With a present like this…He TRUSTS me with a GUN?????
A Christmas Mom-ism
This is my Mom and I yesterday at our family’s Eve of Christmas Eve party.
My niece Naomi took the photo. She’s five years old. I think Mom and I look so happy because we are looking at her.
However, I hold Naomi completely accountable for the state of my hair. As far as I’m concerned, being in kindergarten is no excuse for not saying, “Aunt Nancy, fix your hair. You look really stupid.” Get with it, Naomi.
My Mom’s sweater is new. She ordered it from a catalog for something like 95% off. I think when she first ordered it, it may have been 60%. But her savings story has increased exponentially in the past few weeks. I figure by New Year’s Day, J.C. Penney will have paid her to take the sweater.
She’s wearing her new sweater for the first time, although she has shown it to me once or twice in the past few weeks. (or maybe four times)
Last night at the party, I told her that the sweater was very flattering. A beautiful color and fit.
“And slimming,” I added.
“Oh,” Mom said, sounding a little disappointed. “I thought you were going to say ‘sexy’.”
“Mom,” I said, “at eighty-eight, if ‘sexy’ is the look you’re going for, you might not quite get there.”
She answered: “But the camisole is so low-cut.”
A Snow White Christmas
I recently wrote about “Snow White and The Smelly Dwarfs” – but it is Christmas time and I also have a sweet (rather than smelly) Snow White story.
This is an except from my as-yet unpublished novel. It’s a fictionalized account of the Christmas when I was five. But it is not so very fictional… the parents in this story are my own Mom and Dad, and I am the little girl with the Snow White doll.
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“Is my life a waste if I am good at selling clothes? What if this is just what I always wanted?”
Angela smiled in that serene way that makes me want to kiss her on the top of her head. She leaned back in her lawn chair and said to the sky, “What was the best Christmas present that you ever got?”
“The Snow White doll. No question.”
“Do you remember the story of the Snow White doll?”
“Just vaguely,” I answered, although I knew the story like I knew my prayers. But, oh, to hear it again, especially Angela’s version.
“Well,” she began, “that was the year that Mary Ann and I both had whooping cough. Mom wouldn’t leave us, not for a minute. It was just before Christmas, and she couldn’t shop. She had to send Dad out to buy the presents. Dad, who was hard pressed to buy a birthday card for Mom. Remember the time she sent him out for more bows for the Christmas presents and he came back with Hanukkah bows? Mom was beside herself, but he said that they were very pretty and on sale too, and so the Christmas presents that year had red and green paper and blue and white bows…now that I think of it, it may have been the same year…
Anyway, she gave him our Christmas lists that we had written to Santa, and told him to do his best.
On Christmas Eve, it got to be quite late before Mom and Dad started putting our presents under the tree. Mary Ann got the right side, near the piano, and I was on the left, near the door, and your presents were right in the middle, right under the center of the tree. Mom counted every present and made sure we all got exactly the same number of gifts.
‘They’ll count,’ she said, and you know we always did. She actually put away one present for Mary Ann that she saved for her birthday, so it would all be even-steven. She put out books, and games, and lacy socks, and ribbons, and a little horse with hair you could comb for Mary Ann, and a pogo stick for me. Remember that pogo stick? That was my all-time favorite. After everything was laid out and looked so beautiful, Mom sat admiring it all. Then she saw what was missing.
‘Where’s Cynthia’s doll?’ Mom asked Dad.
‘What doll?’ he said. ‘Look at all this great stuff!’
But no, Mom said, ‘Cynthia has to have a doll. She just has to have a doll.’
Well, you were five years old. You had never had a Christmas or a birthday without a doll. And Mom made Dad go out again late Christmas Eve to find a doll. It wasn’t like now, where there’re huge stores all open twenty-four hours. No, everything was locked up tight, and Dad drove around the deserted town looking for any store that might be open. And he finally saw a light. It was Noveck’s Pharmacy, and they were open for ten more minutes. And he bought the Snow White doll.
And he came home with this doll, and Mom gave him cocoa. And took away your crinoline slip and gave it to you for your birthday, so it would all still be even.
The next morning was the best Christmas we have ever had. Dad had interpreted our lists very liberally, and so we got what we had asked for, but in very unexpected ways.
Mary Ann had wanted a Liberace record and a jigsaw puzzle, but she had written it on one line, and Dad actually found a jigsaw puzzle of Liberace. And I got real seashells, when I had asked for seashell barrettes. Oh, we were delighted!
And you! You saw that Snow White doll and it was full-blown love. And when you opened the box and took out the doll, you saw that the cardboard scene behind the doll lifted out. And guess what was behind the cardboard? Why it was all the seven dwarfs. Dad didn’t even know that he hadn’t bought one doll, he bought eight!”
“I’ll love those dolls till the day I die.”
“Do you remember what you said when you saw them? You said, ‘This is just what I always wanted.’”
“It was true.”
“But you had never seen those dolls before. How could they be just what you always wanted?”
“Because I didn’t know it until I saw them.”
“Exactly,” said Angela.
The very same dolls as I received on my fifth Christmas. If they were for sale I would buy them and hold them again. - Image from DollyKruger.Tripod.com
I’m a Good Tipper
Image via Wikipedia
Because I have a pile of presents to wrap, and a tree with lights but no decorations, it’s time for the Holiday Re-Run. Here’s a post from way back when I first started to blog (a whole five months ago) and had few readers. But I liked this one, so I am giving it another chance. I also went to the hairdresser last night, so it’s again appropriate.
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I’M A GOOD TIPPER
Dear Hairdresser:
Before you start, I’d like to share with you just a couple of my little “issues”:
- My face is really round.
- My eyes are close together.
- My eyebrows are going gray.
- I have a short neck, but an extra chin.
- My lips are too thin.
- I’m very pale. Except when I’m tan.
- My hair is fine at the temples, but thick at the back.
- Nobody has no body like me.
- One ear is just slightly lower than the other.
- I’m allergic to one kind of dye, but I don’t remember which one.
- I like my hair a rich, dark brown, or maybe blond. Redheads are nice.
- I like layers, but not too many layers. Or maybe a lot. Or maybe blunt.
- The back of my head is quite flat.
- I have a cowlick back there, so that spot is even flatter.
- The right side of my hair tends to flip up by itself.
- I like bangs. Long, but not too long. And fringy. You know, like that actress. You know… her. But only in that one movie, not the other one.
- I’m not very good with the blowdryer.
- Humidity makes my hair flop.
- Dry weather gives me the static flyaways. Like rubbing a balloon against a sweater.
- I have a photo here of a style I like. It’s longer than my hair, but the right cut might grow into that.
- I want to subtract a few years. Like twenty.
So now we’re ready.
Give me a hairdo that will correct/conceal/complement these few little issues.
I know you can do it.
I’m a good tipper.
O Christmas Pan!
I met my husband in November 1989.
By Christmas we were pretty much living together. We weren’t kids – he was in his forties and I was thirty-eight. So we didn’t see much sense in taking it slow.
Over decades of dating I had learned one thing about love. You’re better off not expecting him to be perfect. Real love is not loving everything he does, but forgiving him for most of what he does.
The following year was the test.
Christmas 1990. We had been together just over a year, and I was just six weeks away from my fortieth birthday. These two events led me to conclude that my Christmas present would be an engagement ring. I was desperate sure.
And that Christmas morning we exchanged gifts. I can’t remember what I gave him. But I remember what he gave me.
A roasting pan.
Oh yeah.
And that’s not all. It seems he did all his shopping in one store – a kitchen store. I got dishtowels too. And an apron. Let me repeat. AN APRON.
I can’t even express how disappointed I was. I knew that he was a sweet guy, and didn’t mean to give me servant’s presents. He was actually excited about the pan. It was big. He likes big.
I smiled through it all, even though my jaw was beginning to hurt.
Then we went to his brother’s house for Christmas dinner. His brother had met his girlfriend about the same time my husband met me.
And guess what his brother’s girlfriend got for Christmas.
Oh yeah.
A diamond ring.
And she was twenty-six. I was thirty-nine. And what comes after thirty-nine? It was bad enough to be a forty-year-old bride, but now I wasn’t even going to be a forty-year-old bride.
“We’re engaged!” That little bit…baby squealed.
That’s when I stopped smiling.
And later that evening, back at home…well, let’s just say I was slightly upset in a moderately loud way.
“You wanted a ring?” he asked, completely surprised.
Oh yeah.
It all ended well enough, I guess. I got my diamond ring six weeks later for my fortieth birthday. And we squeezed in a wedding before the end of the year (November 30, 1991 ) – so I didn’t have to be a forty-one-year-old bride.
My brother-in-law doesn’t even have that wife anymore.
And I have a diamond ring (a big one), and the same husband, and a roasting pan to boot.
But every Christmas, when I take the roast out of the oven, someone inevitably says, “What a great pan.”
I would recommend you not do that.
Snow White and the Smelly Dwarfs
Psychology often smells a little fishy to me:
LiveScience reported a new study published in the European Journal of Personality – a study of human personality scents. Yeah, scents, not sense.
The subjects wore plain white T-shirts for three nights, and were instructed to avoid fragrant products, smoking, drinking, and even smelly food. Then other participants smelled the shirts, and rated the wearer on various personality traits (neurotic, submissive, etc.). And guess what? The smellers identified personality traits as accurately as someone who watched videos of the subjects’ behaviors.
This study (at least the superficial amount I read of it on the internet) didn’t exactly explain what various personalities smell like. But I can make a pretty good guess.
Take, for example, these well-known personalities:
Image via Wikipedia
Yes, what personality traits could be more obvious than for those folks whose names actually tell you what they are? Of course, no one today goes around with a T-shirt that says “Obnoxious” – although that should be a requirement – especially in Texas, for example. But now that I know you can smell a personality, …well, it seems like a very handy skill.
So let’s use our seven dwarfs as a test. (BTW, did you know that ‘dwarves’ is incorrect? It’s ‘dwarfs’ even though that looks weird. So this post is educational in ways other than olfactory.)
Sleepy: I’m sure Sleepy smells like lavender and fresh sheets, and my big cat-hair-enhanced duvet.
Sneezy is easy. Smith Brothers cough drops.
Grumpy. I had a boss once who was very grumpy. I didn’t mind though. I liked it better than the previous boss who was your best friend one day and worst enemy the next. Bipolar people are impossible to work for. Grumpy people are at least consistent. This grouchy guy smelled of Marlboros and Chinese Food. And he couldn’t sneak up on you either.
Bashful is very tricky. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what Shy smells like. When I was afraid, I used to hide in the back of my Grandma’s closet. It was dusty, with a faint aromatic mix of fur coats and old shoes. Maybe Bashful smells like that.
Happy probably has an essence of dark chocolate.
Dopey. I know some dopey creatures. They belong to my brother-in-law. Dopey must certainly smell like wet golden retrievers.
And finally, there’s Doc. Why didn’t Doc get a name that denotes his personality type? My guess is because he named all the other guys. But Doc is logical and practical. He’s a genius. I’m a genius. And I smell like old lady perfume and freshly brewed coffee.
I’m interviewing right now for a job opening in my department. I am thinking I can save a lot of time by skipping the lengthy probing questions. I’ll just smell the applicants.
Let Them Eat Cookies
Usually on the weekend, I bake bread.
I like baking bread. Kneading the dough is very therapeutic. And the house smells fabulous. And of course the bread is delicious.
My Babka
Unfortunately,sometimes I just don’t have time. Like this weekend.
But I threw together some blueberry muffins, so we had a few day’s worth of breakfasts ready. By Tuesday, though, they were gone. We were stuck with Cheerios.
“I’ll pick up some bread today,” offered my husband. Since he is a nice guy.
On Tuesday, Hubby went out to dinner with his brother. They also went shopping (again) at Cabela’s. But that’s okay with me, as long as he is not Christmas shopping for MY present at the big Gala of Guns.
So having the evening to myself, I went out after work. I tried out a Zumba class for the first time. (I’ll write about it eventually…as soon as my heart stops pounding.)
So I get home from Zumba, and find there is a package on the table.
Inside the box, was this:
Italian cookies.
You may have noticed that there was a note on the top of the box.
Obviously these cookies were a hit. The amount left in the box is also a clue.
I bake. My husband does not bake. So I don’t know if he was offering to help or just using the “royal we”.
When my husband got home from Pistol-Packing Paradise the first thing he said was, “Did you see my note?”
I’d been home for two hours, so I had recovered enough from Zumba to gasp, “Yup.”
“They’re really good,” he said. “Try one.”
It usually doesn’t take a lot to get me to try a cookie. But I am not a big fan of Italian almond cookies. Just a little too sweet for my taste. But I took one. (I am very polite.)
And as soon as I chose one, my husband was offended for the ones I didn’t choose. “Why did you choose that one? Don’t you like the other kind?” I guess he knows how sensitive cookies can be.
So I asked him why he would like to try making them.
“Because they were $10.00 a pound.”
He paid $10 a pound for cookies. When he usually goes to Ocean State Job Lot for snacks.
“Where did you get them?” I asked.
“The Italian bakery joint,” he said. “The one with the old lady.”
That narrows it down.
Wednesday morning. My usual routine. Shower, iron (I can’t wear anything not freshly pressed...hey, Freshly Pressed Decider – do you see my reference?), an inordinate amount of time on hair and makeup, and I finally go down to the kitchen for breakfast.
My husband is groggy, but he’s put the coffee on. Since he is a nice guy.
I open the bread box. It’s empty.
“Did you buy bread at the bakery?” I ask.
“No. Just cookies. Was I supposed to buy bread?”
Beyond Clean Underwear: Advice From Mom
Today is my mother’s 88th birthday, so I thought it would be appropriate to re-issue this post from August.
BEYOND CLEAN UNDERWEAR: ADVICE FROM MOM
My mother’s advice extended far beyond bus-proofing my unmentionables.
My mother’s advice was wise, witty, and right.
The first advice I remember her offering – (there were lots of “don’t touch that, you don’t know where it’s been; You’ll put an eye out; Your face will stick that way” warnings) – but this was the first grown-up advice, and it’s a subject dear to my superficial heart:
“Never go to the hairdresser looking like a slob. Always dress up and do your makeup. If you look like you don’t care about your appearance, the hairdresser won’t either.”
Very sensible.
Here are my favorites bits of Mom’s wisdom:
DATING. Mom’s dating advice served me well for many years. Of course it prevented me from marrying for many years too – but that turned out to be a good thing:
“Never play dumb to attract a boy. If he’s intimidated by your brains, you wouldn’t want him anyway.”
And
“Only date generous boys. If he’s cheap when he’s trying to impress you, just think how cheap he’ll be after you’re married.”
MARRIAGE. On the subject of marriage, there was lots of good advice:
“Never marry a doctor.” (This from my mother, the nurse) “They need to exude confidence to reassure their patients, but it spills over into their private lives. They think they know everything.”
“But on the other hand, if you insist on marrying a doctor, go for a dermatologist. They have very steady incomes. Their patients never die, but they never get better either.”
“Never disagree with your husband in public. There will be plenty of time later to tell him how wrong he was.”
and its corollary:
“Never let your kids pit you against your husband. Mom and Dad have to present a united front. It’s a matter of US versus THEM — and YOU (meaning us kids) are THEM.”
“Don’t crowd your husband. Let him go out and have fun. He’ll come home happy. You do the same.”
LIFE. When it came to my personal development, Mom was practical and aspirational at the same time:
“Learn how to cook one thing really well. Serve it when you have company. You’ll look good.”
“Don’t try so hard to be like your sisters. We had you because we wanted something different.”
“You can do anything. You won’t be good at everything, but you can do everything.”
“Learn how to work sick. Life goes on no matter how you feel.”
“If you have to choose between getting a chore done and having fun, pick the fun. Years later, you won’t remember how many chores were done late, just how much fun you had.”
“Be as creative as you want, but also develop a skill to fall back on. I’ve never seen a want-ad for a poet.”
Good advice, right? Take it from a novelist/accountant who’s married to a generous non-physician. And I still get dolled up for a haircut. So does Mom.
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Happy Birthday, Mom
notquiteold 