Are You In?

For all my theater friends……………( and forgive me but I refuse to spell it theatre).  This one is for you.

I had a fantasy today.  A fantasy that came from an early morning dream.  The kind of dream that comes after you hit the snooze button on the alarm clock.  The cat snuggles in for that last eight minutes and purrs you back to sleep.

Almost.  But, not quite.

I dreamed fantasized about a show.  A show just like the ones my friends and I put on in the neighborhood garages when we were kids.  The garage door was the curtain.  The door would go up and the captive audience watched the same show year after year.

Just imagine how glorious this same show would be with all my semi-professional actor friends performing.  My favorite key board player with her masters degree in music playing in the corner! No more skipping record player!

Perfection!

The automatic door button is pressed.  Now, there is an advance on the old days!  The door buzzes up and the show commences.  You too can be featured in a skit that is set in a bar room in the Old West.

There isn’t much dialogue to learn.  You will be dressed in whatever you can scrounge out of your own closets.  Checkered shirts and jeans are a pretty sure bet.  But, you will be provided with spurs made from very sharp old tin cans.

Ching.  Ching.  The cowboys circle each other on the salt stained cement floor of my garage.

These cowboys are itching for a fight.

You must provide your own holster, belt and fake aluminum six shooter by the way.  Cap guns are allowed.

Just imagine studying your one line for hours and hours!  You get to utter “You shot my hoss.  You’ve got to die!”  And, then just like in 1965……………all hell breaks loose.  You utter that infamous line written by my brother almost fifty years ago……………….you spit onto my plastic fake snowman in the corner of the garage……………….and then webbed folding chairs start to fly over your head.

That is the whole script encapsulated for you.  Just the way it was performed year after year on Columbus Street in the 1960’s.  There is lots of room for improvisation.  Go wild!  Just remember to duck when the chairs start flying.

I don’t know if my insurance covers this kind of shit.

Someone can play me at age six.  You will need to have milky white skin.  And, dimpled knees.  Oh, lets just say that every thing on your body needs to be dimpled.  You get to wear a satin leotard decorated with red sequins.  The red sequin color has run onto the white satin of the leotard because somehow………………my mother thought she could actually wash this outfit.

Tap shoes are a must.

You will be featured in the bar room brawl scene.  You will be in the corner doing shuffle ball change.  Over and over.  When the cowboy actors have exhausted all their cowboy moves…………….you will be spot lighted.

You can tap and tap and sing “On The Good Ship Lollipop!” to your hearts content.

Now, the audience.  That’s got me a little worried.  The audience was always made up of mothers.  Willing to sit in the red hot sun to watch this glorious bit of summer garage theater.  I’m getting old.  How many mothers can we come up with?  Is yours still alive?   Can she stand sitting in the sun?  Will she eat our popcorn?  Will she drink our Koolaid?

But, you know what?  I’m all grown up now.  I can do a better concession stand.  I can top popcorn, Koolaid and penny candy!  Imagine chicken on a skewer hot off of the grill.  Mozzarella balls and tomatoes with basil on a stick.  Strawberry spinach salad topped with almonds!

Forget the Koolaid.  I have lots of Chardonnay on hand now a days.

I imagine how impressed my neighbors will be.  They’ll be too cheap to buy a ticket for ten cents.  Just like the old days.  They will fake power walk by my house.  They’ll pretend to check their fitbits but they’ll really be trying to see what is going on in my garage.

Why are there cowboys bashing each other over the heads with lawn furniture to the tune On The Good Ship Lollipop they’ll wonder.

Perhaps they will arrive late and pay their ten cents.  All in the hopes that maybe I will lend them my new power washer.

So, this morning…………….while the cat purred me almost back to sleep………..I envisioned it all.

The same awful show we put on every summer as kids………………..with real………….adult………..talented actors playing the parts.  Oh.  My.  God!

It would be glorious!

And, a very good reason for me to finally clean out my garage.

Private message me if you want a part. No audition necessary.   This could be so much fun!

Note:  Stage Manager Needed since I have two garage doors.

 

 

 

Lullaby and Goodnight: For My Mother

I write lots of stories.  I tell the truth because I promised my mother that I would.  Some stories contain fiction.  Even fiction can be full of truth.

Lots of these stories feature my parents.  Especially, my father.  Oh, he was as special as I make him out to be.  He understood me very well.  And, when he didn’t?  He showed patience.  He had faith that I would show him the way.

My mother……………oh where to start with my mother.  She was my everything.  She was part me and I was part her.  She gave me a hard time.  She expected a lot out of me.  But, in the end……….she knew exactly who I was from the minute I was born.

She cherished me.

My mother would put me to bed when I was a little girl.  Sometimes she’d tell me a story about when she was a young girl.  She introduced me to her mother this way.  I would never get to meet this lady.  Still………she was very real to me.

She told me stories of being a little girl with lots of brothers and sisters.  She told me that in the winter time when she shared a bed………….she slept in the middle.  In the summer she slept on the outside.

She was one smart little girl.

She taught me to read.  She would read the same story book to me every night.  I got to the point where I would point out the words as they came out of her mouth.  I ended up reading the words out loud to her.

She told me in every family there was a great cook.  Would that be me?  I told her no.

She said that in every family there was a person that swam like a mermaid.  Would that be me?  I told her no.

Mommy told me that once in every generation came a beautiful singing voice.  Would that be me?  I told her that I would sing but no……….it wouldn’t be me.

That one skipped a generation.

An artist is born into every family.  Could that be me?

No.  I liked to draw but I didn’t feel like I had to.

“What do you have to do, Little Girl?” she would ask me as she rocked me in my bed.  As she stroked my hair with her chin.

“I need to tell stories, Mommy.” I said to her.

“You need to?” she asked.

“Yes.  I have to.” I answered.

“And, will you tell the truth with these stories?” she wondered.

“Why would I lie?  But you know, Mom.  Some stories are made up.  They come from your mimagination.  You do know that bears don’t really live in houses.  Right?” I counseled her.

“Tell me a story right now.  Tell me the story of what will happen when you open your eyes tomorrow.” she said in a quiet voice.  She thought I was almost asleep.

“I will open my eyes tomorrow.  And, the bedroom will be full of light because I slept so late.  I will  hear you talking in the kitchen with Daddy.  I won’t be able to tell what you’re saying but I will hear you laugh.  I will get up and Daddy will say “I was starting to worry about you, Little Girl.  Because, you slept so late.”I started.

My mother laughed because that sounded exactly like what my Daddy would say.

“There will be a dozen doughnuts on the table.  Some of them will be gone but not my favorite.  There will be a great big jelly doughnut with powdered sugar on it.  And, a cup of tea.  It won’t be too hot.  It won’t be too cold.  It’ll be just right.” I continued.

“Just like the Three Bears.” commented my mother.  “Not too hot.  And, not too cold.”

“That’s right.” I replied.

“Little girls shouldn’t drink tea.” my mother added.

“They do in my story, Mom.  And, then Daddy will say he has to go to Floyd’s Market.  And, would I like to come along with him.? And, I will.  And, he’ll give me a quarter to spend on penny candy.  I will fill a bag up.  And, I will buy some hard strawberry candies.  I don’t like them.  But, you do.” I told my mother as she tucked the blankets around my feet.

“And, then what happens in your story?” my mother wondered.

“When we come home there will be a blanket under the apple tree.  And, all my dolls will be sitting around the blanket.  And, I will share peanut butter sandwiches with them.  And, apples.  Cut up.  Without the seeds.  And, I will lie under the apple tree and read story books to my dolls.” I ended with.

“Well, that is a wonderful story.” my mother whispered in my ear.  “If only it could all come true.”

I drifted off to sleep.

The next day……………she made it all come true.

 

 

Christmas Edition

There is power in the stories I tell.  There is power in the stories that you tell.  The strongest impact is made when your heart beats along with another.  A description is painted with realness.  A narration is sealed by truth.

That’s when your story becomes the story of those around you.

I was born a storyteller.  I have natural talent.  But, I wanted to be taught.  I wanted to improve.

I signed up to be an English Major in college.  With a concentration in Journalism.  I did this because it was what I was good at.  My parents pursed their lips and paid the tuition.  My mother thought I was destined to be a wife and a mother. Or, a teacher if I needed a paycheck.  My father thought my intellect and problem solving skills should have gone into the Engineering program.

I knew many students a year or so older than I was.  I knew they changed majors.  I was aware that I could change my mind if I found myself expending my energy in the wrong direction.

I struggled with classes like Geography.  I sweat my way through Volleyball.  I thought that was a bit ridiculous.  I was in college and I had to take gym classes?  I held my breath and I cut up frogs and passed Biology.

The end of the first semester was upon us.  Little Christmas trees appeared in dorm room windows. The cafeteria strung lights and decorated every dessert with a bright red cherry on top.

We got down to exam week.  The dorms were half empty.  I was there until the end waiting for an exam in Geography.  My room mate gave me a little gift and a kiss and got whisked away by her parents.

I cleaned our room.  I did my laundry.  I went to the cafeteria with the few friends that were left and ate things with cherries on top.

I had about three days left until my Daddy came to pick me up and spring me from my first semester of college.  The dorm elevator dinged and let me out onto my floor.

I stood facing the huge mirror in the common room.  “Congratulations Darlene!  You go girl!” was printed in poster paint on the huge shining glass.

I stared at it in confusion.

Darlene is not a common name.  I hadn’t met any others on our floor of the dormitory.  This must be meant for me.

I looked around the sixth floor common room  It was empty. A skinny artificial tree blinked in the corner.  It was a sad representation of the season with no ornaments nor skirt around the bottom.  Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye sang about snow on the television in the other corner.  Empty pizza boxes littered the large industrial coffee table in front of the hard sofas.

I knocked on the first door.  It was a single room and held the hall monitor.  The girl that lived within was given free room and board to answer her door whenever a knock occurred.  She dealt with weeping and drunken females.  She was the one that got sick girls to the Health Center.  I’d never had need of her before.

She answered the door.  She gave me a smile and a big hug.  I thought that was uncalled for.  I removed myself from her embrace and asked “Are you the one that put my name up on the mirror?”

“Yes!  We’re all so excited for you.  We’ve never seen a freshman get the front page before. Oh.  My.  God.  You are so talented.  Tell me…………….is the Little Girl you?  I could see your living room.  I could hear your mother’s voice. And, your father’s.  Have you really really met Santa?  Oh.  My.  God.  I’m just so excited for you!” she said as she danced around in front of me.

Okay.  This young woman was sweet. But, I was a little afraid of her at this point.  Because, she was making no sense to me whatsoever.

“Could you stop jumping around?  And, tell me what you’re talking about?  Because, I have no clue what you’re celebrating.  Front page?  Little Girl?  Santa?  What are you going on about?” I asked as I petted her arm.

I petted her because this is the way I figure you calm down nut cases.

She picked up the college newspaper.  The one I wouldn’t be allowed to write an article for another two years.  No Underclassmen Allowed.  She waved it in my face as she jumped up and down on her bed.

I grabbed it out of her hands and stared at the front page.

They’d gone all out for the Christmas edition.  The edge of the newspaper was done up in green holly with little red berries.  An illustrator had done a lovely picture of a little girl looking out a picture window with her chin on her hand.  A silhouette of Santa and his reindeer skid across the moon.

After I had appreciated the picture for a few seconds ………………..I looked down at the title of the story that took up page one and continued on to page two.

“Christmas On Columbus Street”.

With my name on the byline.

“Do you still have the Kissy doll that you got that Christmas?  Did you like the Kissy doll or the typewriter best?” asked the monitor.

“Can I keep this?”I asked.

“Of course!  I picked up a copy for every room.  There is a big stack of them at the front desk downstairs. ”  she was saying as I closed her door in her face and proceeded down to my own room.

I unlocked my empty room.  I missed my roommate.  I plugged in my little miniature Christmas Tree and took a can of soda out of the mini refrigerator.

I popped the top and sat down to read my own story.

It was pretty good. Perhaps, a little over the top with the sentimentality. I had written it in October.  I had pulled ‘Christmas Story: Teach Santa A Lesson’ out of the hat that day in class.

I had been homesick in October.  I had worked on a short story in the dark empty basement library of my dorm.  It was the only place I could find the peace to write such a long piece. It was the only area I knew where my typing into the wee hours wouldn’t bother anyone.

I had typed away far into the night.  I had gotten a B on this story.  My professor said she thought the ending could use a little work.  I had refused to budge on the ending.  That story had ended just the way I wanted it to.

She thought the ending left a few questions unanswered.

I told her I did that on purpose.  I was leaving the mystery of Christmas firmly in place.

I picked up my phone and dialed.  I caught a secretary in the English Department working late.  I set up an appointment with my professor who was also my advisor for the next morning.

At 8:30 a.m. the next day I walked into my advisor’s office and threw that newspaper onto her desk.

I’m a bit crabby in the morning.  Any charm that I possess does not appear until noon.

“Could you explain this to me?” I asked.  “How does a story that I wrote end up on the front page of the college newspaper without my permission?”

“Well, good morning to you too.” she said with a laugh.

“I don’t do mornings.” I said in a gruff tone.  This was many years before I discovered coffee.

“Permission?  Of course, I have your permission.  The first day of class I explained to all the students that anything you write for me…………..if it is deemed fit………….may end up in the school newspaper.  Which I’m Editor of.  You signed the paper. The first day of class.  A paper.  You signed it.  Giving your permission?” she sputtered out.

“I missed the first day of classes.” I told her.  “I was in the infirmary getting medicated for a sinus infection.  I never signed anything like you’re describing.”

The professor got a funny look on her face.  Her hand fluttered at her throat like she was  having a difficult time breathing.  She opened the bottom left drawer of her desk and she brought out a big binder.

She started flipping around through the pages.  They looked like legal documents.  Documents that I’d never seen before.

“You’re not going to find one of those with my signature on it.” I told her.  “I never signed any such document.  You can stop looking.  It doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, my God!  I’m so sorry.  I had no idea.  We don’t usually do short fiction on the front page of the Christmas edition.  But one of the junior editors mentioned how homesick college kids get right before Christmas.  And, I thought of your story.  They all sat around the table and read it.  They voted right then and there.  This story was our front page.  I didn’t mention it to you because I wanted it to be a big surprise.  Our top illustrator read it that day and started sketching out that picture at the meeting.  He was like possessed.  Oh, my God!  I’ve done this all wrong.” she finished with her voice in a tiny squeak.

I sat down and stared at her over her desk.

The woman was totally freaked out.  She was imagining lawyers yelling in her face.

“Alright.” I said.  “It’s going to be alright.  I was just a little more surprised than you’d imagined.”

She sat up straighter in her chair.  Her future stopped zipping in front of her eyes.

“Oh, you can’t imagine the great feedback I’ve been getting on your story.  People are loving it!  They’re eating it up!  You hit just the right note for the weeks leading up to Christmas.  People are remembering what it was like to write a letter to Santa.  And, Little Girl’s conversation with Santa?  It’s what every one of us wishes we had spoken to him about.  Little Girl spoke as a child but she asked the questions we adults wish we could ask.  Just brilliant.” she said to me.

I listened to her gush.  I understood the importance of Christmas.  The belief in Santa.  How hard it is to let that belief go when you’re no longer a child.  I had poured that into the story.

“You gave me a B. ” I said with a stony face.  I hid my joy at my story’s review.  “Not an A.  Just a B.”

“I’ll change that grade to an A.  Gladly.  If you’ll just answer one question.” she said as she stared intently at me from across her desk.

“That depends on the question.” I answered.

“When you woke up…………” she started.

“When Little Girl woke up.” I corrected.

“Yeah, sure.  When Little Girl woke up in the chair next to the Christmas Tree.  She sees Santa unloading his pack.  She has a conversation with him.  A conversation that he thinks she will think is just a dream………………..Little Girl is intent on getting a Kissy doll like she asked for.  Santa is intent on giving Little Girl a typewriter.  He says that someday she’s going to be a writer.  She’ll write stories about Santa himself……………I’m confused.” said the professor.

“About what?”  I asked.

“Did Little Girl want the doll the most?  Or, the typewriter?” asked my teacher.

“Both.” I answered.

“Both?” the teacher asked as she almost tipped out of her chair.

“Little Girl was ten years old.  She was a little mother.  She loved her dolls.  She wanted Kissy more than anything else in the world.  She only asked for one thing.  A Kissy doll.  Little Girl woke up to Santa leaving her a type writer.  Santa was leaving that for the girl she would be some day.  The woman that would write books about Santa.  Little Girl talked him into leaving her both.”

“Are you Little Girl?” asked the professor as she stared intently into my face.

“What do you think?” I asked.

I left her office.  I left her in suspense.  She had to have some kind of punishment for printing my story without my permission I supposed.

A few days later my Daddy picked me up for the holiday.  I went home and worked a few shifts.  I slept a lot.  I went Christmas shopping.  I baked cookies.  I listened to Christmas music and set up the Christmas Village under the picture window.

Christmas morning came. My parents and I exchanged gifts.  I handed them each a copy of the college newspaper.  The tree lights blinked in the corner.  The snow fell outside the living room windows.  The only sound was the cat snoring.

They both read.  They both wiped tears from under their eyes.  My mother looked up at me and said “I guess you’re a writer.  You’re not going to be a teacher?”

I just smiled at her in answer.

My father looked up and said “Front page, Little Girl.  Front page your first time out?  Well, that’s something!”

“And, who is that story about, Daddy?” I asked.

“Well, it’s all about you, Little Girl.  It’s all about us.” he answered.

“I remember that Christmas.” he added.

“It’s all about you, Daddy!  I caught you good that year.” I said softly to him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Polish With A Capital P

I suppose English must be a difficult language to learn.  We have words that have double meaning.  Different pronunciation.  Confusing. The sentences “I read the newspaper already.  Would you like to read it?” could have a student learning English scratching their head.

English is easy except when it’s not.

I had a great room mate in college.  She was from a city where the girls toughened up early.  She had a mouth on her.  She used colorful language in front of her parents.  They didn’t even blink an eye when she’d shout blue words in their faces.

I found her to be intriguing and just a little bit scary.

By the end of a semester………we’d be a little bit on each other’s nerves.

We were both tired from studying.  We were both tired of the cafeteria food.  The cafeteria was obviously trying to use up certain foods before their sell by dates.

My room mate came from a nice Polish family.  Her parents didn’t have accents but her grandmother certainly did.  Granny did all the holiday cooking.  She made great Polish dishes.

I was trying to finish up a paper.  I did a lot of writing as I was a Journalism Major.  My roomie was obviously done studying for the day.  She was in the mood to talk about all the delicacies she was going to eat when she got home.

A cafeteria that was trying to use up thousands of hamburger patties in a few days can do that to you.  It makes you dream about the food that Granny must be preparing.  Right now.  At this very minute.

I sighed as I tried to proof read the same paragraph for the tenth time.

I told her that I needed quiet for just another ten minutes.  And, then we could go to the cafeteria and eat more hamburger patties together.

She shut her mouth for two minutes.

Then she kicked back and started a lengthy dissertation on how to make home made Kielbasa.

I put my fingers in my ears as she went on about what herbs and spices her Granny used.  I heard a muffled account of grinding up the meat.  I think she said something about fennel seeds.

That’s when my eyes fell on the bottles and emery board on the edge of my desk.  I had left them there after I had done my nails the night before.

I got up and stretched out my back.  I unscrewed the top of the nail polish remover.  I took a cotton ball and wet it with the stinky stuff.  I went over to my roomie’s bed.  I grabbed her by the hand and started to wash her arm with the cotton ball dipped in acetate.

She sat up quickly.  She tried to pull her arm away from me.  The stink of the stuff filled the air.

She stopped talking about Kielbasa.  Instead she screamed “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I pointed to the bottle.  I underlined the words Polish Remover with the cotton ball.

“Well, the bottle says Polish Remover.  I was kind of hoping this would make you disappear.”

 

 

 

Am I Writing A Book?

I’m on empty.

My husband enjoyed his dessert in front of his computer.  He stretched as if to measure how much energy he has left in his body.

“Do you want to watch an hour of TV before I go to bed?  Or, are you writing tonight?” he asked with his back to me.

“Sure.  I’ll watch some TV with you.” I replied.  “I’m on empty.”

He got quiet.  He turned around slowly in his computer chair.  The left wheel squeaks loudly when he does this.

He stared at me as I sat in front of my own computer.

“What do you mean…………….you’re on empty?” he inquired.

“As in……………….empty.  Nothing there.  Done.  Kaput ” I murmured as I tapped at the keyboard answering an email.

Things got very very quiet behind me.

I felt him staring at the back of my head.

I turned around and asked “What is your problem?  The face on you!  Go take a gander at yourself in the mirror!”

I giggled at him and turned back to my screen.  I signed my name and sent an email out into the world of internet and stars and clouds.

“You’re on empty…………..as…………you’re done writing.  You have nothing left to say.  All your stories have been written…………….wow.  You didn’t give me any warning.” he proclaimed to the white cat walking over to her food dishes.

“Today!  I’m on empty today!  I was on empty for a month…………….and then I wrote every day for two weeks.  It comes and it goes.  There’s nothing to panic about, honey.  I’ve written over 300 stories.  I’ve done what I wanted to do.  Tomorrow could start another rush.” I said to placate him.

“Or, I could be on empty.” I said quietly.

“It’s time you turn this stuff into a book.” he said with conviction.

“Lots of time and effort.” I said as I looked at a video of a friend’s baby giggling.  I giggled along with the baby.

“A book, Darlene!  Do you have enough stories for a book?” he wanted to know.

“Oh, I have enough for six books by now.” I answered as I watched two cats ringing bells for treats on Youtube.

It seems my husband was having a serious conversation with me without my knowing it.

I noticed this when he sighed loudly enough for me to turn around and look at his distressed face.

“You want a book?” I asked.  “A book.  I’ve written a book times ten.  I’ve gone about it a different way.  I write a story and I post it in my blog.  My readership is very small.  I have no idea if these stories have any meaning past the gang that grew up in the same town.  A book would be a compilation of stories from my blog.  Is there a market for that?  Give it away for free and then ask someone to pay for it?” I said to him in all earnestness.

“If you print the stories…………..in a book……………would you take them off of your blog?” he asked.

“Yes, I would.” I answered.  “That would only be fair to the people that are willing to pay for them.”

But, heck.  What do I know?

“So, you’ve thought about this.” he asked.

“You’re forcing me to.  Right at this very minute.”  I answered.

‘You always told me that my urging you to write a book stopped you from doing it.  You couldn’t accomplish it with anyone else and their expectations getting in your way.  So, you don’t want to write a book?” he said in confusion.

“Oh, honey.  I have written books.  I have written over 325 stories.  I have the ability to put those stories together in any way I please.  I can hire an illustrator.  I don’t know that it’s necessary.” I explained.

“I have no idea if anyone would buy it if I went to all that effort.” I finished with.

“So, ask them.” he said.

 

 

 

Stinky Swim

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My mother didn’t drive.  My father worked a lot.  But, somehow she got to where she wanted to go when she wanted to go.

My mother would sit at the kitchen table clutching her purse in her lap.  She didn’t ask my father to drive her anywhere.  He was always busy fixing something around the house.  Or, he’d be in the garage tinkering with his car.

“Get your father into this room.” she would order me.

So, somehow I’d get my father into the kitchen.

He’d take one look at his woman dressed to go and clutching her purse.  He’d wash his hands in the sink and he’d splash cold water onto his face.  He’d swipe the car keys out of the basket that lived on top of the refrigerator.

“Where would you like to go, Ellie.? I was thinking it’s a good time to take a drive.” he’d say to her.

No matter what he had been doing.  No matter what she was interrupting.

That day I found myself with them.  Down at Grants in the Parkade.  I found myself trying on bathing suits.   My mother would stick her head around the trying room curtain and take a gander at me in a suit.

“Nope.  Not that one.  Half your butt is hanging out the back.  Time enough for that when you’re a teenager.” she’d say to me as she’d throw another suit in  my direction.

I heard my parents discussing bathing suits as I tried them on.

“I like the two piece blue and the one piece red with little black flowers.” my mother said to Daddy.

“One bathing suit, Ellie.  One.  You don’t go swimming with her that often.  By the time she wears it again she’ll have outgrown it.  One suit, Ellie.  One.” my father decreed.

My father’s eyes were rolling into the back of his skull by the time my mother chose the one suit that she liked on me.

Yes, I worded it that way on purpose.  I was ten years old and I got no vote.  I knew it.  I didn’t struggle.  I didn’t even know why I needed a new bathing suit.

I was very surprised at my mother’s choice.  It was a cute two piece bathing suit that looked like denim with white laces decorating the edges.  I liked it a lot.  I shut my mouth.

The next day my mother told me to put my new bathing suit on.  She sat me at the kitchen table and put a beach towel in front of me.  She packed a little cooler with sandwiches and cold drinks.

And, then she sat at the table with her purse and stared at the clock.

My auntie and little cousin pulled up into the driveway.  We joined them in the car.  It seems we were all going to a nearby pond to go swimming and get some sun.

Mom brought the food.  Auntie brought the blanket and the sand chairs.  Most importantly……………she brought the car and her driver’s license.

We stopped along the way because Auntie wanted to buy us all something icy to drink.  They were called Slushies and were new to all of us.  We got to the pond just about the same time as the brain freeze set in.

The ladies set up their stuff on the sandy beach.  They picked a spot that was half shade from the trees and half sun.  My mother would always let the sun touch her legs but never her face.  We were very lucky to find such a spot.

My mother was a great swimmer.  But, she hardly ever did it.  She would shoo children into the water and watch from the beach.  She was always much more interested in uninterrupted girl talk with her sister in law than she was with splashing around.

I played in the water close to the shore with my little cousin.  She was too little to take out too far.

I picked up something from the shore.  I had never seen anything like it before.  It was a small pod like plastic container.  Whatever had been printed on the top had worn off.  I gave it a squeeze.

Week old creamer in a little plastic cup sprayed all over me and my new bathing suit.

My mother could smell it from where she was.

“Jesus!  What is that stink?” she screeched.  I dropped the plastic onto the sand.

She came up to me and took a deep sniff.  She had left her slushy behind.  The one that she had been enjoying very much.

“Oh, my God.  You smell awful.  Get into that water.” she said as she pointed towards the deeper section of the pond.

“Rita!  Do you still have that little bottle of baby shampoo you always carry in your purse for some God forsaken unknown reason?” she asked over her shoulder.

My Auntie rummaged through her purse the size of a Volkswagen Beetle and handed her the small bottle of shampoo.

I noticed that Auntie didn’t hang around for long and that she was holding her nose closed with her fingers.   She even grabbed my little cousin in her floatie that looked like a yellow duck and hauled her about ten feet away from us.

My mother was about to get wet.  Maybe you don’t understand.  This woman was a champion swimmer.  But, she was always too concerned about who was looking………..who was watching…………..who would say what about her…………….to get wet in front of actual people.

She took me out to the water that was up to my shoulders.

“Take off your top.” she said to me.

“What?” I squirmed as I screamed.

“No one is looking at you.  The water will hide that you’re not wearing anything on top.  That putrid milk hit you in the chest.  You smell God Awful!  Take off that top and I’m going to wash it with this shampoo.  We have got to get rid of that smell.  I can’t put you into your Aunt’s car smelling like this.  So.  Take.  Off.  That.  Damn.  Bathing.  Suit.  Top.” she ordered.

I got half naked under the water.

She lathered up that bathing suit with the shampoo.  She rinsed.  I ducked in the water up to my chin.  I glared at any other swimmers getting too close to our little naked laundromat.

She soaped and rinsed and repeated about four times.  Meanwhile my aunt was busy corralling the little floating duck that kept trying to get too close to our stinky business.

My mother took one final sniff and was satisfied.  She threw the top over my head and hooked it up in the back.

She went to walk away from me.  Back to her raspberry slushy.  Back to girl talk.

“Mommy?” I said to stop her.

“What?” she said as she turned around and took another sniff of me.

“Now that you’re wet and all………….will you teach me how to swim?” I asked.

She sighed deeply.  She took a look at the sand chair that she wanted to be sitting in.  She gazed at my Auntie.  The font of gossip from her last trip to Worcester.  Her melting cold drink.

“Rita!  What time do you have to be home?” asked my mother.

“He’s working a double shift.” said my Auntie.  “We can spend the whole night if you want us to.”

“Bring me my drink would you?  The girl wants to learn to swim.” she said.

My mother grabbed me and laid me out flat in the water.  She put her hand under my stomach.  She instructed me to kick my feet.

“Put your toes together.  Pretend your feet are fins.  You’ll get further faster that way.  Okay, get your arms going.  Cup your hands and move the water that way.  Get your face out of the water.  I’ll teach you to breathe while swimming next time.  And, next time I need you to promise me not to smell like a skunk.  You think you can do that for me?” she asked at the top of our hour long swimming lesson.

“I promise.  As long as we go back to Grants and buy the red bathing suit with black flowers on it.  This one still stinks to me, Mom.  I don’t think we’ll ever get the smell out.” I said as I used my arms and kicking legs to power away from her.

She sucked her drink dry.  She smiled and said “Well, you do look nice in red.  What time is Grants open til’, Rita?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mothering

Summer means bare feet to me.

There are some kids you can’t keep clothing on.  You turn your back for a minute?  When you turn back around you find your child stark naked wearing nothing but a smile.

I had no problem with clothing.  But, shoes?  I wasn’t interested in footwear when I was a kid.

I stepped on a nest of wasps on the way home from Waddell School pool when I was about ten years old.

The burning was unimaginable.  I limped home and lay down on the kitchen floor.

My mother came around the corner and gave me her look.

She didn’t get too worked up when she’d find me in a heap.  I had a big streak of drama in me from a very early age.

“What the hell do you imagine is wrong with you?” she asked in a calm voice.

“I stepped on a nest of wasps.” I whispered from the floor as I stared at the ceiling.

“Son of a bitch!” she screamed as she ran for her first aid kit.

No kidding.  My body has a serious aversion to bug bites.  I didn’t stop breathing but this wasn’t going to be pleasant.

Mom had her own way of dealing with skin problems.  There was lots of hot water baths.  Corn starch.  Desitin ointment.  Sleeping with your foot up on a footstool installed at the bottom of your bed.

She had to come up with her own home remedies because I was a bit of a freak of nature.  When it came to bug bites.

But, even I had her fooled sometimes.  I could get attacked by bugs.  Bees.  Wasps.  The initial reaction didn’t look all that bad or out of the ordinary.  Oh, just let me sleep on it.  You want to see swelling?  You want to go into a motherly panic?  Just wait twelve hours.

I had stepped into a nest of wasps.  My mother thought she had it all figured out.  Stick my foot into some ice.  Give me some aspirin.  Feed me some soup.  Tell me to quit the frigging whining.  Let me sleep on the couch that night.  Let me watch the late late movie which was something almost PG.  Stick an orange popsicle in my mouth on the half hour.

She thought she had this covered.

Ha!

My mother the night owl was at peace.  She was reading her third newspaper at 1 am.  All was right with the world.  Or, so she thought

She looked up to find ten year old Darlene leaning nonchalantly against the fireplace.  I tapped the glass on the mantle piece clock with my finger.

She should have noticed that I was balanced on one foot.

“Get back on that couch.” my mother ordered.  Full time mothers need some time off.  One o’clock a.m. is definitely off limits to people under the age of eighteen.

I ignored her.   I tapped the glass on the clock again.  If I had a pipe I would be smoking it.

“Is it the same time here as it is in London, England?” I asked in my best Australian accent.

My mother stared me in the eyes although I didn’t register it.

“What?  What the HELL are you going on about?  Get off of that foot and get back onto that couch!” my mother ordered.

“What the HELL is the matter with you, woman?  This is a simple question.  And, it deserves a simple and direct answer!” I bellowed.  If I had a three piece suit on………….I would be tugging on the lapels of my vest right about then.

Indignation!

My mother threw her newspaper onto the floor and jumped up from her recliner.  She stood in front of me and stared deeply into my eye balls.

“Get.  Onto.  That.  Couch.  Right. Now!” she said into my face from an inch away.

I jumped around on one foot.

“Why can’t you answer the frigging question, woman!  I know you know the answer!  Are you pulling some kind of power trip on me?  I want to know it.  You know the answer but you  refuse to answer me?  What kind of person are you?” I screamed at her.

My mother told me later…………….she almost passed out at that moment.

She grabbed me by the shoulders.  My mother looked me deeply in my eyes and said “I don’t know what time it is in London right now.  You are in Manchester and you have got to get back onto that couch.  You have a fever and you’re not making any sense right now.  Can you get back to the couch?  I don’t think I can carry you anymore!” she said in a bit of a panic.

“Do you understand me?” my mother shouted in a very panicked voice.

I snapped out of it.  I came to but I remembered quite well grilling her about the time in London.  I looked down at my foot and started to hop.

I hopped to the couch.  I lie down.  My mother felt my forehead and groaned.  She lifted my foot towards the light of the lamp.  She groaned again.

My foot was a round ball of swelling

She got an ice bag.  She duck taped it to my foot.  She put aspirin in my mouth.  She made me swallow.  And, then she split a cheese sandwich with me because she knew my stomach couldn’t stand aspirin.  She lay me down on the upholstered pillows and tucked an afghan around me.

I woke up six hours later.  My foot wasn’t screaming in pain anymore.  It dully ached and itched.  But, my left arm was numb and tingling.

That was because my mother was asleep on the floor next to me holding my hand.

 

 

 

Songs That Pain Me

I perform in musicals now and then.  I like musicals.  I don’t love all musicals.

I especially love the Overture.  The musicians let you know it is almost time when they warm up their instruments.  That sound always makes goose pimples appear on my skin.

Then the Overture starts and I have a hard time sitting still.  The taste of some of my favorite songs excites me.  The Overture calls me to my place when I’m in a show.  I slow my heart rate and prepare myself to become another person.  I have a hard time keeping my seat as an audience member.

I like music just fine. I do not always have a radio on in the car or in the house however.  I suppose it’s because I need to get something done.  Something written.  It’s the way my brain works.  I am not a multi-tasker when it comes to music.  I want to stop what I’m doing…..what I’m thinking and listen.

Just listen.

I’m the person that has to shut off the radio in the car when I’m trying to decide which exit to take.

There are a few songs that cause me pain.  Yes, physical pain even if it is phantom pain.

“Bridge Over Troubled Water” hits me in the abdomen.

I was in seventh grade and had the worst cramps in my life.  Music class was the last class of the day.  I would sit through this class and get on the bus to go home and be miserable in my bed.  I didn’t bother going to the nurse’s office because the day was almost done.

The music room was terribly hot that day.  The chairs were very hard.  The teacher wasn’t going to teach on this day.  He was busy with a stack of paper work on his desk.  I think he had forgotten something that he had to turn in by the end of the day.

Progress reports?  Something like that.

I sat in the hard chair and my lower back ached.  I felt like a had a pain filled football inside of me.  That is the day that I decided to always have a bottle of aspirin in my purse.  Because, I sure could have used it right about then.

The music teacher put a new song on his record player.  ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’.  And he played it over and over and over again for the entire class period.  He really didn’t give much explanation about why he was doing this.

He might say “Listen to the lyrics this time.” as he started the needle at the beginning again.

It was the longest most agonizing hour of my life.

That song makes me shudder now.  It is a fine song but I can no longer listen to it.

‘Everybody Wants To Rule The World’.  Just the intro to that song makes me have to sit down and compose myself.  I remember feeling like I was paralyzed.

I was strapped down to the operating table.  I was paralyzed from the chest down because that was the doctor’s plan.  The only way that I could be awake during the c-section that brought my son into this world.

Oh, I was willing to be knocked out like the last time I had given birth this way.  But, I chose to stay awake and be numb from the arm pits down………….for my husband.  This was the only way that he could witness his son being born.

What’s the problem?  I couldn’t feel anything…………so what’s the problem?

Oh, you could still feel things.  Not pain exactly.  But, the loss of feeling in most of your body is a very horrible and upsetting thing.  Even when it preceeds the moment of your child’s birth.

The big baby boy was pulled out of me.  I could see that much.  My husband jumped off of his stool.  The nurses and surgeons stared at him until he took his seat again.

The instrumentals of ‘Everybody Wants To Rule The World’ blasted at me over the cold air in the room.

Everybody noticed the song start in that stark moment.  It’s a song about war.  They joked about what kind of sign was this?  A song about aggression playing at the moment of my son’s birth.  A baby that was so mellow he couldn’t be bothered to cry.

They were joking about a song and ignoring me.

“Why isn’t my baby crying?” I asked quietly the first time.

Nothing.

“Why isn’t my baby crying?” I yelled quite a bit louder over the sound of the radio.

A nurse came over to me with her hands in the air.  She looked me in the face and she smiled.  I think she smiled.  She was wearing a face mask.

“Your baby boy is perfect.  He is just pretty mellow.  He doesn’t find being born upsetting at all.  But, I bet we’re going to hear his voice when I start to clean him up.” she assured me.

So, now you know why I feel a squirt of adrenaline and desperation when I hear that song.  It makes me feel wobbly.

My husband hears the same song.  He gets a big grin on his face.  He was sitting way up high on a stool in that operating room.  He saw his son at the moment of his birth.  He could see that he was big and strong and kicking.  That song on the radio gives him a rush of happiness.

“Do you remember?” he will ask.  “This song was playing the second that Andy was born.”

“Oh, I remember alright.” I answer.

I keep my feelings to myself and let him enjoy the song.   The on top of the world memories that come to him when he hears it.

I was willing to be temporarily paralyzed so that my husband could love that song after all.

 

 

 

 

 

Songs That Must Be Sung

 

I woke up this morning and smacked the snooze button on my alarm clock.

I fell back on my pillow.  The cat stood expectantly next to my head.  Breakfast?  You’ll feed me breakfast now her sweet little face asked.

I groaned and moaned and put a pillow over my head.  Not because I was still sleepy.  Not because I had a head ache but because there was a song stuck in my head.

My brain was playing Richard Harris singing MacArthur Park to me on this gray and cold morning.

What the hell?

MacArthur’s Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don’t think that I can take it
‘Cause it took so long to bake it
And I’ll never have that recipe again
Oh no!

Why do I know this song?  Did Richard Harris really record it? (Oh, yes he did.  And in a big poll it was voted ‘Worst Song Ever Recorded’.)

Why, Richard Harris?  I have no idea why he was allowed to sing in Camelot.  I sure as heck don’t know why he was singing about a cake melting in the rain in my head.

I asked the cat.  She didn’t know.  She suggested Wikipedia.

I didn’t bother with Wikipedia at that point.  Because, the internal concert was just starting.  I was making coffee and watching it drip too slowly.  I was thinking that I need to get to Walmart and buy a new Mr. Coffee maker when American Pie started up in my head.

Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie…………………….son of a bitch.

This song is hard to shake.

Why?  Because of my 9th grade English teacher.  We had a year long problem with each other.  She was into poetry.  Novels.  The lyrics of songs as poetry.  My problem with her is that I knew at that young age……………that songs and stories and poems could and should be interpreted differently by everyone that comes into contact with them.

She’d try to ruin a book for me.  That’s the way I saw it.  Read Chapter One and answer this sheet of questions.  Symbolism.  Her point of view was thrown at me every day because she knew that 70% of the class wasn’t actually doing the reading.

Was that my fault?

I had learned by grade eight to read ahead.  I’d get a flimsy copy of a novel put onto my desk.  To Kill A Mockingbird.  Romeo and Juliet………………whatever.  I would go home and read the book in it’s entirety before a teacher told me what I thought about it.

I stayed after school to discuss this with my 9th grade English teacher.  She didn’t seem impressed but perhaps she was in hindsight.

“I’ve read the whole book.  Actually, this is the second time I’ve read this novel.  I will answer your work sheets………….but, I have a problem.” I confessed.

“And, that would be?” she said as she put her glasses back into their case.

“I’m not going to spout off your opinions to get an A.  Sometimes I disagree with you strongly about the point of a story.  Or, the use of a word.  Symbolism?  Sometimes a blue bird singing at your window is just a bird singing.  Other times it might symbolize happiness.  A problem finally being solved.  But, you know what?  My opinion might change about that on any given day.” I explained.

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“Wouldn’t you love to ask the author?  Wouldn’t you love to have an half an hour with him?  And, you know what I think this guy would say about the blue bird?  He would ask “What did it mean to you?”  I said.

I was on empty about then.

“You may disagree with me as long as I think your point of view is well thought out.  And, you complete your worksheets.” she said as she slammed a drawer shut.

The slamming of the drawer was symbolic in itself.  She didn’t like her opinions being tested.  She did not like dissent. But, she seemed to like discussion with another thinking person.  Her ego wasn’t so small and lame that I was going to get to her too badly.

But, I was on her radar now.  Big time.

Oh, well.  Sometimes you’ve got to work for that A.

She tried to ruin To Kill A Mockingbird for me.  Romeo and Juliet.  Huckleberry Finn.  I snatched A’s out of her hand.  It looked like it hurt her to hand me those well thought out papers with a big red A at the top of the page.

Because, we did not think alike.

Oh, I never argued with her in class.  She would spout off her opinions to thirty kids that ate it up and took notes.  Why?  Because, over half of them hadn’t read anything.  I would sit quietly in the middle of the room.  But, I’m sure my face gave me away.

I disagree said my visage.

“And, what do you think about this Miss Anderson?” the teacher would ask.

And, I told her.  I think once…………….just once I said “I think you’ve got it exactly right.”

She tried to hide it…………..but that really pleased her.

She was into the NY Times Cross Word puzzle.  On slow days she’d hand copies of it out.  Work on this puzzle for the rest of class.

Why?  Because, she had enjoyed it so much herself.  She wanted to share her joy.

Poor misguided soul.

And, then she started in with the lyrics to “American Pie” by Don McLean.  For two weeks…………she started every class by playing the song.  That long and torturous song.  Eight minutes and thirty six seconds of torture.

She wanted us to do research.  What was the writer of the lyrics talking about when he wrote this song?  She thought she was sending us out on a scavenger hunt.  Because, this song meant something to her.  She loved it.  This was the greatest lesson plan she’d ever come up with all by her itty bitty self.

Oh.  My.  God.

This was in the early 70’s.   The students couldn’t Google anything.  The song was new. There wasn’t much written about it yet.  29 out of 30 students didn’t care.  They just sat there and listened to that song day after day knowing that she would eventually give them the answers.

I went to the library.  I found a few articles with the help of the librarian.  I could identify which dead rock and roll stars were being missed.  I assumed the writer was a paper boy when the headlines of their deaths hit him in the face.  I recognized Elvis Presley.  I guessed wrong about who the Jester was.

I got an A for effort there.

But, the teacher and I disagreed again.  She thought poetry to music was enchanting when it left the listener guessing.

I’m alright with “open to interpretation”.  But, not when I’m being tested on it.

American Pie was just the introduction to a big poetry section of the school year.  I yawned my way through short poems and long.  I found different meaning to them than the teacher had.

She was pretty used to me and my contrary ways by this time.

We read a poem aloud in class.  No one knew what the heck the author was going on about.  Even the teacher in my estimation.

“With that poem in your ears!  Write your own!  You have ten minutes.  Please, no rhyming.  Make me smell it.  Make me feel it.  Make me weep.   Make me laugh.” she said from behind her lectern.

Huh?  went the classroom full of kids.

I don’t have the poem I wrote.  I do remember the feeling of it. I remember the smell of apples.

I sit in the apple tree.
The leaves tell me their secrets.
The apple falls.
I will tell you all about it.
Did you feel the wood beneath your seat?
Did you hear the whisper of the leaves?
Nothing sounds quite like an apple hitting the ground.
Did you hear it?
Then my job is done.
I am the poet.
I am your hostess.
I do not invite you into my house and speak to you in riddles.
I would never go out of my way to make a guest feel stupid.
I am all that a poet sitting in a tree should be.

The bell rang to signal the end of class.  Kids threw their poems onto the teacher’s desk and escaped from the classroom.  I’m sure some of those sheets of paper had no more than five words on them.

I put my poem on the top of the pile and headed towards the door.

“Do you take the bus?” asked the teacher.

“Yes, I do.” I replied.

“Stay.  I won’t take more than three minutes.” she said as she stood and read my poem.

She looked up at me and asked “You really hate the song American Pie?”

“Yes.  As the Dick Clark kids used to say “I give it a six.  It’s hard to dance to.” I replied.

She smiled and then glanced down and read my poem again.

She looked up at me and she actually had tears in her eyes.  I think.

“For the rest of the year…….you will do the assigned reading.  You will take part in class discussions when called upon.  You will no longer have to fill out my worksheets.  Instead, with every chapter that you read…..I would like you to write out five questions for me to answer.  Are you agreeable to that?” she asked.

“Three.  Three questions a chapter.” I countered back.

“Deal.” she said.

I knew I was going to miss my bus by this point.

“And, will you be grading my answers?” she asked with a smile on her face.  At this point I also knew that this women really enjoyed being my teacher.

“No.  I will ask you questions because I want to know what you think.  You know?  Sometimes there is no right or wrong answer.  I have always enjoyed your view point.  I wish more of your students would bother to read the books you give us.  They are really missing out.  But, you and I both know that many of these kids aren’t reading at ninth grade level.  And, they never will.  We can only hope that great literature is turned into decent movies at some point.”  I said to her at the door.

She sat.  I think all strength had just left her knees.

“One more question.” she said quietly.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Do you know the song McArthur Park?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.” I said.

“And, what do you make of the cake left to melt in the rain?” she asked like I might have the answer.  The answer to a question that had been driving her crazy for years.

“I don’t think that writer wrote in riddles.  He painted pictures with words.  I think he was describing things that he really saw in a park.  I think he courted his girl friend in that park.  A young couple that couldn’t afford to go any where.  They met up there.  They had picnics.  And, then she left him.  He keeps saying that he’ll be fine.  That he’ll have a wonderful life without her.  But, that he’ll never ever love anyone as much as he loved her.  I think he sat in that park and watched a cake disintegrate when it was left in the rain.  He sat in the rain all by himself the day she broke up with him.” I told her.

She nodded her head at me and I left.

I walked all the way home with Richard Harris singing to me in my head.

 

Weird

Weird things have been happening to me lately.  Weird.  As in what the hell?  This is the opposite of how things usually happen.

Last winter………two nights in a row……….I ate late at night after rehearsals.  My stomach complained.  Weird.  I stopped eating late at night and dropped a dozen pounds in a few weeks.

Weird.

I decided to keep it up.  I would fight the menopausal unexplained weight gain by making better food choices.

The cookies and crackers and snack bars in my cupboard sat still.  I supported the Girl Scouts.  I bought thin mints and peanut butter patty sandwich cookies.  The boxes are untouched.  Instead, I eat salad.  And raspberries.  And yogurt with a small handful of blackberries thrown in.

Weird.  My body is almost getting used to it.  At first my body balked at my new healthy diet.  My body said “Here is the bathroom.  Here is a magazine you haven’t read.  Get comfortable.”

My body now knows this is the way it is.  It is happy with the way things are.

Weird.

The scale is no longer my enemy.  I step on it once in a while in the morning.  It tells me that I’ve lost another few pounds.  Thirty in all.  I jump on it.  I stand on one foot and put my hands over my head.  I rotate my hips.  Still the number doesn’t change.

Weird.

My clothing still fits.  But, yes…………weirdly.  I thank drawstring waistbands for a totally different reason than I used to.  Without them…….my pants would fall down.  My clothing now has room for me and perhaps a small toddler that likes closeness.

Not many notice my weight loss.  Did I get a hair cut?  Is that new lipstick?  Something is different about you they think

My husband was the first to notice.  I stood at the stove making dinner.  I had finally bought an outfit that actually fit the new me.  He cocked his head like a confused cocker spaniel.  He watching me drain the pasta into the sink.

And, then he spoke.

“Where did your ass go?” he wanted to know.

I continued to wear my baggy clothing.  Shirts that used to stick to me like a spandex pink skin now hung in a “I don’t wanna touch you.” fashion.  My bras stopped complaining and said “Now, this is how we were supposed to fit.”  But, my underwear asked me to go shopping.  I couldn’t keep them up without suspenders.

I went shopping.  I bought two six packs of underwear.  A size smaller than usual.

No big deal.

Then summer came around.  The great unveiling.  White skin starts to toast to a light beige.  A little yard work and the arms and shoulders turn brown.  My legs screamed “What about us?  What about us?”.

I hung around my own pool a bit.  In a bathing suit that had been too tight for a few years.  It now filled up with water in balloon fashion and amused me.  But, dry?  Looks good.

My weight loss was months old.  But, my friends had been seeing me camouflaged by clothing that might or might not fit me.

I changed into my bathing suit and came out to the pool.  I was met by female silence.  Now, that is scary.

And, weird.

There is no hiding anything in a bathing suit.  Is there?  I was met by silence.  And, then my best friend screamed across the pool.

“Oh.  My.  God!  You look like a movie star!” she screeched.  And, the rest of them agreed.

Next thing I know I’ve been laid across a lounge chair.  I am being directed to lift my chin.  Toast the camera with my wine glass that is full of substandard wine cooler.  A full length photo of me in a bathing suit appears on Facebook.  Because, my friend thinks I look fabulous.  Because, I’ve worked so hard.

Weird.  And, nice at the same time.

Now, here is the big weirdness.  The weird that is whoo  whooooooo never happened to you before weird.

I went clothing shopping in Kohls today and an employee actually helped me.

They were all over today.  Women dressed like you or me would jump out from in between racks to ask “Can I help you find anything today?” I jumped back and said the obvious automatic response which is “No, thanks I’m just looking.”

And, then I thought better of it.

“You know what?  I might use your help.  I’m about to try on a bunch of shorts.  Not pedal pushers.  Not capris.  But, actual shorts that show off my legs.  I haven’t worn them in years.  But, I’ve lost a bunch of weight.  I’m thinking I might as well toast these gams up in the sun and show them off while they still work without a walker.” I said to the pretty and helpful Kohl’s employee.

“I’d be happy to help you find some shorts.  But, you’re so silly!  You want to wear shorts before you need a walker!” she snorted.  “How old are you?”

“A few months short of sixty.” I replied.

That sobered her up.

“Wow!  You sure don’t look it.” she said in a whisper.

I liked her.  I liked her enough to let her into the dressing room with me.

I started out with my old size.  I figured I wouldn’t be load testing the zipper and button and seams.  But, they might fit.  They slid down my hips instead.  My helpful assistant went out and brought me shorts a size smaller.  I put them on and opened the door.  She glanced at me and said “They’re still too big.”

We did a happy dance in the hallway decorated with mirrors and pins on the floor.  She brought me back even smaller shorts.

I put them on.  I held my breath.  I didn’t suck in my breath.  I wanted to be comfortable in my new shorts.

They fit. I put four different pairs into my cart to buy.

She handed me a black and white summer dress with a snappy little ruffled hem.

“Would you try this on for me?  It’s the only one left.  They’re on sale for just $19.99.  I think this will fit you perfectly.” she said as she held her hands up to her chin in a supplicant manner.

The dress said Size Medium.  Last summer I was an XL or 1X.

“This will never fit me.” I said.

“Please?  Just try it on for me.  I have a pretty good eye.  I think that is going to fit you just fine.” she said.

I closed my eyes and pulled the dress over my head.  I wasn’t being strangled.  I wasn’t about to be in that state where you’re a sweaty mess…………..and you have something half on………………and can’t get it to go further and you can’t turn back.

It fit perfectly.

I opened the door.  I heard Caribbean music in my head.  I put my right arm up.  I cupped my hand and did a little Salsa dance for my personal assistant.

She heard the music too.  She jumped up and down and celebrated the perfect fit with me.

I have been spoiled now.  Spoiled by a mid priced non fancy department store.  Forever and ever I will now want my own personal assistant while shopping.

Weird.

You want to know what is really weird?  This blog.  I have re-read what I’ve written.  I have decided that it is too self congratulatory for publication.  Who do I think I am?  Who am I to celebrate myself in such a fashion?

My mother would be horrified.

But, you know what?  I have been cheer leading my friends for years.  I am the one telling them not to hide from cameras.  I tell them that there are other colors besides black.  I tell them they are beautiful.  I tell them to revel in it.  I want them to look in the mirror and say “Why, hello, beautiful!”  I want them to relish the beauty that is them.

So, why am I any different?

I can just sniff at a sleeve of Lorna Doone shortbread cookies and gain ten pounds.  A long weekend of fancy food and drink can make me gain a size.

I’ve spent six months making good choices.  I’ve talked myself out of feeling deprived.  I will look in the mirror and gaze at my long now slender legs encased in short shorts.

And, I will say “Yes!  You go girl!  We’re not done yet!”

Not weird.