Somebody posted on facebook that her dog was having puppies. I talked to her cute, little daughter for a short bit this morning and she excitedly told me that the mommy made and gave her puppies milk when they were hungry. That triggered a memory, so I'm fixin' to tell y'all all about it.
A few years ago when Jason's second cousin was around 3, we took her with us to Sam's. Hannah was a spit-fire little girl who is now a smart, beautiful spit-fire teen. When she was little she had long blond curls, a cherub like face and to look at her made you think she was oozing in sweet girly girlishness. She would sit and listen to you speak to her while she blinked her eyes causing her long eyelashes to nearly sweep the top of her cheeks. And then she would speak. Hearing her words would cause a brief moment of surrealism. When she spoke her voice wasn't the twinkling child-like sound you expected by looking at her. Her voice was deep, and she had the thickest most countriest slow, drawn out Texan drawl you could possibly imagine.
So there we were in Sam's not looking at anything in particular. We were just roaming around with her in the front of the basket causing people in the busy Saturday crowd to look at her and smile at her cuteness. We took a turn and ended up on the dog food aisle. Hannah reached out and touched a bag of puppy chow and explained to me in her deep, loud drawl, "My dawg just delivered a litter of lil' pups. They cain't be a eatin' solid food like this, though." By now everyone was looking at her in amused surprise at her non-cherub like (but still cuter than calf snot) voice and listening to see if she would say more. After a brief pause for dramatic affect, she noticed her audience and added more loudly so everyone could hear her explain, "They're all still suckin' the teat."
I'm not sure if anyone laughed because I was concentrating too hard on holding in my own laughter.
I told the mom of one of Hannah's little friends about it a few weeks later. She smiled and told me that the first time Hannah came over to play she stayed quiet for a long time so they thought she must have been really shy. After a long moment of silence their family cat came out of hiding and approached Hannah. She reached out to pet the cat and in her unique voice told them all, "Did y'all know that cats bury their own mess. So if you see 'em scratchin' in the dirt, don't go a diggin' to see what they done."
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
A wife's Dart is her husband's Demon and other such life lessons.
I heard today on the radio that a woman called the Sheriff's department because she thought someone was doing a drive by shooting near her house. It turned out it was only the neighbor working on his car. He was trying to fix it so it wouldn't backfire anymore. I can sympathize with the neighbor who had the shot gun blast decibel backfiring car.
It reminded me of 17 years ago when Jason and I were still newly weds. He had a little red truck which was a standard. I had never successfully driven a standard,but when we moved my belongings to our new apartment I drove the little pick up and he drove the moving truck. Even though the moving truck was an automatic; it was huge, so I managed to convince myself that it would be best to drive the smaller vehicle and that the only way to learn to operate a standard was to just jump in and do it. I ended up getting stranded in the middle of a busy intersection- lurching and stopping, lurching and stopping, eyes blurry from tears, frantic sobbing bursts escaping my lips, wiping the snot from my nose with my right arm while intermittently using it grab the stick shift as everyone was stopping with squealing brakes and slamming on their horns. I slowly made it out of the intersection. (It might be a good time to mention that the pick up was still decorated from the wedding reception so in bright red paint on the back window a huge pair of lips was painted with the words, "Hot Lips".) It took at least a few dozen lurches and stops to make it all the way through the intersection. 'Inch by inch, life is a cinch.' Whatever! Whoever made up that little rhyme never tried driving a standard pick-up with red hot lips on the back window through an intersection full of impatient, unsympathetic people.
My parents took pity on me and let me take the car they had let me use in high school. It had its quirks, but it and I were old friends, so I could manage driving it. I thought we had an understanding, that car and I. Until it started backfiring almost every time that I turned off the ignition. Sometimes it happened right after I turned off the key, sometimes it waited until I was several yards away. Sometimes it didn't happen at all. Everywhere I went, I was on pins and needles waiting for the sound of the blast echoing throughout everyone's ears. I was still young enough to measure my self-esteem based on what others thought of me, so the embarrassment of a car that sounded like a shotgun blast at random and unpredictable times was almost too much to bear.
Finally it got to the point where it was going to make its ear splitting blast every time the ignition was turned off. It was a little easier to deal with once it began to be a predictable event. I would kill the ignition, have enough time to get out of the vehicle and take a few steps away from it, wait for the deafening KAPOW!, then join with all the bystanders by looking around with a startled expression and participating with them in their exclamations of, "What was that?, Was that a gun?" It got to be pretty fun, actually. However, I did use wise judgment with my job. Since it required me to use my vehicle to take the daily deposits to the bank and make change orders, I would leave the car running while I went inside. I didn't think it would be wise to make gunfire sounds at a bank.
While I thought it great fun to cause people to jump and duck for cover every time I went for an outing, my dad realized the severity of our situation when he came to visit and took the car out to experience what I was talking about, so he would know how to fix it. He and Jason went to a parking lot in a not so lovely area of town, killed the ignition waited a few seconds to see if I had just been imagining the volume of the noise, jumped when they heard it and then heard "Drive by!" being shouted as he saw a group of young men hit the ground.
It turned out that it was going to cost a small fortune to fix it and it was becoming a safety issue to drive it for obvious reasons so I was forced to learn to drive the standard truck. With no other options, I got it figured out. I took the long, less traveled backroads anywhere I went to avoid traffic which worked out okay until I ended up on a steep incline of a hill with a red light in an unfamiliar area. Finally after three cycles of the light and countless horn blasts from behind me, I made it through the light. This time I didn't feel the level of humiliation that only having bright red hot lips on the back window can bring, so I gave out many angry and bold curses at the people honking behind me. I felt pride for getting the hang of driving a standard and guilty for cursing the people who only wanted to go when the light was green. The guilt outweighed the pride so I never cursed another driver again. Okay. . . I never cursed another driver who didn't deserve it again.
We kept that truck for several years. Then Jason's brother was given a 1972 Dodge Dart Demon to drive. I fell in love with that car and his brother was embarrassed to drive it so we traded. I got a baby blue Dart to drive around, which by the way was a column shift standard, and was never so proud to drive anything. I would lovingly refer to it as the little, old Dart. We ended up selling it though, much to my disappointment. It got to the point where we were pouring money into it randomly trying to fix things because it kept dying whenever Jason drove it to work. It would always give out on him at the same intersection everyday and he would have to push it while everyone was honking because they were missing their turn to go through the light. I wasn't bothered by it because on the rare occasion when it happened to me I always had someone who would offer to help give me a push, so I could pop the clutch to get it started again. Then I would give the helper a thank you wave and honk as I continued through. Jason was never so lucky with the offers to push so he referred to the car as That Demon in a contemptuous tone, and listed it for sale.
Selling it was the wise financial thing to do, but I was torn about letting it go. We sold it to an older man who was a retired mechanic so he was going to be able to fix it up nicely which was good to know. When he and his wife came to look at it, Jason wasn't around so I showed it to them. When it wouldn't start, I told the potential buyer that if he could give me a push I could get it running by popping the clutch. He looked doubtful, but the little, old Dart didn't let me down because it started right up on the first clutch pop and the grandpa aged man told me he was very impressed that I could drive a car that was older than I was. His wife told me that she had never been able to figure out how to pop clutch start a car. It's as though the car was giving me one last chance to take pride in myself. They came back a few days later to purchase the car and take it to a better home.
I still longingly think about the little, old Dart and the pride in myself I felt whenever someone would ask if they could drive it, to which I would reply that they could if they knew how to drive a standard. The men in my age group would always give me a confident, "Sure I can." as if I was stupid for even considering that they couldn't drive anything that had wheels. Then I enjoyed watching as the confusion would crawl up their faces as they tried to figure out how it could have a clutch, but no shift stick. I loved telling them, "It's a three on the tree. Don't you know how to drive a three on the tree?" in a tone like I was born knowing how to drive a standard and couldn't believe that they couldn't figure it out. They would have never been able to guess that just a few years before I was sitting in an intersection blubbering like a baby, with my teeth rattling on every lurch and stop that a hot lips decorated standard was giving me.
Maybe life isn't a cinch, inch by inch. But if inch by inch is how one learns to drive a standard, it certainly makes a confident woman who, to this day, gets a little boastful around anyone who can drive only an automatic. And thanks to That Demon I get a tad bit arrogant if someone doesn't know how to pop a clutch and downright brash when I come across a man who has no idea how to manage a three on the tree. But the humility returns the instant I think about having to drive a car with giant hot lips painted on the back window. Those cars taught me the life lesson about finding the delicate balance between self assertive pride and humility. For that I am grateful. Jason is just glad he doesn't have to look at That Demon everyday anymore or have a wife that drives a car that inflicts the terror of drive by's wherever she goes.
It reminded me of 17 years ago when Jason and I were still newly weds. He had a little red truck which was a standard. I had never successfully driven a standard,but when we moved my belongings to our new apartment I drove the little pick up and he drove the moving truck. Even though the moving truck was an automatic; it was huge, so I managed to convince myself that it would be best to drive the smaller vehicle and that the only way to learn to operate a standard was to just jump in and do it. I ended up getting stranded in the middle of a busy intersection- lurching and stopping, lurching and stopping, eyes blurry from tears, frantic sobbing bursts escaping my lips, wiping the snot from my nose with my right arm while intermittently using it grab the stick shift as everyone was stopping with squealing brakes and slamming on their horns. I slowly made it out of the intersection. (It might be a good time to mention that the pick up was still decorated from the wedding reception so in bright red paint on the back window a huge pair of lips was painted with the words, "Hot Lips".) It took at least a few dozen lurches and stops to make it all the way through the intersection. 'Inch by inch, life is a cinch.' Whatever! Whoever made up that little rhyme never tried driving a standard pick-up with red hot lips on the back window through an intersection full of impatient, unsympathetic people.
My parents took pity on me and let me take the car they had let me use in high school. It had its quirks, but it and I were old friends, so I could manage driving it. I thought we had an understanding, that car and I. Until it started backfiring almost every time that I turned off the ignition. Sometimes it happened right after I turned off the key, sometimes it waited until I was several yards away. Sometimes it didn't happen at all. Everywhere I went, I was on pins and needles waiting for the sound of the blast echoing throughout everyone's ears. I was still young enough to measure my self-esteem based on what others thought of me, so the embarrassment of a car that sounded like a shotgun blast at random and unpredictable times was almost too much to bear.
Finally it got to the point where it was going to make its ear splitting blast every time the ignition was turned off. It was a little easier to deal with once it began to be a predictable event. I would kill the ignition, have enough time to get out of the vehicle and take a few steps away from it, wait for the deafening KAPOW!, then join with all the bystanders by looking around with a startled expression and participating with them in their exclamations of, "What was that?, Was that a gun?" It got to be pretty fun, actually. However, I did use wise judgment with my job. Since it required me to use my vehicle to take the daily deposits to the bank and make change orders, I would leave the car running while I went inside. I didn't think it would be wise to make gunfire sounds at a bank.
While I thought it great fun to cause people to jump and duck for cover every time I went for an outing, my dad realized the severity of our situation when he came to visit and took the car out to experience what I was talking about, so he would know how to fix it. He and Jason went to a parking lot in a not so lovely area of town, killed the ignition waited a few seconds to see if I had just been imagining the volume of the noise, jumped when they heard it and then heard "Drive by!" being shouted as he saw a group of young men hit the ground.
It turned out that it was going to cost a small fortune to fix it and it was becoming a safety issue to drive it for obvious reasons so I was forced to learn to drive the standard truck. With no other options, I got it figured out. I took the long, less traveled backroads anywhere I went to avoid traffic which worked out okay until I ended up on a steep incline of a hill with a red light in an unfamiliar area. Finally after three cycles of the light and countless horn blasts from behind me, I made it through the light. This time I didn't feel the level of humiliation that only having bright red hot lips on the back window can bring, so I gave out many angry and bold curses at the people honking behind me. I felt pride for getting the hang of driving a standard and guilty for cursing the people who only wanted to go when the light was green. The guilt outweighed the pride so I never cursed another driver again. Okay. . . I never cursed another driver who didn't deserve it again.
We kept that truck for several years. Then Jason's brother was given a 1972 Dodge Dart Demon to drive. I fell in love with that car and his brother was embarrassed to drive it so we traded. I got a baby blue Dart to drive around, which by the way was a column shift standard, and was never so proud to drive anything. I would lovingly refer to it as the little, old Dart. We ended up selling it though, much to my disappointment. It got to the point where we were pouring money into it randomly trying to fix things because it kept dying whenever Jason drove it to work. It would always give out on him at the same intersection everyday and he would have to push it while everyone was honking because they were missing their turn to go through the light. I wasn't bothered by it because on the rare occasion when it happened to me I always had someone who would offer to help give me a push, so I could pop the clutch to get it started again. Then I would give the helper a thank you wave and honk as I continued through. Jason was never so lucky with the offers to push so he referred to the car as That Demon in a contemptuous tone, and listed it for sale.
Selling it was the wise financial thing to do, but I was torn about letting it go. We sold it to an older man who was a retired mechanic so he was going to be able to fix it up nicely which was good to know. When he and his wife came to look at it, Jason wasn't around so I showed it to them. When it wouldn't start, I told the potential buyer that if he could give me a push I could get it running by popping the clutch. He looked doubtful, but the little, old Dart didn't let me down because it started right up on the first clutch pop and the grandpa aged man told me he was very impressed that I could drive a car that was older than I was. His wife told me that she had never been able to figure out how to pop clutch start a car. It's as though the car was giving me one last chance to take pride in myself. They came back a few days later to purchase the car and take it to a better home.
I still longingly think about the little, old Dart and the pride in myself I felt whenever someone would ask if they could drive it, to which I would reply that they could if they knew how to drive a standard. The men in my age group would always give me a confident, "Sure I can." as if I was stupid for even considering that they couldn't drive anything that had wheels. Then I enjoyed watching as the confusion would crawl up their faces as they tried to figure out how it could have a clutch, but no shift stick. I loved telling them, "It's a three on the tree. Don't you know how to drive a three on the tree?" in a tone like I was born knowing how to drive a standard and couldn't believe that they couldn't figure it out. They would have never been able to guess that just a few years before I was sitting in an intersection blubbering like a baby, with my teeth rattling on every lurch and stop that a hot lips decorated standard was giving me.
Maybe life isn't a cinch, inch by inch. But if inch by inch is how one learns to drive a standard, it certainly makes a confident woman who, to this day, gets a little boastful around anyone who can drive only an automatic. And thanks to That Demon I get a tad bit arrogant if someone doesn't know how to pop a clutch and downright brash when I come across a man who has no idea how to manage a three on the tree. But the humility returns the instant I think about having to drive a car with giant hot lips painted on the back window. Those cars taught me the life lesson about finding the delicate balance between self assertive pride and humility. For that I am grateful. Jason is just glad he doesn't have to look at That Demon everyday anymore or have a wife that drives a car that inflicts the terror of drive by's wherever she goes.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Who is to blame?
Sadly, it didn't take long after yesterday's tragic events in Arizona for people to begin to subtly or blatantly place the blame on various media outlets or political groups. By using the logic of some of the people I have seen on news opinion shows, then they themselves are inciting violence by using their podium to speak sonorous words about those they accuse of pushing the gunman Loughner over the edge.
The fact is that there are crazy, insidiously evil people in this world. Even if those people affiliate themselves with one political spectrum or another it doesn't mean they reflect that side as a whole. So far, I have heard nothing about Loughner having any particular political views. All I have seen are his nonsensical rants that obviously come from a disturbed mind. If it comes out later that he claimed he was a right wing or left wing ideologue, it will still in no way reflect the views or ideals of whichever group he might claim to follow.
My viewpoint is simple. People who had families and dreams are now dead for no reason. They died because a crazy person turned into a monster. A nine year old precious little girl who had just been elected to her student council had excitedly begun her day because she was going to talk to a Congresswoman and find out more about how government works. Her dreams of what to be when she grew up were abruptly snuffed out and her life ripped away from her with no afterthought by a callous madman. The only one to blame for that is Loughner. He has the sole responsibility for every action he took. If we could all acknowledge that fact, then we could focus more on praying for the families that have been affected and less on our superficial opinions that do absolutely no good for them. Now is the time to mourn, not debate, blame or take a political stand.
The fact is that there are crazy, insidiously evil people in this world. Even if those people affiliate themselves with one political spectrum or another it doesn't mean they reflect that side as a whole. So far, I have heard nothing about Loughner having any particular political views. All I have seen are his nonsensical rants that obviously come from a disturbed mind. If it comes out later that he claimed he was a right wing or left wing ideologue, it will still in no way reflect the views or ideals of whichever group he might claim to follow.
My viewpoint is simple. People who had families and dreams are now dead for no reason. They died because a crazy person turned into a monster. A nine year old precious little girl who had just been elected to her student council had excitedly begun her day because she was going to talk to a Congresswoman and find out more about how government works. Her dreams of what to be when she grew up were abruptly snuffed out and her life ripped away from her with no afterthought by a callous madman. The only one to blame for that is Loughner. He has the sole responsibility for every action he took. If we could all acknowledge that fact, then we could focus more on praying for the families that have been affected and less on our superficial opinions that do absolutely no good for them. Now is the time to mourn, not debate, blame or take a political stand.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Freakin' Fair Time Again
I had to run a quick errand a few minutes ago and didn't realize until I had been cut off by three cars that HEB was not the best choice of destinations. Once a year I actually catch myself thinking, "I should have gone to Wal-Mart."
Yep, it's the HOT Fair time once again. I always grumble about it a little each year. The music is so loud I can hear it at my house, the traffic gets a little thick and there is always the idiot that flies by our house in his "music" thumping car using our street as a short cut. (Oh wait, that's my neighbor.) I know it's him because I can identify the car by looking at the back window or lack there of. Quite a while back he had his stereo system stolen from his car after someone smashed his back window. Within a day he had a new music delivery system with even more power to rattle my walls. I'm guessing he decided that the insurance money should be spent on an even louder, more annoying sound system than replacing the window. Lucky for him he had enough left over from his stereo purchase to buy some duct tape and plastic wrap to cover the missing window.
This year the fair is annoying me more than usual. I think it's because we don't get to go. We usually take Abigail, but she is having some allergy issues and I'm afraid if she's around all the smoke from the fair and animal dander and dust from the rodeo the allergies will turn into a sinus infection. I think not being able to feel that thrill of seeing the rodeo cowboys defy gravity (until they hit the ground hard) or taking our annual walk down the midway is leaving me grumpy. I don't know why. Every year, we end up complaining about the cost and I get sick from eating an entire turkey leg, funnel cake with whip cream and chocolate sauce, fried butterfly potato and washing it down with sickeningly sweet lemon-aid. Then I spend the next few days trying to wipe all the turkey leg grease off Abigail's chair and trying to shake the queasy feeling I got after watching toothless old carnies hit on 12 year old girls. But still, it's a tradition and I'm a sentimental creature.
On the short trip to HEB I made the following observations:
1.) Who takes a limo to the fair? Seriously. Who does that? What a frivolous way to spend money. Use it for something wiser. Just give it to the limo driver if you want, but you are impressing no one by stepping out of a limo at a fair.
2.) If you are going to be a tightwad and park across the street from the fair, do not let your toddler walk across the high traffic road in the blackness of night. It doesn't matter if you are holding her hand. She is still moving slowly and the drivers of cars are too busy looking at the idiots in the limo and aren't paying attention to pedestrians who are hard to see. Stop being so cheap and spend some money for parking or take the free shuttle. Your toddler would have had a much more fun time riding a Waco Transit bus than creating a lifetime nightmare of cars zooming past her while you yanked her arm out of socket upon the realization that drivers weren't going to stop to let you cross.
3.) Goth kids: (is that what they are still called?) I get it. You want to wear dark colors and I'm okay with that, but see item number 2. We can't see you crossing the street when you are in black and your platform boots don't let you run very fast even when your butt's about to get run over do they? You might have been worried about being shaken up on a ride, but I bet you weren't expecting to be scared poopless while trying to get to the fairgrounds.
4.) HEB: Grackles really freak me out this time of year. HEB do something about your out- of-hand bird population. Perhaps you could try putting up scarecrows. Maybe some of the goth kids who nearly got ran over will let you have their clothes they were wearing tonight. The pants might have a few stains on them, but you can hide those by tying a sweater around the scarecrow's waist. Or maybe you could train the birds to go to the fair this time of year and poop on the heads of those who get out of limos.
5.) The driver of the Chevy HHR: You drove like you didn't know which end was up. Please get your bearings before you cut in front of me causing me to nearly get rear ended. My pants were almost in the same predicament as the Goth kids' when I looked into my rear view mirror and saw a ginormous Ford truck with a huge Big Tex Bumper Grill Guard wrapped around the entire front coming up so close that I saw the cowboy hat bobbing up and down on the driver as he spewed out curse words. He also had a trailer hitch jabbing out about a foot over the back bumper (I call those "Damnits" because that's what I shout out whenever I accidentally whack up against one in a parking lot) I know he had one because he had to swerve over to next lane and fly around me because of the chaos you created by cutting in front of me and hitting the breaks. The Ohio license plate is no excuse for you being an idiot. And why does Ohio put "Truck" on the plate that is on an HHR? That was enough to make me want to run you over. But hopefully Big Tex did that when you went around him and cut him off in retaliation for cutting you off which he had done to retaliate for you starting the mess. I had to turn down my street so I didn't get to see if he nailed you. It would have made me even more mighty proud to be a Texan if he had. I know we are supposed to be the friendly state but I wanted to come home and dig out my boots so I could track you down and kick you hard.
I guess the moral of this pointless story is "Don't mess with Texas." Or at least don't mess with this Texan when I'm grumpy because I haven't partaken of my Central Texas tradition.
Yep, it's the HOT Fair time once again. I always grumble about it a little each year. The music is so loud I can hear it at my house, the traffic gets a little thick and there is always the idiot that flies by our house in his "music" thumping car using our street as a short cut. (Oh wait, that's my neighbor.) I know it's him because I can identify the car by looking at the back window or lack there of. Quite a while back he had his stereo system stolen from his car after someone smashed his back window. Within a day he had a new music delivery system with even more power to rattle my walls. I'm guessing he decided that the insurance money should be spent on an even louder, more annoying sound system than replacing the window. Lucky for him he had enough left over from his stereo purchase to buy some duct tape and plastic wrap to cover the missing window.
This year the fair is annoying me more than usual. I think it's because we don't get to go. We usually take Abigail, but she is having some allergy issues and I'm afraid if she's around all the smoke from the fair and animal dander and dust from the rodeo the allergies will turn into a sinus infection. I think not being able to feel that thrill of seeing the rodeo cowboys defy gravity (until they hit the ground hard) or taking our annual walk down the midway is leaving me grumpy. I don't know why. Every year, we end up complaining about the cost and I get sick from eating an entire turkey leg, funnel cake with whip cream and chocolate sauce, fried butterfly potato and washing it down with sickeningly sweet lemon-aid. Then I spend the next few days trying to wipe all the turkey leg grease off Abigail's chair and trying to shake the queasy feeling I got after watching toothless old carnies hit on 12 year old girls. But still, it's a tradition and I'm a sentimental creature.
On the short trip to HEB I made the following observations:
1.) Who takes a limo to the fair? Seriously. Who does that? What a frivolous way to spend money. Use it for something wiser. Just give it to the limo driver if you want, but you are impressing no one by stepping out of a limo at a fair.
2.) If you are going to be a tightwad and park across the street from the fair, do not let your toddler walk across the high traffic road in the blackness of night. It doesn't matter if you are holding her hand. She is still moving slowly and the drivers of cars are too busy looking at the idiots in the limo and aren't paying attention to pedestrians who are hard to see. Stop being so cheap and spend some money for parking or take the free shuttle. Your toddler would have had a much more fun time riding a Waco Transit bus than creating a lifetime nightmare of cars zooming past her while you yanked her arm out of socket upon the realization that drivers weren't going to stop to let you cross.
3.) Goth kids: (is that what they are still called?) I get it. You want to wear dark colors and I'm okay with that, but see item number 2. We can't see you crossing the street when you are in black and your platform boots don't let you run very fast even when your butt's about to get run over do they? You might have been worried about being shaken up on a ride, but I bet you weren't expecting to be scared poopless while trying to get to the fairgrounds.
4.) HEB: Grackles really freak me out this time of year. HEB do something about your out- of-hand bird population. Perhaps you could try putting up scarecrows. Maybe some of the goth kids who nearly got ran over will let you have their clothes they were wearing tonight. The pants might have a few stains on them, but you can hide those by tying a sweater around the scarecrow's waist. Or maybe you could train the birds to go to the fair this time of year and poop on the heads of those who get out of limos.
5.) The driver of the Chevy HHR: You drove like you didn't know which end was up. Please get your bearings before you cut in front of me causing me to nearly get rear ended. My pants were almost in the same predicament as the Goth kids' when I looked into my rear view mirror and saw a ginormous Ford truck with a huge Big Tex Bumper Grill Guard wrapped around the entire front coming up so close that I saw the cowboy hat bobbing up and down on the driver as he spewed out curse words. He also had a trailer hitch jabbing out about a foot over the back bumper (I call those "Damnits" because that's what I shout out whenever I accidentally whack up against one in a parking lot) I know he had one because he had to swerve over to next lane and fly around me because of the chaos you created by cutting in front of me and hitting the breaks. The Ohio license plate is no excuse for you being an idiot. And why does Ohio put "Truck" on the plate that is on an HHR? That was enough to make me want to run you over. But hopefully Big Tex did that when you went around him and cut him off in retaliation for cutting you off which he had done to retaliate for you starting the mess. I had to turn down my street so I didn't get to see if he nailed you. It would have made me even more mighty proud to be a Texan if he had. I know we are supposed to be the friendly state but I wanted to come home and dig out my boots so I could track you down and kick you hard.
I guess the moral of this pointless story is "Don't mess with Texas." Or at least don't mess with this Texan when I'm grumpy because I haven't partaken of my Central Texas tradition.
Friday, October 8, 2010
It isn't rabies!
Last week I began a training course at the local Humane Society on how to train dogs. Each of the participants has been assigned a dog to work with so we can show it how to be more behaved and irresistible when someone comes to find a dog to adopt. I was hoping to walk away from the first session having earned the title of Dynamic Duo with my dog Sweetie. I walked away with a silent agreement between us that as long as I bribe her with lots of treats she will look at me every so often and focus in between the times that she is sniffing the ground. That is of course unless someone else stands close to her. Then no amount of treats will keep her from looking longingly at the other person as if she regrets being stuck with me. I've always known that dogs can help with one's self esteem, but this is the first dog that I've encountered that helps by using reverse psychology. She makes me feel a little self conscious so I affirm to myself that I am a person who is fun to be around despite what Sweetie thinks. She's helped me greatly in my self affirmation skills.
Almost right off the bat two dogs got into a tussle. Sweetie sat right next to me and we watched it get broken up. I was rather grateful that my dog was relaxed during that spectacle and was happy that I wasn't the embarrassed handler trying to pull my dog off another. A few minutes later I was pulling my dog with all my strength yelling, "Hey! Hey! Knock it off! Hey!" as she and another got into a wrestling match. My attempt to break them up was unsuccessful largely because when I tried to pry my foot between them I got a good look at their teeth. It wasn't even an intense fight, just a show of strength and dominance but it still shook me up. The instructor was able to pull them off each other. I expected her to accusingly ask me what happened; she didn't. But she did use the experience to shout out to everyone to keep our dogs at a distance from each other. I could feel my ears burning with embarrassment as I added, "I am not a dork." to my arsenal of self-affirmation phrases.
Reflecting back, the situation occurred because I lost a sense of my surroundings as I was digging into my pocket to get some treats ready. The dog next to us, Hank, was several feet away from us, but he closed the gap and came at me fast to get some of those great tasting treats and Sweetie wasn't going to let that happen. If I had been paying attention I could have stopped it before it began but focus has always been a bit of a challenge with me. However, maybe the other trainers who are going to be standing around me should equip their pockets with many Reeses' to offer me. I'm willing to be a test subject on positive reinforcement in humans as long as I get my fill of the chocolate/peanut butter delights. Give me a Reeses' Big Cup and I might even let you scratch my belly.
Wait. What was I saying about focusing?
As I was trying to think of a way to break up Sweetie and Hank I had a flashback of a childhood memory. The family at the end of our road had a Doberman. Our little dog, Sarge and their Dobie got along just fine. But one day for some unknown reason they started fighting. I couldn't have been older than 6 or 7 and was oblivious to the danger. In my infinite wisdom I got right between them and yelled, "Stop!" Dobie slammed into me knocking me onto my butt and one of them bit me hard on my belly. Again, in my infinite wisdom I screamed. As the banshee wail came out of my mouth I remembered my dad telling me again and again to never scream a high pitch squeal around a dog so it abruptly stopped and turned into a deep, guttural almost demon sounding, "I said stop it you dumb butts!" (That was the only curse word I knew back then.) I still remember the look Dobie gave me as she backed away tilting her head to the side in curiosity. I think she expected my head to start spinning at that point. Sarge jumped over me and chased her the rest of the way to her home.
When Sarge returned to me so did the little girl who belonged to Dobie. I told her what happened and showed her the broken skin on my belly and she begged me not to tell anyone. At that time Dobermans were today's Pitties. Everyone thought they were vicious and uncontrollable. I knew better. I had never even seen Dobie growl until that day and I wasn't even sure if she was the one who bit me. I agreed to keep silent.
By the end of the day the little scratch of a bite mark was already crusting over. But to me it looked like a horrid gash that one would receive in battle. I didn't want to get Dobie into trouble, but I had seen the episode on "Little House" when Laura got bitten by a rabid dog. Suddenly I was thirsty oh so very thirsty, but wait-I was too scared of the water to take a drink. What did I feel on my chin? Was it? No, it couldn't be! But it was, it had to be. I knew I had foam dripping from the corners of my mouth and even saw it fly out into the air as I shouted, "Daddy! Help me!"
Once it had been explained to me in no uncertain terms that I did not have rabies, I had to explain why I had just gone into a deranged frenzy about foaming at the mouth and sudden unquenchable thirst. I had to show him the bite. Expecting him to immediately tear down the road to defend his baby daughter I got ready to spring onto one of his legs to hold him back. He looked at me calmly and asked, "What did you do to get bit?"
I was ready to hang Dobie out to dry. I had gotten bit, how dare he assume it was my fault. She would have killed me if Sarge hadn't of sprung into action. I could have rabies and I was quite sure that Pa on "Little House" wouldn't react that way. I was even able to work in some tears to stress my point.
Thankfully, my dad was level headed and understood dogs. Instead of charging down the road to demand their dog be quarantined he explained to me that dogs are dogs and fight. And when they do fight, they are going to act like a completely different animal so telling them to stop and jumping in between them wasn't good. With wide eyes it sunk in that if they had been really fighting instead of just having a tussle, I could have been seriously injured by both of them. I was told to always run away from a dog fight and find an adult to help.
That lesson has stuck with me all these years. Which was a good thing until I found myself at a dog training course yelling, "Hey!" and being afraid to intervene in a dog fight. I was looking around for an adult to ask for help and it didn't dawn on me until too late that I was an adult. Thankfully, I wasn't bitten because that would be embarrassing for them to have to hold me down and convince me all over again that my mouth wasn't foaming.
~~~~~~~
And just to add to my lessons in life that I learned from dogs: I also learned, you know, about the birds and bees from them. It wasn't my parents who had to explain that one to me. It happened on the playground at my elementary school when two stray dogs came up and started...ummmm..displaying their affection in front of a large group of us. All that I needed to know about the facts of life was learned as a large group of us second graders stood observing two dogs and listening to the explanations of the older, wiser fourth graders.
Please, parents-heed my advice and explain to your kids how to act around dogs. Most of the time if a kid gets bitten it is his own fault. And for the love of humanity have the "talk" with your children before they have to learn it from 4th graders complete with a live visual provided by two stray dogs.
Almost right off the bat two dogs got into a tussle. Sweetie sat right next to me and we watched it get broken up. I was rather grateful that my dog was relaxed during that spectacle and was happy that I wasn't the embarrassed handler trying to pull my dog off another. A few minutes later I was pulling my dog with all my strength yelling, "Hey! Hey! Knock it off! Hey!" as she and another got into a wrestling match. My attempt to break them up was unsuccessful largely because when I tried to pry my foot between them I got a good look at their teeth. It wasn't even an intense fight, just a show of strength and dominance but it still shook me up. The instructor was able to pull them off each other. I expected her to accusingly ask me what happened; she didn't. But she did use the experience to shout out to everyone to keep our dogs at a distance from each other. I could feel my ears burning with embarrassment as I added, "I am not a dork." to my arsenal of self-affirmation phrases.
Reflecting back, the situation occurred because I lost a sense of my surroundings as I was digging into my pocket to get some treats ready. The dog next to us, Hank, was several feet away from us, but he closed the gap and came at me fast to get some of those great tasting treats and Sweetie wasn't going to let that happen. If I had been paying attention I could have stopped it before it began but focus has always been a bit of a challenge with me. However, maybe the other trainers who are going to be standing around me should equip their pockets with many Reeses' to offer me. I'm willing to be a test subject on positive reinforcement in humans as long as I get my fill of the chocolate/peanut butter delights. Give me a Reeses' Big Cup and I might even let you scratch my belly.
Wait. What was I saying about focusing?
As I was trying to think of a way to break up Sweetie and Hank I had a flashback of a childhood memory. The family at the end of our road had a Doberman. Our little dog, Sarge and their Dobie got along just fine. But one day for some unknown reason they started fighting. I couldn't have been older than 6 or 7 and was oblivious to the danger. In my infinite wisdom I got right between them and yelled, "Stop!" Dobie slammed into me knocking me onto my butt and one of them bit me hard on my belly. Again, in my infinite wisdom I screamed. As the banshee wail came out of my mouth I remembered my dad telling me again and again to never scream a high pitch squeal around a dog so it abruptly stopped and turned into a deep, guttural almost demon sounding, "I said stop it you dumb butts!" (That was the only curse word I knew back then.) I still remember the look Dobie gave me as she backed away tilting her head to the side in curiosity. I think she expected my head to start spinning at that point. Sarge jumped over me and chased her the rest of the way to her home.
When Sarge returned to me so did the little girl who belonged to Dobie. I told her what happened and showed her the broken skin on my belly and she begged me not to tell anyone. At that time Dobermans were today's Pitties. Everyone thought they were vicious and uncontrollable. I knew better. I had never even seen Dobie growl until that day and I wasn't even sure if she was the one who bit me. I agreed to keep silent.
By the end of the day the little scratch of a bite mark was already crusting over. But to me it looked like a horrid gash that one would receive in battle. I didn't want to get Dobie into trouble, but I had seen the episode on "Little House" when Laura got bitten by a rabid dog. Suddenly I was thirsty oh so very thirsty, but wait-I was too scared of the water to take a drink. What did I feel on my chin? Was it? No, it couldn't be! But it was, it had to be. I knew I had foam dripping from the corners of my mouth and even saw it fly out into the air as I shouted, "Daddy! Help me!"
Once it had been explained to me in no uncertain terms that I did not have rabies, I had to explain why I had just gone into a deranged frenzy about foaming at the mouth and sudden unquenchable thirst. I had to show him the bite. Expecting him to immediately tear down the road to defend his baby daughter I got ready to spring onto one of his legs to hold him back. He looked at me calmly and asked, "What did you do to get bit?"
I was ready to hang Dobie out to dry. I had gotten bit, how dare he assume it was my fault. She would have killed me if Sarge hadn't of sprung into action. I could have rabies and I was quite sure that Pa on "Little House" wouldn't react that way. I was even able to work in some tears to stress my point.
Thankfully, my dad was level headed and understood dogs. Instead of charging down the road to demand their dog be quarantined he explained to me that dogs are dogs and fight. And when they do fight, they are going to act like a completely different animal so telling them to stop and jumping in between them wasn't good. With wide eyes it sunk in that if they had been really fighting instead of just having a tussle, I could have been seriously injured by both of them. I was told to always run away from a dog fight and find an adult to help.
That lesson has stuck with me all these years. Which was a good thing until I found myself at a dog training course yelling, "Hey!" and being afraid to intervene in a dog fight. I was looking around for an adult to ask for help and it didn't dawn on me until too late that I was an adult. Thankfully, I wasn't bitten because that would be embarrassing for them to have to hold me down and convince me all over again that my mouth wasn't foaming.
~~~~~~~
And just to add to my lessons in life that I learned from dogs: I also learned, you know, about the birds and bees from them. It wasn't my parents who had to explain that one to me. It happened on the playground at my elementary school when two stray dogs came up and started...ummmm..displaying their affection in front of a large group of us. All that I needed to know about the facts of life was learned as a large group of us second graders stood observing two dogs and listening to the explanations of the older, wiser fourth graders.
Please, parents-heed my advice and explain to your kids how to act around dogs. Most of the time if a kid gets bitten it is his own fault. And for the love of humanity have the "talk" with your children before they have to learn it from 4th graders complete with a live visual provided by two stray dogs.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Lamenting about dirty socks
Why? Why is it that I find dirty socks all throughout the house? I have receptacles set up in several areas for items like that. And it isn't just socks; jeans, belts, shirts underwear can sometimes be found in the most unusual places. Our house is tiny so it isn't as though one would have to wonder farther than a few steps to be able to toss a dirty clothes item into what is known as a dirty clothes basket. But somehow the only time a dirty item makes it into a basket is when the basket is full of clean, folded clothes waiting to be put away. It's always a treat to go back to a clean clothes basket to begin the task of putting them up and finding clothes drenched in the sweat and grass stains that occurred during the mowing of the lawn. He doesn't get my point when I yell, "Contaminated! The mission must begin all over again!" as I take the clothes to the washer. But there is solace when I am able to find the dirty clothes tainting the clean clothes while he is in the shower. Since our house is tiny if I start the washer while he is still showering it messes with the flow and temperature of the water. Sometimes for fun I start washing the dishes at that exact moment as well.
Why do all my cute flea market treasure bowls or plates turn into his holder for his pipes, pipe cleaners and pipe tobacco? At my last thrift store trip I bought him a manly container made especially for pipes. I see it on his desk empty. But all my flowery enamel bowls and Blue Ridge Mountain pottery plates that I painstakingly searched out and negotiated the price on at flea markets are overflowing with pipes and tobacco, keys, pieces of wire and cable and things that I have no idea what they are, but know that I am not allowed to move them without being asked where they are and why I touched them.
Why? Why do the snacks that I pick out specifically for me because he has said he doesn't like it still disappear without me eating them. How many tantrums does he have to see me throw before he realizes not to take the last of my anything. Especially if it's chocolate.
Why does he wait until I have just finished mopping the floors before he comes inside tracking mud and grass from the garden? Does he have some sort of radar that alerts him as to when I have just finished that task and am looking appreciatively at my shiny floor so he can come tromping all over it? Or why is it that he can sit at his computer without stirring until I start cleaning or cooking in the kitchen and he has to come in right at that moment to get a drink and get all in the way so I find myself tripping all over him? And does that same radar tell him the precise moment that I need to reach for the car's middle console so that he can place his elbow on it just as I'm lifting the lid? And how is he able to say so quickly that I am in his way before I can tell him to move.
After 16 years of marriage one would think he'd figure it out. You would think that at least I would have figured out all the answers to my long list of other questions about him.
Why? Why is it that when I wake up in the morning with puffy eyes and matted hair he looks at me as if he thinks I am the most beautiful creature he has ever seen? How can it be that on hectic summer days when he comes home for an early lunch to find me still without a shower in my ratty pajamas and unbrushed teeth with unkempt hair and face he slaps my butt as I walk by and flirts with me like he did when we were first married 16 years ago? How does he know when I'm feeling fat because a dress is fitting a little snug to tell me my curves are perfect and to come to him so he can wrap his arms around my little waist? Why does he do the other things like after me nagging him for weeks about a dripping faucet waiting until I'm gone for the day and surprising me by replacing the whole thing with one that is exactly what I would have picked. Or instead of replacing a burnt out light bulb in Abigail's room, buying a whole new light fixture that is perfect for her room and not saying a word about it until I smart off about him finally changing that bulb just as I look up to see what he has done? Without being asked, finding my lost keys within 5 minutes of searching after I had been frantically looking all day. Turning the car around in Clyde without one word of admonishment when I blurted out, "I forgot my purse!" and driving all the way back to San Angelo to retrieve it. Getting up in the middle of the night because I am still up with Abigail who's having a rough time and even though he has to work in the morning telling me to go back to bed while he sits up with her. Slowly adding more plants to our flower bed until I realize that little by little it is going to end up looking like the enchanted cottage garden I've always wanted since reading story books as a child. Then sharing with me his plans to slowly add even more mounds of flowers in the back complete with paths and sitting areas. Only pretending to be angry when I washed his pants without checking the pockets and ruined his prized pipe lighter. Accusingly teasing me of "chucking chit" when he's missing something he needs because I went on a cleaning rampage and threw anything of his into a random drawer or crevice while placing my things in a neat and orderly spot. Why, after having our one and only genuine screaming fight that erupted over him forgetting to get honey at the grocery store, he left the house and returned with the biggest damn jar of honey I've ever seen and plunked it down on the table causing me to bite my cheeks to keep from bursting out laughing? Then he just hugged me and we held each other tight with forgiveness.
I still have that jar of honey. It is crystallized inside, but it reminds me that I have someone in my life that puts up with me and my moods. I don't deserve it but I have someone who for unknown reasons loves me through my air headedness, my feeling ugly days, my sudden cleaning rampages and quick temper. Sometimes I take that old jar of honey and hold it in the light to see its crystal amber beauty refract the light and shine. When others see it they might think it has grown old and stale, the crystals too rough around the edges but I know that it will taste just as sweet. Sometimes we just sit in silence, comfortable with each others presence and knowing we don't need to say a word. I wonder if anyone ever sees us in that state and interprets it as us growing stale instead of being so at ease with one another that we can just sit still and be confident in each other without uttering a sound.
When I see his dirty socks and messy pipes I am thankful for the evidence that he is in my life and will love me through anything. Even though there are days I look in the mirror and see nothing but myself growing older and feeling rough around the edges he reminds me that I am still sweet and he sees only the reflection of beauty. I would rather have a mountain of dirty, smelly socks than one day of him not being in my life.
But I'm still going to run the washer when he's in the shower because he wouldn't expect anything less.
Why do all my cute flea market treasure bowls or plates turn into his holder for his pipes, pipe cleaners and pipe tobacco? At my last thrift store trip I bought him a manly container made especially for pipes. I see it on his desk empty. But all my flowery enamel bowls and Blue Ridge Mountain pottery plates that I painstakingly searched out and negotiated the price on at flea markets are overflowing with pipes and tobacco, keys, pieces of wire and cable and things that I have no idea what they are, but know that I am not allowed to move them without being asked where they are and why I touched them.
Why? Why do the snacks that I pick out specifically for me because he has said he doesn't like it still disappear without me eating them. How many tantrums does he have to see me throw before he realizes not to take the last of my anything. Especially if it's chocolate.
Why does he wait until I have just finished mopping the floors before he comes inside tracking mud and grass from the garden? Does he have some sort of radar that alerts him as to when I have just finished that task and am looking appreciatively at my shiny floor so he can come tromping all over it? Or why is it that he can sit at his computer without stirring until I start cleaning or cooking in the kitchen and he has to come in right at that moment to get a drink and get all in the way so I find myself tripping all over him? And does that same radar tell him the precise moment that I need to reach for the car's middle console so that he can place his elbow on it just as I'm lifting the lid? And how is he able to say so quickly that I am in his way before I can tell him to move.
After 16 years of marriage one would think he'd figure it out. You would think that at least I would have figured out all the answers to my long list of other questions about him.
Why? Why is it that when I wake up in the morning with puffy eyes and matted hair he looks at me as if he thinks I am the most beautiful creature he has ever seen? How can it be that on hectic summer days when he comes home for an early lunch to find me still without a shower in my ratty pajamas and unbrushed teeth with unkempt hair and face he slaps my butt as I walk by and flirts with me like he did when we were first married 16 years ago? How does he know when I'm feeling fat because a dress is fitting a little snug to tell me my curves are perfect and to come to him so he can wrap his arms around my little waist? Why does he do the other things like after me nagging him for weeks about a dripping faucet waiting until I'm gone for the day and surprising me by replacing the whole thing with one that is exactly what I would have picked. Or instead of replacing a burnt out light bulb in Abigail's room, buying a whole new light fixture that is perfect for her room and not saying a word about it until I smart off about him finally changing that bulb just as I look up to see what he has done? Without being asked, finding my lost keys within 5 minutes of searching after I had been frantically looking all day. Turning the car around in Clyde without one word of admonishment when I blurted out, "I forgot my purse!" and driving all the way back to San Angelo to retrieve it. Getting up in the middle of the night because I am still up with Abigail who's having a rough time and even though he has to work in the morning telling me to go back to bed while he sits up with her. Slowly adding more plants to our flower bed until I realize that little by little it is going to end up looking like the enchanted cottage garden I've always wanted since reading story books as a child. Then sharing with me his plans to slowly add even more mounds of flowers in the back complete with paths and sitting areas. Only pretending to be angry when I washed his pants without checking the pockets and ruined his prized pipe lighter. Accusingly teasing me of "chucking chit" when he's missing something he needs because I went on a cleaning rampage and threw anything of his into a random drawer or crevice while placing my things in a neat and orderly spot. Why, after having our one and only genuine screaming fight that erupted over him forgetting to get honey at the grocery store, he left the house and returned with the biggest damn jar of honey I've ever seen and plunked it down on the table causing me to bite my cheeks to keep from bursting out laughing? Then he just hugged me and we held each other tight with forgiveness.
I still have that jar of honey. It is crystallized inside, but it reminds me that I have someone in my life that puts up with me and my moods. I don't deserve it but I have someone who for unknown reasons loves me through my air headedness, my feeling ugly days, my sudden cleaning rampages and quick temper. Sometimes I take that old jar of honey and hold it in the light to see its crystal amber beauty refract the light and shine. When others see it they might think it has grown old and stale, the crystals too rough around the edges but I know that it will taste just as sweet. Sometimes we just sit in silence, comfortable with each others presence and knowing we don't need to say a word. I wonder if anyone ever sees us in that state and interprets it as us growing stale instead of being so at ease with one another that we can just sit still and be confident in each other without uttering a sound.
When I see his dirty socks and messy pipes I am thankful for the evidence that he is in my life and will love me through anything. Even though there are days I look in the mirror and see nothing but myself growing older and feeling rough around the edges he reminds me that I am still sweet and he sees only the reflection of beauty. I would rather have a mountain of dirty, smelly socks than one day of him not being in my life.
But I'm still going to run the washer when he's in the shower because he wouldn't expect anything less.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Reflections
Have you ever had that random moment in time that you kick yourself for not having a camera ready to capture the memory that was just created? I have many of those, but this morning as I indulge in the crisp start of another autumn one moment stands out among the others.
I was still newly married and barely in my twenties. I was leaving the mall thinking about the group of young Jr. High girls I had seen inside. I had been in the restroom and had no choice but to listen to their loud giggly conversation as they put on way too much lipstick in an attempt to make themselves look older than they were. One girl was scrutinizing herself in the mirror while her friends told her how pretty she was. I was remembering those same feelings of insecurity that I knew they were all feeling, but would never admit. I was grateful that I had made it out of that awkward stage of life for the most part unscathed.
I was on the sidewalk walking towards the row of parking I had used when I saw her gazing into the window at Sears. At first I thought she was just looking inside the store, but upon a closer glance I realized she was looking at her reflection. I noticed her face as I studied her reflection and thought of how many life stories those wrinkles foretold. Her perfectly placed hair made me suspect that she had just finished getting it "done" in the salon. The sunlight was highlighting its beautiful shade and I wondered how long it was gray before it had turned into its final color of shimmering snow. Her crooked fingers rummaged around in her purse for a while and she brought out a tube of red lip stick. With a shaking hand, she used the window's reflection to delicately color in her lips. It was a beautiful picture and was such a stark contrast from what I had witnessed in the restroom. Life settled around me and I understood that I too would transition from an apprehensive young girl, putting on bright lipstick to make myself look older--into a frail, aging woman still full of life putting on lipstick to make myself look younger. But what a difference those two people would be. The girl in the rest room mirror looked wistfully in the mirror putting on layer upon layer of lipstick. The young girl had posed with pouty lips trying to look confident but her eyes still betrayed her young insecurity. She needed her friends to give her false assurance with their rehearsed compliments. I smiled as the older woman puckered her lips and playfully kissed at her reflection. Her face betrayed her age, but her eyes revealed the young soul inside who had finally found an impassive assurance within herself and was ready to face the world on her own.
I still have a long road before I am the lady in the window reflection. My face is just starting to give in to the beginning of wrinkles and while I am much closer to gaining the amount of security that I saw in her, I still have a ways to go. There is so much more to learn in life and so many more wrinkles to add to my story. Along the way I will always remember that lady's reflection and strive to make my own one of joy and little regret.
I still wish I would have had a camera that day. But some pictures will forever remain even if they aren't captured on film.
I was still newly married and barely in my twenties. I was leaving the mall thinking about the group of young Jr. High girls I had seen inside. I had been in the restroom and had no choice but to listen to their loud giggly conversation as they put on way too much lipstick in an attempt to make themselves look older than they were. One girl was scrutinizing herself in the mirror while her friends told her how pretty she was. I was remembering those same feelings of insecurity that I knew they were all feeling, but would never admit. I was grateful that I had made it out of that awkward stage of life for the most part unscathed.
I was on the sidewalk walking towards the row of parking I had used when I saw her gazing into the window at Sears. At first I thought she was just looking inside the store, but upon a closer glance I realized she was looking at her reflection. I noticed her face as I studied her reflection and thought of how many life stories those wrinkles foretold. Her perfectly placed hair made me suspect that she had just finished getting it "done" in the salon. The sunlight was highlighting its beautiful shade and I wondered how long it was gray before it had turned into its final color of shimmering snow. Her crooked fingers rummaged around in her purse for a while and she brought out a tube of red lip stick. With a shaking hand, she used the window's reflection to delicately color in her lips. It was a beautiful picture and was such a stark contrast from what I had witnessed in the restroom. Life settled around me and I understood that I too would transition from an apprehensive young girl, putting on bright lipstick to make myself look older--into a frail, aging woman still full of life putting on lipstick to make myself look younger. But what a difference those two people would be. The girl in the rest room mirror looked wistfully in the mirror putting on layer upon layer of lipstick. The young girl had posed with pouty lips trying to look confident but her eyes still betrayed her young insecurity. She needed her friends to give her false assurance with their rehearsed compliments. I smiled as the older woman puckered her lips and playfully kissed at her reflection. Her face betrayed her age, but her eyes revealed the young soul inside who had finally found an impassive assurance within herself and was ready to face the world on her own.
I still have a long road before I am the lady in the window reflection. My face is just starting to give in to the beginning of wrinkles and while I am much closer to gaining the amount of security that I saw in her, I still have a ways to go. There is so much more to learn in life and so many more wrinkles to add to my story. Along the way I will always remember that lady's reflection and strive to make my own one of joy and little regret.
I still wish I would have had a camera that day. But some pictures will forever remain even if they aren't captured on film.
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