Monday I shoveled myself out from four foot high snow drifts
that were blocking two of my doors and the next day I was at a Hawaiian Luau.
Life is a cup of crazy here in frozen Michigan where grass skirts don’t look
good with parkas. The teriyaki chicken and fruit kebobs, pulled pork
sandwiches, Key Lime pie and frozen Pina coladas were great but the hula
dancers had goose bumps the size of egg yolks. They were from the Philippines.
Yup, I know. When one of them told me that while we waited in a bathroom line I
did the geography in my head, too. But they were good and as I sat watching
them dance, the thought crossed my mind that I’d like to knit those dancers
some booties. Who goes without shoes in the winter! It was a fund raiser for Alzheimer’s
research and the only reason I got to go was because the event had been canceled
Monday and rescheduled (nine inches of snow and high winds will do that) but some
of the ticket holders couldn’t make it on the rescheduled day and I was on the
waiting list. It was all very spur-of-the-moment for me which added to the fun.
When I got the call from the ‘waiting list lady’, I told her, “This is just
what I need! If I stay at home one more day I’ll probably slit my throat.”
Not that I had been trapped in the house all that long. I
went to the grocery store on Saturday, the day before the Super Bowl. Oops, that trip turned out to be the Bermuda Triangle of Shopping. We had the big storm
predicted for later that day which always drives people into the stores. Add that
to the Super Bowl party shoppers and the third rail of the triangle was the
store was giving a 5% discount on everything but beer and wine. They have
thirty checkout lanes and every single one was open and had at least ten shoppers
lined up behind each cashier. People were taking cell phone photos of the cart
jam as proof that they were, in fact, caught in grocery lane hell and wouldn’t
be getting home any time soon. It was kind of fun, really. Everyone around me
was talking and joking with one another and I was sandwiched in between two
cute guys---one with ice cream soup in his cart. If I was into writing romance novels, it would have been a great way to have my leading characters meet. Shy cattle rancher flirts with a cute chick in a checkout lane. And since she had car trouble in the parking lot, he drives her home where they get snowed in for the weekend. Hallmark Movie channel, get right on that story line!
When I got on the other side of the checkout lanes the store
manager was standing there for whatever reason. I told him he should have the
people who give out sample foods and drinks in the grocery aisles come over by the checkout lanes where the samples could keep all us shoppers from fainting from missing
lunch. He laughed. It was a joke after all, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the
idea goes up the corporate ladder and two years from now it comes back down and
they’ll be doing just that on Bermuda Triangle days. I like the store manager.
He was always patient with my husband’s lack of speech when Don would try to engage him in "conversation." You can tell a lot about a
person’s character by how they treat the handicapped. One time the guy had a
gaggle of top brass following him around the store and that’s where I found Don
and his wheelchair, tagging right along. It didn't faze the store manager one little bit.
But talking with the store manager this week got me thinking about that social filter in a person’s brain they say quits working as
we age. Maybe it’s more than just a filter. At what point do we lose those
facial expressions that telegraphs that what we’re saying is a joke and not a
crotchety, old person complaint? Maybe some of us old people are just
misunderstood? I look in the mirror, see the saggy tissue around my mouth and I
know it makes me look like I’m mad when I’m anything but. E-gads, if I were into
wearing bright, red lipstick I’d probably start coloring the corners of my mouth
with an upward flare. Good thing I don’t like makeup. If I did, I’d be known as
the “clown lady” who always has something to say to the store manager, especially
if I added McDonald arches over my eyes because my eyebrows are disappearing. And when did my voice start cracking like I'm a hundred-and-five? I hate the old lady voice! That and caller ID makes it hard to dial up stores and tell them to let Prince Albert out of the can.
Have you ever had to pick out a photo for an obituary? As a
widow, of course, I’ve done it and I picked a photo of Don that was taken
within two years of his dying. When I read the obituaries I often see listings
of old people whose obituary picture was taking in the Dark Ages, back when
they were young. I often wonder why it was used. Did the deceased not like
their lines and wrinkles? Did the family think he left all his best friends
back in his youth? Did the surviving spouse pick a photo from the time frame
when they fell in love? Was being in the military the highlight of the deceased’s
life thus the outdated uniform and face no one in the current decade would recognize? I don’t know where I’m going with this paragraph but I don’t think I’ll
get there anytime soon, so I'm going to step away from the computer and go practice the hula moves I just learned. Aloha!
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