May I Cut In?

coupledancingI’d like to take this opportunity to thank a few of the “good deed doers” that I encountered this morning — the ones that were placed, as if by serendipity, in my path on my early morning “fly-by” at the local market. It goes without saying that I thanked them profusely amidst their good deed doing — I even kissed one of them (I knew him, though — the others were virtual strangers, so no PDAs for them!). I just wanted to put my gratitude in writing — on the outside chance that they happen to be readers of this blog — hey, you never know! That’s how serendipity works. She’s a-crazy that way!

In one of those, unfortunately for me, not so rare collisions of a lack of time on my part and a lack of planning on Fangette’s part, I had to make an early morning dash to our little local market for strawberries, bananas (“No, Mom, I can’t have one of the ten yogurts that are in the fridge that contain these fruits. I can’t have dairy before practice! Are you crazy? Don’t you EVER listen?”), turkey, a feminine hygiene product, and, of course, the “build-your-own” salad. (“Just greens, grilled chicken, fresh mozzarella, and CUCUMBERS this time, Mom! CUCUMBERS, Mom! NOT tomatoes. I HATE TOMATOES. WHY CAN’T YOU REMEMBER THAT?”)

I ran in for FIVE items. FIVE. I didn’t think I needed A LIST, for God’s sake. And, really, I had NO time to fool with pen and paper, anyway.

Of course, when I got out to the car I realized that I only had FOUR items — I didn’t get the “build-your-own” salad. Really, that’s a misnomer. Because you don’t actually get to build the salad yourself. You choose a prepackaged bowl of greens — there are several delightful choices for the discriminating lettuce lover, we usually opt for the mesculin mix — and then the guy at the deli counter places your “add-ons” atop the crunchy bed of fresh salad greens. (They’ll even toss it, with or without dressing, upon request, but we don’t go in for THAT sort of thing!)

On my first foray through the market, I decided to just grab the pre-packaged turkey, as I didn’t have time to wait at the deli — there was a gentleman in front of me who looked like he was in no hurry at all and only the one worker behind the counter — this type of staffing and this sort of shopper is to be expected, I suppose, at the crack of dawn. I thought, by opting for the turkey that someone had thoughtfully pre-sliced, that I had “beaten the system”, shaved off a few of those precious morning minutes. The obvious flaw in my plan was, of course, my failure to take into account the whole “build-your-own-salad” business.

On my return trip, which was only about three minutes later, guess what I encountered over in deli? The same older man getting his cold cuts sliced, the same single employee working the slicer. It appeared that I would have to wait. I tried to be patient, but time just began ticking away and, like I said before, the gentleman did not seem to be in any hurry at all. Also, he apparently enjoys ham — in just the time I stood there he ordered a quarter of a pound of three different varieties of this fine meat product. There were several bags of what appeared to be sliced meats in his hand. I’m no novice to the ways of the deli counter — I knew what that meant. He hadn’t even gotten to the cheese portion of the event yet.

This was when I did something that I never do. I asked him, as nicely as I could, if I could possibly “borrow” HIS worker for forty-five seconds. I explained how I just needed someone to plop three little items — grilled chicken, fresh mozz, and diced cucumbers — on top of this here plastic bowl of rabbit food. (This is where I held up my container of greens as a visual aid, in the event that he was not familiar with the whole “build-your-own-salad” concept!) Not only did he immediately AGREE to help me out of a jam, HE actually APOLOGIZED to me — explaining as he did so that he was retired and, therefore, in no rush. “Sadly”, he said, “I have nowhere to be but here. I remember having the kind of day you’re having, though! I sure do! Please, go ahead of me!” I took a moment to be sad for him and his predicament before I pounced on his deli worker.

Initially the young man behind the deli counter was confused by this turn of events. The nice gentleman, the one who, just moments before, I had been judging for his sodium intake, kindly explained to the befuddled worker that he was “letting me ‘cut in’.” I liked this turn of phrase. It put me in mind of some 1940’s dance hall love triangle.

Salad in hand, gratitude on my lips, I left my new friend to carry on with his relaxing day. I think it’s safe to say that we both envied the pace of each other’s lives.

When I got to the check-out area I realized that, of course, there was only one register open. There were two people in front of me. The woman directly ahead of me had a few bagels in a bag. The woman who was currently in the midst of checking out had far more. And she had something else. Some kind of a problem. A problem that, apparently, could only be solved by a “price check”. I sighed. Audibly. “Bagel woman” turned to me and said, “If you’re in a hurry, you can go ahead of me.” I just shook my head in the negative. What would have been the point? SHE wasn’t the problem.

I thanked her for her offer and tried to quietly explain that my stress level was at about a ten. (I didn’t want “price check lady” to feel in any way responsible for my craziness!) I admitted that while I understood the other woman’s need for a price check, this delay felt like another “wrench in the works” of my already anxiety-filled morning. “It’s not”, I shrilly replied, “anyone’s fault but my own!” Even as I said this, I knew it wasn’t true. So, I clarified, for “bagel lady” — I thought I owed her at least that!

“Actually”, I whined, “it’s not really MY fault. Well, yeah, the forgetting the salad portion of the festivities is my fault, but if I’m being honest, and why wouldn’t I be? The rest of it — the rest of it is ALL my kid’s fault. Her failure to plan ALWAYS becomes my emergency. Know what I mean? It makes me crazy. CRAZY, I tell ya! One more year, though. ONE MORE YEAR and she’ll be off to college. She’ll be out of the nest. She’ll have FLOWN THE COOP! (This is where I began gesturing, like a bird taking flight, with the “build-your-own-salad”.) I can’t wait. I CAN NOT WAIT, I’LL TELL YOU THAT MUCH!” Sensing that I had a sympathetic ear in “bagel lady”, I continued, “Sure”, I said, a little more loudly than I, or probably anyone within earshot would have liked, “I’ll miss her, she’s a good kid, really. But, I’ll tell ya what I won’t miss — THIS kind of nonsense. I WILL NOT miss these SHENANIGANS! No, Ma’am, I WILL NOT miss this kind of tomfoolery at THE CRACK OF DAWN!”

“Bagel lady”, God bless her, just listened, shook her head in agreement, and put her hand on my arm — you know, to calm me. I can’t be certain, but I think the soothing hand on the arm thing was as much for self-preservation as it was a show of sympathy. She may have feared that the very real possibility existed that a shower of “build-your-own-salad” could be in her future if I were allowed to continue gesturing wildly. Whatever her reasons, it did the trick. I was beginning to “come down” from my “anxiety high”.

This is about the time that I heard a laughing voice from somewhere close by say, “Oh, I should have known it was you when I heard all the ruckus!” I knew immediately that it was my friend, Tim. He worked his way in behind me. Put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a quick “How ya doin’?” peck on the cheek. We shared a brief hug, a couple of sighs, and a laugh. (We’re Irish, we practically hold the patent on sighing!) He asked me what I was all worked up about. I told him that it was just the usual, the same old, same old — KIDS! And time — or lack thereof. He just eyed me knowingly, reminded me that I’d “been through worse” than a bad morning at the market and told me to “keep my chin up!” He also told me that I looked “great” — he was lying or at least intimating that he’s seen me look far worse, which he has. (He knew me “when” — when I was more of a hot mess than I am now!) I definitely did NOT look anything even remotely close to “great”. I looked like a crazy person who had just rolled out of bed and found herself in the middle of a kidnapping plot. (When I got home, I realized that I had gone out wearing one brown flip-flop and one black flip-flop. That’s how “great” I did NOT look!)

I sure appreciated his kind words, though. Yes, I did. I also appreciated that he, much like the nice gentleman in the deli and the “bagel lady” before him, took time out of their lives to commiserate with the high-strung and possibly deranged woman who was carrying on about her life as if she were the center of the universe. I don’t know what-all the others have accomplished in their lives, but I know how Tim spends some of his time. His resume is pretty impressive.

His most recent achievement, through his role as a NJ Assemblyman, is that he authored and managed to have signed into law earlier this week — by Republican Governor Christie, no less — a bill that makes “gay re-education camps” against New Jersey law. He has been active in town politics here in our little burg for many years. He served as our Mayor for two terms and as a Councilman for many years prior to moving on to the NJ Assembly. He is a successful chiropractor and an active member of The Rotary Club. Through this organization he and his partner have been instrumental in building, funding, and maintaining a school in Kenya — they, their children, and other community and Rotary members, visit every year — bringing with them books, supplies, and hope to countless young men and women who wouldn’t otherwise have the opportunity to realize their full potential.

His mere presence forced me to put my morning mayhem in perspective. I also felt a little bit ridiculous — in a good way. And I told him so. I said something like, “Thank you. Thank you, Tim. You work so hard. You’ve done and continue to do so many amazing things with your life. Congratulations on the bill, by the way! I feel like all I do is schlep food to the ungrateful — both at work and in my regular life. So, thanks. Thanks for making me feel slightly ridiculous this morning. I needed that!” His response? “Everybody has a role, Jack. We need people to “schlep food” just as much as we need people who do the things that I do. Don’t beat yourself up about it! Feel good about yourself!”

And you know what? For a few minutes I did just that. I felt good about myself. At least, that is, until I got home and took note of the fact that I was, and not for the first time, wearing two different shoes.

photo credit: couple dancing

Related posts (mostly related to mismatched footwear):
Here’s to Hoping for the Best
Focus on Footwear

Here’s to hoping for the best

glassesclinkingI never write about not being able to write, but today I feel the need to make an exception (along with my apologies for not having read what you folks are writing, which feels more terrible than not posting). I’m not blocked, exactly. I’ve got a few musings in the hopper, so to speak — just nothing that’s ready for prime time, if you know what I mean. I’ve just been busy with other things. I wish I could say they were more important things, life-changing things. Some of them are. The hovel purge continues. So, that’s good. This activity feels both important and life-changing. We shall see. Getting more organized will ultimately be a good thing. I know this. It’s just the process that’s daunting. I’m hopeful, though. Having hope is always a positive thing. Unless, of course you are the type of person who sits around hoping for bad things to happen, like the death of your enemies or nuclear destruction. Luckily, I’m not that type of person. I figure the world will wreak it’s own havoc on my enemies. I can’t muster up the necessary time and energy to worry over the nuclear thing. If it happens, it happens. I assume it will be quick. I think that’s the best that we can all hope for on that subject.

Besides being hard at work on getting my house in order, I have also been up to my usual idiocy. Mostly, I’ve been doing those absent-minded professor things for which I am (semi) famous. Not once, but twice this week, I engaged in some footwear tomfoolery. First I headed out of the house in two different shoes. I wish I could tell you that they were so similar that I became confused in the dark, but that would be a lie. First of all it was broad daylight, second of all the were two very different colors. In my defense they were both sneakers, however, one was black and one was white. Fortuitously, I caught myself just outside my front door and was able to rather easily rectify the situation. I wish I could tell you that this is the first time I’ve done this. It’s not. A couple of years ago I did the very same thing with the very same shoes, only that time I wasn’t as lucky in terms of noticing what I’d done. That time I made it all the way to Target before I realized that I was wearing two very different shoes.

I was not as eagle-eyed when it came to putting my Uggs on the wrong feet. I have performed this feat of stupidity twice over the past couple of days. Okay, I was only running to the corner store or to the laundry room, but still, who does this once, let alone twice? Further, I will have you know that I only discovered it when I began to actually trip over my own two feet.

I have, for the most part, been successfully bathing/showering myself for over forty years. Why suddenly it’s become a problem for me, I couldn’t tell you, but it appears that I may no longer be up to the task. Again, not once, but twice this week I failed at something that most people manage to accomplish on a daily basis as a matter of course. I’ve had to take up focusing and concentrating in the shower, otherwise I am liable to either not shampoo my hair at all or to not rinse my hair of the shampoo that I miraculously remembered to apply. What person of normal intelligence does this?

I wish that these minor memory glitches, which I have decided to attribute to preoccupation, rather than a peri-menopausal state or my advancing age, only reared their ugly head at home (or at the corner store, or on my way down to the laundry room), but they haven’t. No. My foray into the land of forgetfulness has followed me to work where, on several occasions, I have simply failed to either order a customer’s food or to bring them something integral to their dining needs. My sincere, profuse and heartfelt apologies were accepted by these kind and generous people, none of whom were pressed for time or unduly attached to eating ketchup on their cheeseburgers. So, outside of looking like a ditzy waitress, no harm, no foul. Thankfully no one flipped out. I don’t know what I would have done if they had. A crying jag cannot be ruled out.

As much as I want to believe that none of this is hormonal, I know that’s not true. And I know it’s not true because of the crying. I would say that I’m an average crier or, more to the point, an appropriate crier. I’ll admit that I sometimes find crying cathartic. I’ll confess that sometimes the Sleepy’s commercial gets me to feeling a little weepy — the one where they do the montage of the couple as they age and their children grow while “In My Life” plays in the background. That one. I also really miss Oprah. That show was usually good for an afternoon cry. And, obviously, I have been known to cry when faced with personal loss. I’m not made of stone. I’m just not the sort of person who bursts into tears on anything resembling a regular basis (at least since Oprah went off the air, that is).

Lately, though, I have found myself either on the verge of tears or full-out crying on several occasions. A couple of times were out of sheer frustration with my husband who, it seems, has made a resolution to become a complete and utter asshole this year. I don’t really know what is going on with him and, frankly, I’m too fed up at the moment to care. I’m sure his behavior is related to my efforts at organization. Don’t get me wrong, he wants things more organized, he just doesn’t want to do any work or spend any money to make it happen. He has also grown fond of the word “stupid” and has begun to apply it liberally to many of the changes that I’ve suggested for living space. After a while the word “stupid” (not applied to me, per se, just to my ideas) began to grate on my last nerve. I got frustrated. I cried. He apologized. He then proceeded to continue to thwart me at every turn. So, I’ve resolved to just let him go on being an asshole. I’ll work around him.

My daughter, God love her, perhaps sensing the tension in her parents’ normally placid relationship, said something the other day that literally brought me to tears. I know that my kid has a kind and generous heart, mostly because that’s what other people tell me. At home she is snarky, mouthy, and self-centered, but when she goes out into the world she demonstrates altogether other qualities. (Don’t we all?) Normally, like most any adolescent who knows that she is unconditionally loved, her behavior at home can be beastly. So, imagine my surprise, when she looked me straight in the eye, put her hand on my shoulder (I was, literally, knee deep in plastic container sorting) and said, “Mom, I’m so proud of you.” I could barely choke out a “Thank you” before she noticed me crying. I’m happy to report that she got back to her old self right away, rolling her eyes and calling me “ridiculous” on her way out of the kitchen. And I did feel ridiculous. There she was, being nice — finally! — and all I could do was burst into tears. So, I guess that’s the last compliment I’ll get out of her for a while.

Anyway, this about sums up what I’ve been up to (or not up to) this week. It’s time to sign off now, as I have to attend to showering, carefully choosing my shoes, and relocating my dishes to a place that will, no doubt, be called stupid by my husband. I also must try very hard to get through the dinner shift without incident. And I have to do all of this without crying. I’m going to hope for the best.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Sleepy’s commercial referenced above:

photo credits:
glasses clinking (