Apparently Paris Is Better Than Seattle

On New Year’s Eve 2020, I went to the local credit union to deposit my paycheck. Upon arrival in the ATM vestibule, I was met by a credit union employee. He informed me that both ATMs were not working for deposits. Of course they weren’t… 2020. I headed back to my car, through the building. There was a lady looking down at her phone while standing in the middle of the hallway leading to the parking lot door. I walked around her, and headed briskly through the doorway. Halfway to my car I heard a voice say “In Paris they hold the door for you (laughs) but not in Seattle”. It was the hallway lady. I said “Are you talking to me? I didn’t know you were behind me”. She said “I was five feet behind you”. As I got in my car I said loudly “This isn’t Paris”. Not much of a comeback, but I was stunned. In fact, I almost cried. Then it occurred to me that due to COVID, we are all trying to keep socially distanced from each other. It would not have been possible for me to hold the door for Paris Lady and also be six feet away from her. In fact, I should have chastised her for following me at less than six feet. By the time this occurred to me, she was across the street and heading through another parking lot. I would have to stalk her just to yell my “Oh yah? Well…” comment at her. Seriously, this has been a dumpster fire of a year. I know with any little thing that goes wrong I say “Of course… 2020”. That could be true but now that it’s 2021, I need to change my outlook. On to better things, right? Maybe I should take up French… 

Au revoir. 

Skippy Guy

 I was driving the other day and noticed a really scruffy man in a baseball hat coming towards me on the sidewalk up ahead. As I got closer, I realized he was skipping. He seemed so blissful that it made me smile. You don’t see a grown adult skipping often, maybe never. This could be due to stupid norms, or the fact that older people could have a bad skipping outcome. Personally, I am sure I would trip and fall, or maybe put out my eye with a rouge hand. I have enough trouble navigating over cracks and bumps in the sidewalk as it is. I think my skipping days are behind me, as well as ballet class and getting off the couch without my eyes popping out of my head. When my daughter was about 9 years old, jumping rope was a big deal. I bought us each a jumprope and we would go on walks together. Molly would skip along with her jumprope, never getting tripped up as we chatted. I on the other hand only knew how to jump rope while hopping in one spot. “How hard could skipping rope as we walk be?” I asked myself. The answer was “Very hard”. As it turns out the jumpy/skippy thing was beyond my skill set. I was forced to just carry my jumprope with me, to be included somehow in the process. I could have used it to tie up a bad guy should one have fallen on the sidewalk in front of us. Otherwise, it was just a reminder of how adulthood is not all it’s cracked up to be. Sure I can drive a car, and stay up past dark. It would be nice, though, not to get a cramp while tying my shoe. When my kids were in elementary school, they got to try riding a unicycle as part of PE. I thought that was so cool that I bought myself one, and named her Eunice. Again, I asked myself “How hard could it be?”. I never learn. Riding a unicycle is SO hard. It took me an entire summer to master a two-wheeler when I was 7. One less wheel was not going to be a quick study. I got two mop handles to use like ski poles or training wheels, but that didn’t really help. I would mostly put on my crash helmet, pump up the tire, adjust the seat and try a couple rotations. After falling off the unicycle a couple times (getting hit in the calf with the pedal doesn’t feel good) I would put Eunice away. I tried this many times, going as far as piling up patio furniture to hold onto. Nothing worked, but riding a unicycle is still on my bucket list. At least I made my son happy by not crashing and killing myself (he was concerned). That may be as good as it gets.

The Runs

My dog got the runs the other night. Surprise… and not a good one. He got me up in the middle of the night, twice. Nothing is more fun than trying to scoop a giant wet pile o’ pooh in your jammies, with a flashlight to light the way. The second time it was raining. In the morning, Boley seemed fine. Nothing amiss. I assumed he wasn’t sick, but had probably eaten something weird that wasn’t actually food. When he was about a year old, the people at the vet were chatting about how Boley was a good candidate for future surgeries. Great. Over his lifetime with us (4 years), we have pulled the following out of his big, slobbery mouth:

Paper towels (his favorite food group)
Kitchen sponge
Dead rat (GAK!)
Pens & markers (Permanent means permanent - ie my bedspread)
Various shoes
Jeans & hoodie
Boxcutter
Empty blueberry carton
Checkbook
Primary ballot
Rubber gloves
Eye glasses
Fluff from the couch cushion (he unzipped the cushion cover first - talented!)

We have tried to baby-proof the house to keep Boley (and our stuff) safe. It’s hard to know what to keep out of his reach when EVERYTHING looks like food. I hope the vet folks are wrong. In the meantime, I may cover the entire contents my house in bubble wrap. Hmmm… I wonder if THAT is delicious.

Gravity Sucks

I talk to myself, a lot. Sometimes I direct my conversations to my dogs, but I’m really just trying not to look crazy if any other human is listening. Lately I have uttered “Gravity sucks!” when I drop stuff. I think I am mad at Isaac Newton. He didn’t invent gravity, but was the one who identified it. If he hadn’t been a lazy butt and fallen asleep under an apple tree, I wouldn’t be having a gravity problem. Maybe I should be mad at the apple that beaned him on the noggin. So I was looking in the mirror the other day, focusing on my neck. My skin was all wrinkly and crepey. The term “turkey wattle” popped into my head. Ugh. I pulled on the back of my neck and the wattle disappeared like magic. It was then that I remembered watching my mother doing the same thing. At the time, she had been a lifelong smoker. I just assumed that was what created all the wrinkles. Plus, she was OLD. I figured wrinkles came with the territory. I would like to smack the young me on the back of the head (like Isaac Newton’s rogue apple) for being stupid and insensitive. What a jerk. The older me now realizes that my mom’s wrinkles weren’t due to smoking. It was GRAVITY’s fault. I am not upset enough with the aging process to try a surgical fix. I have seen enough actors on TV with weird plastic, immovable faces to keep my wrinkles firmly in place. Still, I am starting to understand the motivation. Butts sag, boobs sag (mine are still perky), bags appear under eyes. Gravity, gravity, gravity. I know we need to be anchored to the ground, but less might be more fun. I would enjoy leaping high like the astronauts did on the Moon. If a person could actually live on the Moon, would they have no wrinkles? Maybe just tiny laugh lines, and no saggy body parts. Hmmm. Where do I sign up for Space Force? Can I go NOW? And just how big will my butt look in the silly uniform? So much to ponder. Maybe I should just stay put, embrace my neck, and stay mad at Isaac Newton’s apple. Sigh.

Bombs Away

So what’s the deal with Mother Nature? She seems to be extremely ticked off. We’ve had epic hurricanes and large earthquakes. Then the worldwide Pandemic struck. Now the animals are acting hinky. The other day Boley and I headed out on our early morning walk. We weren’t even to the sidewalk when we got dive-bombed by a crow. It came just above Boley and I could feel and hear a WHOOSH as it flew by. As we continued, we got swooped on seven times. On the last pass, the crow actually touched Boley’s head. I stopped and checked to make sure no blood had been drawn but found that Boley was okay. More and more crows landed on trees around us, cawing loudly. The whole thing reminded me of the movie “The Birds”. It was terrifying. I expected to see Alfred Hitchcock walking across the sidewalk off in the distance. We continued around the block and cut back to the house through the alley. I didn’t want to have another bird encounter. Shortly after, on my drive back from the neighborhood bakery, I spied a lady walking towards my street. I thought about rolling down my window and warning her about the crows. Then, I selfishly reconsidered. If the crows were busy attacking her, I would be safe getting out of my car with my lattes and pastries. Yes, I was a jerk, but in thought only. The lady ended up walking in a different direction. People tell me that crows are awesome and mate for life. Whatever. I find them creepy, menacing, and for sure are smarter than I am. I resent that. Years ago when we would walk our two Scotties, crow scouts would yell to their buddies to tell them we were on our way home. Then they would be waiting in the backyard when we arrived to throw peanuts out for the squirrels. They knew our routine and were way ahead of us. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them impatiently tapping their claws and checking little crow watches. No more attacks have happened. I hold my head high as we walk, daring the crows to mess with me again. It’s an act though. Is there such a thing as Crow PTSD? If there is, I’ve got it.

Pandemic Hair

I snagged the last available appointment the day my barbershop closed its doors. Little did I know it would be a very long while before my next haircut. As I write this, we are more than two months out. I have (er… had) very short hair, fashionably sticky-up on top. Currently my hairdo is careening from Kramer (“Seinfeld”) into Marge Simpson territory. I have kept my sideburns trimmed using little nail scissors. I can do that much without doing too much harm. I had my husband shave my neck with our electric clippers. He did a mostly efficient job, except for being a bit too vigorous. But hey, the red marks on my neck have finally healed! I clipped his hair, and did an adequate job. I’m not sure if he isn’t that picky or if I just had beginner’s luck. Needless to say, I’m not going to get cocky and think I know what I’m doing the next time. Bad things can happen that way. Case in point - Stella, my little Yorkie. She was in serious need of grooming. I knew the clippers would terrify her, so I trimmed her with some small scissors. I tried to emulate how my stylist cuts my hair. After a while, I got tired and figured I might be trying too hard. She was just a dog, right? Wrong. The best I can say is that I didn’t stab her or draw blood. Her overall haircut looks very choppy. I have no idea when the groomer will be open for business. Hopefully, there’s a little more time for my handiwork to fill in a bit. During this time, I’ve noticed something weird about the men on TV (reporters, commentators & government officials). Their hair is longer than usual, but they have also grown beards. Why can’t they shave their own faces? Is shaving such a pain that they are enjoying the freedom to be scruffy? I haven’t had eyebrow/lip service in a couple months. Unlike men with beards, if I appear with a mustache, it won’t be on purpose. Times are tough for EVERYBODY right now. Hairstyling is not a big deal. Still, I would totally stalk my hairdresser if I knew where she lived. Umm… is stalking still a crime???

Spare Time Challenge

I miss shopping at the mall. There, I said it. I admit it. I also miss shopping at little boutiques. Maybe it’s the thrill of the hunt. More likely is that I shop out of boredom. Whatever. I enjoy it. Shopping at the grocery store really doesn’t fulfill that yearning. I don’t get excited finding vanilla yogurt, or a can of Rotelle like I do when I encounter a cute top or an amazing pair of earrings. I could do yard work, I suppose, but it’s mainly housework conducted outside. I can only pull weeds and wild grass for so long before the old bod seizes up on me. I used to get sore the second day after yard work. Now the pain is instantaneous, and just gets worse for two days. That leaves indoor activities to occupy my spare time. I know I watch far too much TV. OK, who am I kidding? There IS no such thing as too much TV, but I do have to give my butt a break once in a while. The last time I went to heat up the oven, smoke pored out through the top. This told me I might want to acquaint myself with the self-cleaning function ASAP (or perhaps never cook again). I placed a giant fan pointing at the oven, and closed the hall door behind which lives a smoke-detector. I opened a window as well as the back door so smoke could go out through the screen. I was all set to clean Old Smokey. I pushed Clean, and turned on the giant fan. To my wonderment, blobs of dog hair went shooting across the floor and pirouetted through the air. It was a fun little game to try to catch the hairy blobs as they came floating by. I also felt a little ashamed that my kitchen was obviously so dirty. My dogs weren’t interested in what I was doing, once they figured out I was Not in the kitchen to get them a treat. I was left to race around my tiny kitchen, pretending the hair blobs were $50 bills like in some dream gameshow. My next project will probably be to Clorox the grout around my kitchen tile. I doubt I will find much interesting in the process. I will have to try really hard to come up with a different way to see the task. It definitely won’t be Hair Blob Toss, or shopping at the mall. I miss the mall. Did I tell you I miss shopping at the mall??? Yup, I miss the mall. Sigh…