On a Roll

“The problem, Mrs. A, is that your children, to put it bluntly, are lazy.”

I blurted this out recently, stunning a mother and her two children into silence (a major coup, as they are incredible chatterboxes -loud, boorish windbags, quite frankly).

“And disrespectful,” I added, even though that really wasn’t the topic at hand.  I had a captive audience, so I figured I might as well go for it.

For those of you who don’t know, I spend a few hours a week tutoring children.  I’ve worked with Mrs. A’s children (a girl, aged 17 and a boy, aged 10) for a couple of years now.  They’re a nice enough family, although my time with them proves to be a bit much on occassion.  I don’t mind the tutoring aspect of it (when it actually occurs), but dealing with these children and their ingrained sense of entitlement wearies me, to say the least.  Plus, they consider themselves cute and funny.  They’re not.

The conversation began when Mrs. A informed me in a rather harsh tone that her daughter’s grades have been slipping over the last few months.  The girl is quite capable of understanding and applying advanced concepts, but knowing her as well as I do, I could easily figure out what’s been going on.  She’s simply an unmotivated teen who spends a great deal of time lamenting about the stupidity of school and teachers.

I’d left my ‘nice way of putting things’ hat at home, and ended up unleashing like I’ve never unleashed before when dealing with parents and their children.  Once upon a time, Mrs. Newman proceeded with caution in these scenarios, but that Mrs. Newman, like Elvis, has left the building.  I no longer have the energy to put up with foolishness and have taken the ‘call it as I see it’ practice to a new level.  You want me to give them homework, Mrs. A?  Sure thing, although we’ve tried it before and they didn’t do it, remember?  At this, the boy burst into tears and ran to the bathroom.  He’s pulled this stunt before:  when he’s tired, when he’s hungry, when he doesn’t have a pencil, so I paid his little outburst no notice.  I felt this ‘just us gals’ moment with Mrs. A and her daughter was meant to be.

‘My dear,’ I began, looking the daughter straight in the eye, ‘there is absolutely no reason for your grades to slip.  You’re not working as you should in school.  You have no respect for education.’

‘THAT’S RIGHT!’  yelled Mrs. A, who suddenly realized that I might actually know what I’m talking about.  I believe her original intent was to blame me for her kid’s poor grades.

‘And, ‘I continued, ‘if you complain as much in class as you do during our sessions together, of course your teacher will think you’re not up for the job.”  At this, the daughter began to cry, but at least had the decency to sit there and listen.

‘YES!’ proclaimed the mother, ‘SHE HAS A TERRIBLE ATTITUDE!! BOTH OF MY KIDS HAVE ROTTEN ATTITUDES.  I DON’T KNOW WHERE THEY GET IT!!!’

‘Quite frankly, Mrs. A, I feel as if my coming here is a waste of my time and your money.  Which reminds me-’

“Oh, yes,’ said Mrs. A in a much calmer tone, ‘I still owe you for the month.’

‘Actually, you owe me for last month as well.’

‘Um....I didn’t make it to the ATM.’ Big-eyed and flustered, she spoke in a soft voice now, one that I’d never heard her use before.  Mrs. A likes to yell, in case you haven’t figured that out, and she’ll yell at anyone:  me, her children, her husband, her in-laws, the neighbors, stray cats, and poor, unsuspecting UPS delivery men.

‘That’s okay.  I’ll take a check this time.’  I smiled, and even though I desperately wanted to go home, I’d be darned if I'd leave without some sort of compensation.  She obliged and grabbed her purse.  Awkward silence enveloped the room as she wrote the check.  Normally, I’d say something in order to break the tension, but since I was the cause of the tension, I figured I’d just let it ride.   

‘If I may be so bold as to mention this, you must know, too,  that  both of your children are easily distracted and will find any excuse to not focus on their work.’  I could have shared many examples had she asked for one, but the one I had in mind concerned her mother-in-law, who bangs pots and pans around in the kitchen during our tutoring sessions, preparing meals for her grandchildren that go uneaten because they only want the fake fast food from around the corner.  Based on the smell coming from the kitchen, I can’t say that I blame them.  I wanted to tell her, too, that her house was too dark and stuffy, and her bathroom sink could do with a good scrubbing.  ‘I go home every Monday night reeking of cumin and frustration,’ I wanted to say, but I didn’t, for fear of sounding impolite.

As she handed me the check, she asked if I had any additional days during the week in order to work with her children.  ‘You’re honest with them.  They listen to you.  They don’t listen to me,’ she said.   These kids don’t listen to anyone, but I couldn't help but feel touched by the sentiment just the same.

 ‘I can fit them in on Wednesday afternoon,’ I told her.

‘Oh, no, that won’t work.  How about Sunday?’

‘I (pretend to) go to church on Sunday,’ I replied, ‘but if something else opens up later in the week, I’ll let you know.

We hugged, the three of us, and I as left I could hear the boy still boo-hooing in the bathroom. Quite a show, indeed! I don’t feel as if boys shouldn’t cry, but I sincerely believe they should get a handle on it at some point, or at least learn to sob silently behind closed doors.  That’s my method and it’s served me well for years.

As I drove home that night, I thought about Mrs. A. She’s loud.  She’s gruff.  I do like her, though.  Given her disposition, she’s probably not accustomed to people being completely honest with her.  I’m happy I gave it to her straight, and I think she respects me for it.  Most people simply want the truth.  I’m not one of those people, but that shouldn’t stop me from telling it from time to time.

 

 

Valentine’s Day and Other Random Ramblings

Here we find ourselves, Sweeties, just two days away from Valentine’s Day – a made-up holiday that shines a stupendously stunning spotlight on love and let-down. 

I’m all for expressions of amore, but let’s face facts:  Valentine’s Day can be a major stress factor in a relationship.  Years ago, during one of my many professional ventures, a colleague spent Cupid’s day fuming because her husband did not send flowers to the office.   A downright downer during any given minute, this gal’s downer-ness exploded to massive proportions by the end of this particular Valentine’s workday.  I went out of my way to drop by her cubicle, my own flowers in hand, to express my genuine (i.e. half-hearted borderline snarky) sympathies before leaving.

They later divorced.  I’m not certain if her flowerlessness contributed to the demise of their marriage, but I’m sure it didn’t help matters. She made the mountains- out- of- mole-hills concept into an art form, and I felt both sorry and relieved for her husband when I heard of their split.

And don’t get me started on those awful jewelry commercials inundating us at the moment, sending the message that no woman is completely happy unless she’s got some sort of reduced-price diamond hanging off her person.  This sort of nonsense only adds to the ‘special princess for a day’ concept that women buy into figuratively and men buy into literally. 

Ridiculous.  Give me something I can use.

Like a pink ukulele.

That’s right.  When Mr. Newman asked what I wanted for this pretend (and might I add pretentious) celebration, I gave him my standard answer:  nothing.  He’s persistent, though, so I finally gave in and told him to get me a pink ukulele.  I’d love to improve upon my already (non-existent) musical leanings, and I’m confident that a P.U. will assist me in doing so.  And P.U. is what the masses will cry when I take my act to various open-mic nights throughout the greater Houston area.

Speaking of musical geniuses, did you catch that fabulous Beatles tribute the other night?    My only ‘wouldn’t it be cool if... .’ thought centered on a Sir Paul, Ringo, Dhani Harrison, and Julian (not Sean) Lennon jam session.  I was thrilled, however, when Dhani took the stage with Jeff Lynn and Joe Walsh, and equally elated when Sean stayed in his seat and kept his yap shut.

Speaking of keeping one’s yap shut, I’m finding it more difficult to do these days.  I lovingly informed a fifteen-year-old girl last night that the reason I would not join her in her second bag of microwavable popcorn is because it’s full of chemicals and if she wanted to dig herself an early grave, go for it.  ‘Chew with your mouth closed, please, and get back to your book,’ I added.

Speaking of books, I’ve always been against the banning and burning of them, but have changed my tune upon reading Shirley Jones’ memoirs last week.  Poorly written, poorly edited, and chock-full of TMI (and not the good kind), I’m tempted to ask for my money back, but I can’t because I checked it out of the library, so I’m tempted to simply turn in my library card.

Speaking of Temptations, I ain’t too proud to beg:  please, might we all settle down this Valentine’s Day and stop pressuring our beloved into wasting money on pointless tokens of love?  I’ve a very dear friend who used to tell her children that they could have anything they wanted as long as it wasn’t advertised on television.  An ingenious notion, in my humble opinion.

You don’t see any pink ukulele advertised, now do you?

All you need is love.

If, however, you’re forced to reveal your deepest desires this Valentine’s Day, take a good hard look at yourself.  What do you really want?  What speaks to you?  Remember, it’s not a competition, even though the media has made it such.  Just because Jane Seymour says you need necklace doesn’t necessarily mean that you do.  Just because those broads in the office next door get the standard candy and flowers doesn’t mean you should.  Get creative.  C’mon, get happy.

Speaking of happy, I do hope you have lovely Valentine’s Day.  I really mean it.

 

 

(Coming up on Elegant Musings:  Will Mrs. Newman receive the pink ukulele from Mr. Newman?  If not, will she actually make a withdrawal from her ‘Facelift Fund’ and get it herself?  Will the popcorn munching teen’s mom pay up for the two-months of tutorials Beth has so generously offered like clock-work each and every week?  Tune in next time….)

 

Snow Day

It’s currently 35 degrees in my little corner of Southeast Texas.  The greater-Houston area has all but shut down as we brace ourselves for ice-meggedon, or whatever the heck meteorologists call it these days.

Growing up in the Texas Panhandle, we simply referred to it as ‘winter’.

I don’t want to come down too harshly on the place I now call home, for I understand that if you’ve never experienced cold, icy weather you really don’t know how to behave…or drive…or dress….I liken it to obnoxious, disrespectful children.  Sure, your initial response is to take them to task, but you soon realize it’s not their fault – they simply don’t know any better.  Then you can smile smugly and place full blame (and the gossip that’s surely to follow) on the real source of the problem – their parents.

But I digress.

As a child, the anticipation of snow and the inevitable ‘snow day’ brought about such excitement and hope to my young world.  Snow days, of course, meant no school, and no school meant a day in which to focus on what really mattered:  books, Barbies, and at 2pm, the day’s episode of Guiding Light.

The night before a potential snow day, I’d pray harder and faster than I’d ever prayed before.  The Baptists taught me to ‘ask and it is given’, and I took it to heart.  They also taught me intolerance and harsh judgment, which goes to show that sometimes it’s all just one big crap shoot.

But again, I digress.

Early in the morning of a possible snow day, my mother would tune into our local radio station, KDHN –Your Little Home for Big Country Music.  We’d wait…and wait…praying that the farm reports would soon end, and that God and the school superintendant had reached an agreement that we could all get on board with.

 

Sometimes they did, and sometimes they didn’t.  The Rolling Stones taught me that ‘you can’t always get what you want.’  This lesson somehow always pleased a great number of Baptists, even though they preached against rock and roll.

Once again, digressing.

As an adult, a snow day means (at least for me) a day of limited ‘work from home’ activities, cleaning house, laundry, and any other task I can find to keep me busy.  I like being busy, and I like getting dressed even though I know I’m not leaving the house (honestly, what is our society’s fascination with staying in pajamas all day?)

A dear friend born and raised in New York City scoffs at Houston’s anxiety that comes along with below-freezing temperatures.  In spirit, I’m with him, but I’m not without empathy.  If you’ve never experienced it, you don’t know what to do, which was evident this morning when I spotted my neighbor wearing a winter coat and shorts.  The whole city is downright confused.

 

I look upon these days not with the excitement I had as a child, but with an understanding that perhaps the universe is telling us all to slow down a little bit.  The world will keep turning if we don’t have to show up anywhere.  We’ll all be okay if we force ourselves indoors every once in a while

By 9am my ‘work from home’ had been completed.  The house is clean, and the last load of laundry turns quietly in the drier.

I have books to read, Barbie clothes to make for the two fabulous nieces, and although it’s no longer on the air, I can still find episodes of Guiding Light on YouTube.

Perhaps I haven’t lost that child-like excitement I once had.

 

 

 

 

Goods and Services

I was hanging dill leaves over my front door this morning thinking about a recent conversation I’d had with an acquaintance -a nice, successful go-getter type of gal in my community whom I admire.  She asked why I didn’t have my picture on my business cards.  I explained that while I still dabble in a bit of consulting, I’ve landed a gig with a wonderful educational institute and the cards they provide me with are the standard fare they provide for all of their employees.  My name and contact information is on each one, but everything else comes straight from ‘the man’.

Oddly enough, she wasn’t the first person to ask me that question, so I feel the need to fully address the situation.

I began my consulting practice about five years ago with the intention of helping people learn how to dress and how to behave.  It eventually took on a ‘mentoring’ aspect, which I enjoyed.  Had it caught on completely, I might still be out there promoting it full-force.  It didn't, but no worries - the new gig keeps me blissfully busy.  I still have a handful of regular clients, so I’m just not inclined to bust my behind trying to get ‘me’ out there.  Those regular clients, by the way, came my way through word of mouth.  All the snazzy marketing materials, all the local meet and greats, the TV and magazine appearances and such amounted to nothing as far as the ‘bottom line’ was concerned.  In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to eat and buy shoes, but as you well know, we do not live in a perfect world.

 

Anyway, back to the business card question.  In the super-early stages of my sole proprietorship, I did include my picture on marketing materials.  I then proceeded to get emails from a creepy (and married) individual who had no interest in my professional services.  I don’t consider myself a ravishing beauty, so it just goes to show that there are a lot of sad, desperate jerks out there.  Since I don’t like sad, desperate jerks, I removed my photo from said marketing materials.  He finally left me alone after the phrases ‘restraining order’, ‘your wife’, and ‘tire iron’ were thrust his way.

Promotion.  It should be a simple concept, but it’s not. 

Sure, business owners and those who provide various services must do it and do it well.  Self-promotion is an entirely different thing, and I discovered that the lines blurred for an awful lot of so-called professionals out there. 

Creepy Email Guy made me gun shy.  Combine that with the fact that I’m a pretty private person so you can therefore understand why certain types of promotion didn’t work in my favor.  In our age of technology, advertising should be easy, but it’s not.  I think we’ve got too much information at our finger-tips, and too many folks out there promoting things that may not necessarily be real. Our culture has become one big illusion in which everyone’s a celebrity (even if it is in their own minds).

 

“Look at me!  Look at me!”

No offense, but I’m tired of looking at you, quite frankly, and I’m okay with the fact that you’re probably tired of looking at me (I hope Creepy Email Guy is, anyway).  I’m incredibly happy doing what I do these days, and I’m content to limit my social media exchanges to things that amuse me that will hopefully amuse others.  Sometimes I even try to pass along information that might educate, but I no longer feel as if I have to do it every hour on the hour.

I’d much rather pursue other interests, like hanging dill above my front door.  You may wonder about such an activity, but as I mentioned earlier, I like to keep certain things private.

 

 

Our Way of Life

Cheers, Sweeties, and Happy New Year to you all!  As the insanity of the holiday season winds down, many of us may find ourselves taking time for quiet reflection.  Perhaps we’re making resolutions, setting goals, and listing intentions that will make every self-help guru out there proud – and wealthy.  Let’s face it, we’ve so many ‘coaches’, ‘spiritual leaders’, and ‘success trainers’ out there that determining what’s best for us can be downright daunting. We’ve spent unspeakable amounts of money on books, courses, and seminars, and I wonder just how effective the deluge of self-help information out there actually is.   I’ve been guilty of the ‘you can do it!’ overload, so much so that when I go back and reread some of these musings I fall ill.  It’s not that I don’t buy it anymore – I do – but we’re so overrun these days with it that I’m officially over trying to contribute to it. 

Yet that does not mean I’m not seeking ways in which to improve myself.  As a matter of fact, I’ve discovered the one helpful guide that truly resonates with me. 

Joan Crawford’s My Way of Life.

 

I ask that you put aside any preconceived Mommie Dearest notions.  There are too many accounts out there contradicting the allegations made by Miss Crawford’s eldest daughter, Christina.  I won’t go into all the details here, for you’re quite capable of conducting your own research.  Although the film Mommie Dearest remains one of my campy guilty pleasures, I don’t believe for one minute she abused her children.  (Side note:  it is my sincerest hope that someday I, too, shall be in a position in which I must chop down rose bushes with an ax while wearing a full-length gown in the dead of night). 

Old Hollywood is a hobby of mine, and my studies over the years reveal that Miss Crawford was strict, disciplined, and extremely dedicated to success.  I admire those traits.  She was beautiful and stylish, which are always additional pluses in my book.  After reading My Way of Life and Googling Joan Crawford until I gave myself a headache, we might go so far to say that she was certifiably insane – another admirable trait, in my opinion.

I received this book from my sister, who so gets me and, well, my way of life.  Out-of-print for years, I’m sure she had to jump through myriad hoops in order to get her lovely hands on it.  I spent the whole of my Christmas vacation devouring it, and am compelled to share with you, gentle reader, a few of the highlights and advice Miss Crawford offers in order to ‘maintain your best, intelligent, enterprising, seductive self at all times’.

At the time of the book’s publication, Miss Crawford’s film career had all but vanished.  Aside from a few scant appearances on television, her primary role in 1971 was that of Goodwill Ambassador for Pepsi Cola. Her late husband, Alfred Steele, was president and CEO of the soft-drink company, and following his death, Miss Crawford took it upon herself to remain a vital voice within Pepsi.  She regales My Way of Life readers with stories of being busy…very busy…so much so that each and every day was a whirlwind of phone calls, meetings, appearances, and travel.  Yet in spite of her terribly full calendar, she still managed to look and feel fantastic.  How did she do it?  Read on….

 

Life in General

I’ve persuaded myself that I hate things that are bad for me-fattening foods, late nights, loud and aggressive people top the list.  I’m with you, Joan, and my intention for 2014 is to avoid all of the above.

We all have our problems, but I don’t inflict mine on my friends. Preach it, Sister.

I abhor dropper-inners.  Even my own children wouldn’t think of dropping in without calling to see if I’m busy.  I don’t like dropper-inners, either, and I’ll take it a step further by telling you that I don’t like phone messages or texts simply stating call me.  Give me a reason to do so, and I just might (I think I may have out-Crawford Joan on this one).

Marriage

Miss Crawford walked down the aisle four times, so obviously we should look to her as an expert on the subject.  She spoke lovingly of each of her husbands in the book, and that’s a good example for all of us to follow during any sort of break up.  Why waste energy playing the blame game? 

She advises us gals to take an active interest in our husbands’ careers.  I do that, but after having been called everything from Yoko Ono to Lucy Ricardo, I’ve backed off…..a little.  I say follow JC’s lead, but understand your audience.  Mr. Newman is no Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and vice-versa.

Entertaining

 

You may say to yourself, I’m not Joan Crawford.  I can’t afford trainloads of caviar.  I don’t think I need to elablorate on this, but I will tell you that it was a favorite line bandied about the Newman House during our holiday hosting preparations.  It replaced our usual Do you want our guests to ring in the New Year constipated? line.

Home Décor

Be prepared to spend a sinful amount of money and go through an awful lot of trial and error until your home is absolutely perfect and a true, tasteful reflection of you.  Miss Crawford muses about early decorating mistakes before hiring a team of professionals, and shared a story about a wall-paper so busy that ‘Judy Garland fainted and had to be carried out of the house’.  As an amateur Judy Garland historian, I think I can safely say it wasn’t the wall paper that caused Judy to pass out.

Traveling

Most of Miss Crawford’s travels required no less than fifteen suitcases.  By the time you have your German maid, Mamacita, place tissue paper in each sleeve, the old ‘roll it’ method simply won’t work here.  Factor in your matching hats, gloves, and shoes, and it should be no surprise when your house-man, Mr. Grant, must make numerous suitcase-laden trips to a waiting limousine parked out front by the tennis court.

 

Looking the Part

 

Miss Crawford’s secret for beautiful skin and hair can be summed up in one word:  mayonnaise.  But not just any old mayonnaise – one she made herself to insure that no harsh chemicals were used.  I like it!  In order to maintain one’s figure, she recommends several While Doing Something Else Exercises:  knee bends while scraping carrots, arm flexes while on the phone, etc.  Good tips, but the one I like the most proves tricky to do while you’re doing something else.  It requires you to sit on the floor and walk your buttocks across it.  I tried it, and definitely felt the burn in my core region.  I was also pleasantly surprised to discover a nice sheen on my tile floors afterward, so, yes, I suppose this counts as a two-for-one deal.

A Touch of Magic

The final, all-too-brief chapter discusses what I think should be the most important aspect of anyone’s way of life:

Charm isn’t something you can turn on like a tap with a pretty little-girl simper.  Charm is an ease with people – all kinds of people.  It’s wanting to be a giver.  Responding, communicating, having a genuine interest in people.  Try to make it a part of your way of life.

I shall, Miss Crawford, and thank you.

 

 

 

Hot Stuff

It’s funny what brings out the best and worst in people.  In my lifetime I’ve seen our nation pull together in the face of unspeakable tragedy.   I’ve witnessed neighbors helping one another out during  natural disasters.   I’ve experienced small kindnesses that were uncalled for but certainly appreciated. 

Then the Sunday breakfast buffet happens and it all goes straight to hell.

We brunch now on Sundays, thanks to a new policy Mr. Newman has implemented.  He tells me it’s a great opportunity for us to get out and bond, but I’ve a sneaking suspicion it’s due, at least in part, to the fact that I only cook on Sundays.  I’ve tried to redeem myself since ‘The Wok Incident of ‘98’, yet my efforts still don’t seem to measure up.  I envision delicious, beautifully prepared meals that would make Gordon Ramsey jealous, yet the results are merely those that would make Chef Boyardee cry.

Anyhoo, I love brunches and am completely on board with the new policy.

Yesterday we opted for our regular joint around the corner.  It’s not fancy, but it’s consistently good.  We arrive early in order to beat the church crowd, because there’s nothing more terrifying than hungry Baptists who’ve been cooped up for a couple of hours without snack options.

Mr. Newman hits the omelet station, while I stride gleefully toward the buffet.  I’d all but skipped dinner the night before, saving up for a full plate of huevos rancheros, biscuits and gravy, and any other little not-good-for-me delectable I can get my hands on.  My glee is stifled somewhat by the woman in front of me.  She takes her time, lifting lids, spooning out contents, looking over them, and then putting them back in the tray.  Her plate is already full, and I wonder if she understands the concept behind a buffet:  you fill your plate, sit down and fill your pie hole, and then go for round two.  You don’t start contemplating round two until you’ve completed round one.  The man behind me starts tsking, which only seems to slow her down even more.  ‘Passive aggressive much?’  I think to myself as I finally fill my plate and take a seat.

I shake off the weirdness and prepare to dig in; however, there’s a problem:  no Tabasco sauce.  I can’t eat eggs without it.  I can’t eat anything without it these days, come to think of it.  I absolutely love the stuff and would drink it straight from the bottle if society allowed it.  ‘She literally burned up her insides’ is what I’d like for my obituary to read.  I leave the booth and hit the ‘Help Yourself’ condiment shelf.  No luck.  I see Tabasco on tables, my fellow patrons enjoying what I’m doing without, yet I can't muster the courage to approach them. Most of them are buried deep in their phones, I-Pads, or newspapers.  No one smiles.  As a matter of fact, they are the dreariest looking lot I’ve seen a long time.  I stand, waiting, biding my time until the Hot Sauce Gods smile, and when they do I grab a lonely little cap-less bottle, perched upon a cluttered, human-free table.

Mr. Newman arrives at our booth with his own story:  evidently there was a scene involving an overly bejeweled woman and a shortage of tortillas.   Two of the joint’s best workers were called over, insults were exchanged, eyes rolled…a bona fide spectacle.  We congratulate ourselves on our lack of pettiness, and then I share my plight regarding the Tabasco.

The subject then turns to death which, judging from our fellow patrons, is no surprise, really.  Recently, friends of friends have passed on, as have extended family members.  We conclude that no one really knows what to do in such situations.  The wrong questions are usually asked.  Priorities become misplaced.  Feelings get hurt, and by the time the heavy grieving stops, you must take pause to try to figure out just what the heck happened.  ‘Some people just aren’t sentimental,’ Mr. Newman muses. 

‘And some are just thoughtless,’ I add. 

‘Nothing a person can do about it, though,’ he counters.

‘Sure there is,’ I reply.  ‘Harbor a grudge and let it seep out slowly for years to come.’

‘That’s healthy,’ he smirks.

‘That’s my way,’ I respond.

I empty the remaining Tabasco on what’s left of my eggs, and realize that as much as I pride myself on my amiability, I’m no better than tskers and take-your-timers at the buffet.  ‘That’s okay,’ has flown out of my mouth so many times that people take it as truth. Most of the time it is the truth, but there have been a few occasions in which I said it in order to avoid any sort of confrontation.  As a result, I’m now the type of person who stands around like a fool, my food getting cold, because I’m too afraid to ask for condiments for fear of rocking someone’s Sunday morning boat.

‘You need speak up for yourself and tell people how you feel,’ Mr. Newman says to me, and not for the first time.

‘I wouldn’t have any friends left if I did,’ I chuckle, while making a mental note to do just that…and to carry my own Tabasco with me.

 

A Very Large Family to Feed

While strolling through the aisles of my local healthy grocery store the other day (I won’t tell you which one, but it rhymes with ‘Mole Lewds’), a woman accidentally pushed her overflowing cart into mine.

“I’m so sorry,” she chirped.  “I can hardly push this thing.  I’ve got a very large family to feed.”

“No worries,” I responded, and then proceeded to scan the cat food shelf in vain, searching for Newman’s Own Organic Dry Mix.  It’s a tad pricey, but The Two Spoiled Cats won’t touch anything else these days.  I was out of town for a month over the summer, and Mr. Newman allowed them many indulgences, including expensive nibbles.

“How about you?”  she asked a little too enthusiastically for my taste.

“I beg your pardon?”  Honestly, I thought she’d wheeled by already.

“Do you have a very large family to feed?”

Glancing in my cart, I felt its contents should have answered her question:  three bottles of wine, olives, a box of Frownies, and an all-natural supplement that promises to ward off the symptoms of pre-menopause.  Just because my body’s getting older, doesn’t mean my face has to show it.  If it does, the wine will surely make me feel a whole lot better about things.

I smiled and shook my head.  “But you do have a cat,” she stated emphatically.

Lord, give me strength.

“I’ve got two,” I replied.

“We had one.  She died several years ago at the ripe old age of eleven.”

One-upmanship is not my style, but anyone who’s ever had a cat knows that the house variety can live up to 14, 15, 16 years or more. 

“I lost my Kramer last year.  He was twenty.”

“Oh,my God!”  she exclaimed.  “How did he die?”

“He was murdered,” I whispered, then proceeded toward the produce section.

 

 

I was thumping cantaloupes when I heard her voice again.  I had no intention of buying cantaloupes; it’s just something I enjoy doing from time to time.  She parked her cart next to the kale, regaling an elderly gentleman with stories of her very large family and what they like to eat. 

“Seven kids – can you beat that?” she cried.  “Four are Bob’s from his first marriage and three are mine from my first and second marriages.”

“Well, you are blessed indeed,” the man responded, trying to maneuver around her.

“With such a large family, I can hardly stay on top of all this grocery shopping,” she continued – a little too loudly, if you ask me.  I decided to make a run for it before she found me again, but then I remembered I needed one more item before leaving. 

I heaved a heavy sigh at the sight of the ridiculously long check-out lines.  Remind me, dear reader, to never go grocery shopping on a Saturday.  Luckily, I had just the right amount in my cart to give me license to drop into the express lane. 

“Hi, again!” I turned, and there she stood, grinning like a mad woman, items literally falling out of her cart from the heap she’d created.  I offered back a salutation, and then she asked if I’d mind if she cut in front of me.  Before I could answer, she explained that she was running behind schedule, and she feared the wrath of her very large family if dinner wasn’t on the table by a certain time.  Luckily, the hip and happening young man working the register piped in, informing her that this was strictly express, and she would have to go to another line.  Dejected, she did just that.

Bags in hand, I stopped short of the door in order to retrieve my keys.  I overheard her explaining to the cashier that yes, that coupon should work in this store, and the reason why she needs twelve packages of cold cuts is because she has a very large family to feed.

On the drive home, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.  She’s obviously missing something in her life that compels her to share her story with strangers.  The conspiracy theorist in me, however, chooses to cook up another scenario:  perhaps she’s all alone, and this ‘very large family’ story is merely a ruse to hide a food addiction.  Then I felt bad because I didn’t make more of an effort toward friendliness.  I should have more patience with people of the bubbly, talkative variety.  I should find the filter I use to have before popping off and leaving others to assume my cat died under suspicious circumstances.  I should take people for what they claim to be, rather than whiling away the hours creating little soap operas for them inside my head. 

But if I start doing that, what would I have to write about?