The Thelma to my Louise?

So I was sitting at the bar of a neighborhood tavern after work, watching The Goonies with the sound off…you know, like you do. I saw an older lady at the poker machines off to the side, but I didn’t think much about it.

After a bit, I sensed a presence behind me, and there was a bit of banter about who’s sitting where. Next thing I knew, the bartender was helping/hoisting someone up onto the bar stool to my left. The first thing I noticed about her was bright red “I Love Lucy” lipstick, accompanied by an even brighter red blouse and black pants. The outfit was completed with a striped white and red neck scarf tied tight, and a shapeless black hat atop curls a shade somewhere between old pennies and Cheetos.

The barkeep put a glass of ice and a fresh can of Ranier in front of my new bar mate. With queenly grace, she poured the beer over the ice.

“Beer with ice?” I wondered out loud.

“That’s how I like it,” she replied, scanning the bar for something that was obviously missing. “Young man, can I have some salt?”

She took the offered shaker and sprinkled salt over the beer in her glass, admiring her work. After she took a healthy sip she turned to me.

“I’m Beverly, and I’m 86 years old. I haven’t been here in many years. The first time I came into this bar, I was 17 and pregnant. They called this place The Punjab back then.”

Well, she might as well have said, “I’m Queen Beverly, and I’ve come down from Mars to visit with the Earth-peasants,” as far as I was concerned. I was awe-struck and the questions poured out.

I learned that the queen lives in the neighborhood and no, she didn’t drink when she was 17 and pregnant. She also explained that the establishment only let her in back then because she was with her husband, “Things were pretty different back then…a woman couldn’t really go to the bar without a man.” I shuddered at the thought!

Beverly and I bonded – we ooh’ed and ahhh’d over the oh-so-young 1985 Josh Brolin as the head-banded Goonie on the screen in front of us. We discussed how the bar had changed in 69 years (‘Not so much, really.’) She told me that her single son lives with her (‘Is he cute?’ Well, I’m his mama…so I think so.’ I quickly changed the subject.) She admired my FitBit and I shared the miracle that is Amazon.com with her (‘And they send it right to you?’) We discussed her love of gambling (‘It’s actually my money, but my son makes me stick to a daily limit…I just put $350 into that machine right there!’)

It was at this juncture that my new idol ordered another beer, adding, “I have to be careful you know…I’m driving!”

I guess my face showed a bit of concern. She gestured grandly over to the wall next to the poker machines. There, at rest in the dark, was her carriage – a red Rascal scooter, plugged into the wall.

I think it was at that point that I realized that I was having a moment from a different movie from 1985. The Goonies had ended on the TV, but in real life it was suddenly Back to the Future, and I was young Biff meeting old Biff!

I would have loved to stay later and learn more from future me (‘Will I ever really get to stop working? Is there another future ex-husband out there? When do the wrinkles kick in???), but it was a weeknight, so I had to head home. I heard stories later about how her highness had yet another beer, how she playfully squeezed the bartender’s arm as he walked her to her chariot, and how she eventually drove off down the sidewalk with no lights on. I like to think her curls were just a little wild in the breeze.

I don’t think Rascal makes a two-seater, but I’ll see you again, Ms. Beverly.

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I’m probably allergic to you

A few weeks back I bought a GroupOn deal to get some allergy/sensitivity testing done. It was a good price, and I’ve been wanting to get some help in figuring out any food or environmental things that I’m particularly sensitive to. What could go wrong?

The testing kit finally came in the mail and I was excited to get started…until I read the following instruction:

Cut approximately 90-120 hairs, as close to the scalp as possible. The amount should be roughly the width of a pencil.

A PENCIL??? Needless to say, the whole idea was quite alarming. Didn’t those allergy test peddlers know how much time and energy I spend on my hair? How it’s my glory…my best feature? And to top it off, I had paid for this golden opportunity to wreck my ‘do’!

OK…I took a breath. I had to come up with a plan, the goal of which was to not end up with a big old missing clump that would grow out looking like a spiky post-chewing gum hair debacle from my sister’s past (more about that in an upcoming post). I first tried pulling out some hairs, but that got old really fast. (So much for the high pain tolerance I claim to have.)

Plan B – I would selectively cut teeny bunches from a variety of locations, thereby spreading the damage out so that it wouldn’t be noticeable. After patting myself on the back for such an ingenious plan, I picked up my (impossibly awkward) work scissors, decided I didn’t really need a mirror (since I was sitting at my desk at work), and got on with the cutting. The first few, ‘shhh-nip, shhh-nips’ went well enough, but when I bundled my harvest together the grouping wasn’t even the width of a pencil lead…much less a full Ticonderoga #2. Deciding that bold action was called for, I decided to slightly increase the size of the bunches. I would be careful to distribute the damage and was feeling pretty good about the whole thing.

Until…SHHH-KA-NIP!

I pulled my hand away…afraid to look. When I did I saw that I was holding at least a good half-pencil’s width of 18-inch strands, ranging from gunmetal gray to L’Oreal #8 Medium Natural Blonde. It was at that point I decided that my career as a beautician was over.

So far I haven’t noticed any real damage, but I check every single day for evidence of my (lack of) tonsorial skills. Was it worth it? Yesterday I received the following Allergy/Sensitivity List:

  • Ragweed / Mixed grass pollens – Duh.
  • Milk / Lactose / BUTTER FAT – I knew about the milk thing, but THIS explains sooooo much….sigh.
  • Courgette – OK, I had to look it up…only to learn that I’m allergic to one of the only vegetables I actually like. Goodbye, Zucchini…I’ll miss you.
  • Anise – I never liked licorice…I’m SO vindicated!
  • Pine – I think I told ya’ll I’m allergic to Christmas trees.
  • Pine nuts / Pumpkin seeds / Castor bean – And I care because…?
  • Box elder – I’m pretty sure this is the big old tree that #1 planted right in the middle of my backyard 15 years ago – the one that throws seedlings all over the whole neighborhood. Thanks, buddy.
  • Moths – Um…that’s just weird. I guess I’ll have to give up that ‘hanging out under the street light’ habit I’ve been working on.
  • Horse Fly Bot – WTF???? I think I’ve done a pretty good job so far of avoiding most bugs, but especially the larva of flies that live around horses. So much for my dream of becoming a farmer…cause that was so gonna happen.
  • Trimelletic Anhydride – OK…I had to look this one up too, and it turns out it’s an industrial POISON. Wouldn’t pretty much every human being on the planet be sensitive to it? (I hope they didn’t charge me extra for that one.)

And, last but not least…

  • Cat dander

I guess my consolation is that vodka, hair dye and ladies Rogaine weren’t on the list.

The Story of Buffy

Buffy came to me about 12 years ago, via the humane society. My friend Sabrina first spotted her while doing some volunteer work at the center; she saw there was something special about the grey-striped kitty with the chill disposition and told me that I really needed to go and just give her a look. I had recently lost a cat to old age and my heart was broken–I was pretty sure that I wasn’t ready for a new critter. My Sophie had been a gift from #1 many years ago, when we were still in South Carolina, and the spunky little cat was the only thing I still had from that previous life. Losing her after 18 years together felt like I’d lost a part of myself, but I finally gave in and decided to go and check out this ‘special’ girl.

I met up with Sabrina at the animal shelter and we walked over to the living room set-up that is the showroom for about 20 cats of varying shapes, colors and sizes. I noticed a smallish, silvery-striped tabby lying stretched out comfortably on her back….on top of another cat. I laughed and Sabrina said, “You see her, huh?”

“That’s the one?”

“Yep…she’s something, isn’t she?”

I wasn’t gonna be had that easily though, and insisted that we do a walk-through to check out all the other available cats. Sabrina went along with it, but she obviously thought it wasn’t necessary. We started down the looping hallway lined with glass-fronted cages, stopping at each to read the placard put there to explain the idiosyncrasies of its resident (Pookie doesn’t like to be held, or Mittens is a quiet girl…etc.). Most of the cats were sleeping or playing, oblivious to our presence, and as we got farther along I could feel myself being pulled more and more strongly back to the fake living room where the uniquely relaxed tiger kitty was. Then it hit me…what if someone else saw her while I was dilly-dallying, pretending that there was any other cat there that I’d even consider? My saunter turned into a faster paced hustle, and Sabrina smiled as we rushed back to the cat she knew should be my new friend.

We asked to see the lounger and were led to a small side room to meet her. We sat and waited on a bench, and shortly the attendant came in with a box. She opened the lid and a sweet, curious cat face popped up. It was then that I noticed a pink, heart-shaped nose outlined in black, and two smiling green eyes with a crazy amount of personality. Within a few seconds I had two sets of claws lightly scraping my leg. “Say hello to Buffy,” the volunteer laughed, “I’ll leave you folks to visit for a bit.”

I swear it was as if that cat was auditioning for me…after she finished the ‘clawing disguised as a stretch’ against my legs she purred, stretched some more, rubbed her face on my hand and did all the adorable things cats are supposed to do, finishing up with her butt up in the air as an invitation to scratch her back quarters. I was totally smitten. Sabrina and I did note that she wasn’t afraid to use those claws, but she wasn’t rough or wild about it, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I was sold.

In the years since then, the Buffster and I went through a lot together. I learned to handle her occasional sofa clawing, and she loved me with an aloof but wide-open heart that made my world a much better place. She charmed everyone she ever met and was loved so much by her Aunt Linda (a fellow cat lady friend who house-sat for me and always treated Buffy like a princess). They played for hours with a special ‘cat fishing’ toy that I keep behind a glass door in my entertainment center, and Buffy would run to that cabinet whenever Linda came through the door. She knew a sucker when she saw one!

We also made it through a few human boyfriend types–Buffy tried to warn me about one of them, but I was oblivious (Note to self: When the cats don’t like ’em, back away). She was notorious for using her ‘butt in the air’ trick when she liked someone, begging them to scratch at the base of her spine, and my latest boyfriend was graced by this gesture more times than we bothered to count. (He obviously wasn’t the one she tried to warn me about!)

Along the way Buffy and I lost a cat friend–Zoe, the beautiful but dumb one that I called my “Anna Nicole Cat”. After that we endured the somewhat chaotic entry of Pickle into our lives. We barely saw him for the first month he lived here…he hid in the basement, petrified of both of us…but he finally cozied up to her, and the two eventually became buddies. After about a year they were inseparable; her favorite thing was to cuddle with him and let him groom her…and then turn around and box his ears. She was the boss, and he adored her.

After Pickle gave in to Buffy’s charms, he even started sleeping with us. He liked to snuggle up with his head on my pillow, and his sister would circle up into a ball right behind my knee. I was trapped, but happy with the arrangement, and I slept soundly.

Pickle and I are both sad right now. Our Buffy left us almost a month ago, and neither of us has yet figured out how things are supposed to work without her. He cries and looks for her, and usually tries to sleep on top of me these days. I toss and turn and wake up just enough to pat him and tell him it’s going to be okay. Eventually, it will be.

The afternoon after Buffy’s last trip to the vet was quiet and empty in our house. I sat on the couch, neither noticing nor caring about the few shredded areas of sofa material, scars from my girl’s errant claws. I turned on the TV but wasn’t watching it…I just felt alone. I shifted my gaze to see what Pickle was up to and, when I turned back, the previously closed glass door to my entertainment center was suddenly wide open. The same door that houses the favorite cat fishing stick and feathers, the toy that had been idle and untouched for some two months. That cupboard hadn’t even been open in a long while, but it suddenly just…was.

I smiled and picked up Pickle, holding him to me whether he wanted to be cuddled or not. He snuggled back against me briefly before he squirmed his way out of my arms, jumped to the floor and ran.

It really is going to be okay.

Sweetest. Cat. Ever.

Book ’em!

I have a friend who just finished writing his second book. I edited it for him, and I now have a much better appreciation for what a huge task it all is…frankly, I’m in awe.

I continually tell myself that I need to write more, and I get lots of love and encouragement from those who read what I do manage to get in writing. However, being a dues-paying member of the Procrastinator’s Guild, I’ve pretty much just been poking a stick at the process for quite a while. Not a lot of actual writing going on, but I have been jotting down a few initial sentences and notes. In a tentative, half-assed way, I guess I’ve finally started making the first attempts at beginning to write my own book.

One thing that’s been a big challenge for me is feeling like I don’t have a crystal clear vision of what my first book is supposed to be. Hell, I don’t know that I even have a muddified Portland fall morning’s notion of what it’s supposed to be. I keep worrying at it though and (in fun) here are some of the titles and ideas I’ve been throwing around in my head…

curlicue

Lessons From Losers

The diary of a middle-aged woman as she reflects back on the more entertaining choices in suitors that she’s made. Not for the faint of heart. (Look for the upcoming sequel   —   Go Ahead…Date the Drummer.)

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The Know-It-All Life

(sub-title: A Professional’s Guide to Pissing People Off Without Even Knowing It)

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Don’t Wear Your Hoochie Mama Dress to Court…The Tammy Kelly Story

A racy coming-of-age tale with just enough bluegrass, booze and jury duty to keep you on the edge of your bar stool. (Come on, you know you’d buy it.)

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Big Hair…Will Travel

She came into town with a can of Aqua Net and a dream. (Soon to be a minor made-for-tv movie…see your local LifeTime channel listings.)

curlicue

 

It’s obviously still a work in progress, but I’m feeling better about it every time I put fingers to keyboard. Stay tuned for further developments!

Not exactly a DAYdream believer…

So I just read through some old notes about dreams I’ve had, and I ran across this winner…

A few months back I dreamed about being in a movie; I wasn’t sure what the story line for the script was, but there were lots of thugs and tough guys involved. At some point I came up with an idea that ended up being included in the movie, and I got really excited about it. My brilliant idea was to take a Monkees’ song and change the words around…because you know that’s so gangsta. (For those too young to remember the enigma that was The Monkees, they were a goofy teen heart-throb band from the late 1960’s that was made up for a TV show. They had a few songs that were actually good though, and some sad, middle-aged women apparently still have dreams about them.)micky davy final

Back to the dream…the next thing you know, The Monkees themselves were actually there on the movie set! It was big stuff for me, and I decided that I needed to help them ‘get’ my version of their song, so I sang the heck out of it. Not sure how long that part lasted, but it was a big part of the dream and seemed to go on and on. I guess I must have been singing a bit emphatically (as is my nature), because Davy Jones kept staring at me and he didn’t look too happy (maybe he knew I always liked Micky Dolenz better?)

The dream continued for quite a while, with me singing and Davy being all aloof and snooty, just like I knew he would be. I must have eventually worn him down though, because at some point he came up behind me and told me to walk across the room. He then reached out his hands and sort of held my butt while I walked, as he’d requested. In typical non-linear dream style, I suddenly remembered that I had been having a terrible backache…and he fixed it! Then he started to hold my…well…things started to turn a little sexy…but my back felt great!

Sorry Micky, it wasn’t a lucid dream, or I might have made better choices!

And then I hit 9000 hits…

I love you…every single damn person who’s clicked on this site and spent their minutes reading what I write. Thank you…seriously.

I haven’t been having any damn luck writing lately. The truth is that I’ve been trying to get my gumption up to write a book. A real life, honest to goodness booky book, with a beginning, middle and end. The challenge is what (in the hell) such a thing looks like…? I continually overthink this…should it be a fantasy/fiction? I can’t say that I’ve ever been good at that. Or maybe it’s my story…cobbled together from blogs and tall tales? Hmmm. How ’bout my story told through my grandmama’s eyes…or maybe…her story told through mine?

Thoughts? I welcome your feedback, gentle reader.

When ‘Mother’s little helper’ had crust

I just called my mama to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. Knowing that she wouldn’t ‘get’ the Rolling Stone’s song reference on the gift I sent her, I figured I needed to explain the hooty little pill-box (as shown). I was right and when I mentioned Valium she said, “OH! Heehee…”pill box

During our conversation I mentioned that the anniversary of my marriage to #1 was last week, and Mama asked if I knew what August the 9th was. I couldn’t think of anything.

“That’s the day I married your father…August 9th, 1957.”

Naturally, I immediately started doing the math…let’s see…I was born May 14th of 1958…almost exactly 9 months.

“You weren’t pregnant when you got married, were you?” I asked. (I’ve always sort of assumed that she was, but I’d never asked her outright.)

“NO,” she said, using two syllables. “You were an early baby.”

“I was?” That actually surprised me since I’ve never even been on time to anything I can remember, much less early.

“Yep, the doctors told me that if I didn’t lose a lot of weight, they were going to put me in the hospital until you were delivered. So I just went ahead and had you before my next appointment!”

I had to sit on that news for a minute. My 4’11” mama weighed 98 pounds when she got pregnant with me and (according to her) she pretty much doubled her weight while carrying me (she claims that whole pies trembled and then disappeared in her presence). Naturally, when given the choice to (A) Stop eating treats or (B) Go into early labor and shoot me out into the world early…well, duh. I didn’t have to do the math on that one!

I love you, Mama. You’ve taught me so many lessons just by being who you are, and I know how hard you always worked to keep Lynnie and me happy. And now I know exactly where I got my addiction love for food!

Happy Mothers Day ya’ll!