The Curious Case of a Cut and Curl Calamity

(Here’s a shot Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man took of me when we were on vacation recently.  You can see I look very happy and rested.)

Long-time readers may recall that last year I wrote a post on my misadventures at the beauty salon called The Strange, Sad Tale of a Beauty Shop Washout.  Now in case you don’t want to read the whole thing, here’s a little excerpt from that post:

 

She (we’ll call her Rhonda) obviously believed that the only good perm was a tight perm.  With every roller she rolled, she’d give this little yank at the end, just to make sure there was not one iota of slackness in that curl.  It hurt so much that tears sprang involuntarily to my eyes, but I just bit my lip and thought about how sometimes, we must suffer for our beauty.  And, really, all that tautness had the effect of smoothing out my wrinkles.  Why, my face hadn’t looked that tight in years!  My first facelift!

Two excruciating hours later, she was done and it was time for the big reveal.  As she started pulling out more and more of the little rollers, it became apparent to us both that something had gone terribly wrong.  There was no curl…no, not a bit.  Neither one of us said a word.  All I could think was—I do not care, just let the nerve endings in my head recuperate.  And she was probably thinking—If I don’t say anything, maybe she won’t notice. 

But there was just no denying it.  Rhonda took out the last curler and stared bleakly at my reflection in the mirror.  My hair hung lank and limp.  Finally, she spoke. “You,” she said sadly, “are curl resistant.” 

She called over the other stylists and they stood in a circle around me, shaking their heads mournfully, as though observing the scene of an accident.  “I just can’t understand it,” said Rhonda.  “I’ve never had this happen before.”

They all cast sympathetic looks her way and some of them looked accusingly at me, as though if I wanted it badly enough and if only I had lived a good life, my hair would have curled.  “Curl resistant,” they all repeated, like a chorus in some really bad opera.  “She is curl resistant.”

And now here I am over a year later and, believe it or not, my hair has not seen a perm rod or a pair of scissors since. Though it has had daily contact with a curling iron and an industrial-sized can of hair spray. Because those are the only things that can tame my wretched hair at the moment (or what’s left of my wretched hair).

You may recall that I mentioned in my previous post that “my curly perm makes me look like some refugee from the eighties.”  Well.  Now I’ve moved beyond that, I think.  Now I look more like maybe The Ghost From 80’s Past. You know, sort of like The Ghost from Christmas Past?  You can probably imagine it—a ghost crone with shoulder pads and wild eyes and long, stringy, straw-like hair (80’s music playing in the background) shaking a can of Aqua Net and saying, “Woooooo…beware this 80’s hair! It is not debonair! Beware, beware this hair!” And the ghost maybe showing scenes from Bad Haircuts and Perms Past. *Shudder*

You’re probably saying, “So what’s keeping you from getting it cut, Blue Ridge Blue Collar Girl? Who’s stopping you?” Well, part of it is just plain fear. You know, the shameful stigma of “curl resistance.” Will I still be curl resistant? Will I again be ostracized for curl resistance? It was a pretty traumatic thing to be surrounded by that angry mob of hair stylists fingering my limp hair and shaking their heads in disgust.

Also, it always seems a bit risky to just pick a salon right out of the yellow pages or go to one just because it’s near where you buy groceries. That’s what I did last time and you can see how well THAT worked out. I’ve asked a few folks for advice, but so far every one of them has recommended one of those fancy, high-falutin’ places in the city that maybe have French or Italian names. Or the words “day spa” in the name. I avoid those like the plague, mainly because they charge more for one visit than I budget for an entire YEAR of beauty. Sure, I could stand to spend a little more, but I’d rather buy books. I’ve found it yields a greater rate of return. Besides, they’d probably give me some weird hairdo that would make me look like Rod Stewart or something. Nothing against Rod Stewart—I just don’t want to look like him.

I always look for the kind of beauty shops I grew up with—the kind you see out in the country, maybe housed in a little shed in somebody’s back yard. You know, with names like Cathy’s Cut ‘n Curl or Barbara’s Beauty Boutique. I particularly love salon names where “K’s” are substituted for the “C’s” as in Kathy’s Kut ‘n Kurl. And of course, you know I can’t resist a pun in the name, like Shear Heaven, A Kut Above, Cut and Dried or my favorite ever, Curl Up and Dye. And there’s always the matter-of-fact, no-nonsense names like Betty’s Beauty Shop. They’re like yeah, that’s the name, I know it’s not cute—take it or leave it, lady.

But probably the real reason I haven’t gone yet is that my hair looks so bad now that I can use it as a handy excuse not to do things I’m dreading. Like going to the doctor. I avoid doctors like the plague, too, but I really do need to get that long-overdue checkup. But I can’t until I get my hair cut. And we’ve heard of a church where we might actually fit in, but we’re pretty nervous about going. Terrified, in fact. But really, I can’t go anyway  until I get my hair cut. Plus, I have two friends from the past that I haven’t talked to in years that I’d like to call. One of them lives nearby, but I’m scared of rejection—it’s been a long time and maybe they will have forgotten me. Sure, I’d call them…but I can’t until I get my hair cut.

See what I mean? It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to see that I’m using my hair as an avoidance mechanism—a convenient excuse to not do the things I really should.

Hey, maybe that’s what I need—professional help! A psychiatrist! Because I really, really want to change. Maybe I should be looking for a psychiatrist instead of a hair stylist. Maybe it’s my head and not my hair that needs help. Maybe a shrink is just what the doctor ordered.

There’s only one problem: I mean, you know how it is.  I really can’t go to a psychiatrist…

Until I get my hair cut.

Embracing My Inner Curmudgeon (and Some Well-Deserved Applause)

(I apologize that I could not find the proper attribution for this great drawing, but am amazed at the striking resemblance to this writer.  Uncanny, really.)

One of the things that I looked forward to most about getting old was that it would at last be acceptable to give my inner curmudgeon free reign. Yep, I thought maybe I could give real credence to the stereotype of the grumpy old lady.

Well, the truth is, while I might have an inner curmudgeon, I’m actually pretty even-tempered, so I’m not yet shaking my bony fist at cocky young whippersnappers on a regular basis. But I will say that the past few weeks have sorely tested the limits of my patience and brought out my inner grouch.

First of all, our television went out, and it took the built-in VCR with it. Sure, it was 12 years old and maybe 12 years is all you can expect for electronic lifetimes these days, but it really hurt to lose our VCR, too. Then, the next day, the blade flew off our riding mower and took two fan belts with it. We have a big, big yard, so we really need that riding mower.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the little things, too, one darn thing after another—from problems with an item we just paid good money for to groceries scanning higher than the listed price to newly purchased carrots being slimy. I hate it when my carrots are slimy.

No need to rehash all our troubles, but allow me to indulge my inner curmudgeon long enough to say this:  The Eyeglasses industry, on the whole, is an out and out rip-off. A greed fest. A shameless screw-job. I have no idea what the mark-up by optical companies is on eyeglasses, but I know it is huge beyond all justification. And I’d like to say to the optometrist that I recently had the displeasure of seeing: You should be ashamed—charging those exorbitant prices, knowing full well that many of the people that come to you (including me) can ill afford to buy even the cheapest frames you provide. And, boyhowdy, that sure is one slick operation you’ve got there—the way you funneled me right out from my exam into your eyeglasses “showroom.” And what a friendly salesman you have in there! Or at least he was until I expressed my utter incredulity at the prices and I was ushered out quicker than you can say “flimflam man.” Of course, what I really wanted to do was to tell him just exactly where he could shove all those hip, trendy pieces of plastic “designer” junk.

Oh. Sorry. I lost it for a minute there. I told you I had an inner curmudgeon.

Anyway. What I really wanted to do here is to recognize my one interaction with a commercial interest in the past few weeks that was positive beyond all expectation. Where I was treated with respect and consideration. Where the response to my concern was cheerful and prompt. Who was this rarity, this paragon, this fine model of good customer service? Why, I’m glad you asked.

It was Oxford American, my favorite magazine ever. Perhaps you’ve never heard of it, but if you’d like to read the finest in writing from the South (not to mention their annual music issue that includes a really swell CD), you should definitely check them out. In fact, one of my dreams as an aspiring writer is to be published someday in Oxford American.

I recently decided to treat myself to a subscription and was mighty excited about the thought of finding it in my mailbox again, but experienced some difficulty in receiving a particular issue. It was their Southern Literature Issue with lots of writing about writing, so I wanted it real bad. But when I filled out their Customer Service form, I’ll have to admit that I expected just the typical form email back. You know, the generic, non-personal kind that leave you feeling angrier than ever?

So imagine my surprise when I was personally emailed back within an hour by Tammy Gillis, their office manager, who told me she was immediately forwarding my email to Matt Baker, Associate Publisher. Within a very short time, I received a very nice email from Matt Baker expressing his sincerest apologies and indicating that he had personally mailed me out a copy that very day!

Okay, here’s where I’ll confess that, at the time, I thought, “Right. Sure you did. I’ll believe that when I see it.” Sorry to say, but some of my recent misadventures in customer service have made me just a mite cynical.

So imagine my surprise (and delight) when I found Issue #66, the Southern Literature issue of the Oxford American in my mailbox within a week, mailed personally by their Associate Publisher. I was thrilled.

So, thanks, Oxford American and Tammy Gillis and Matt Baker. I know you’ll probably never read this, but I wanted to say it anyway. I wanted to sing the praises of a company that is motivated by something besides greed, not to mention the fact that they put out a very fine product that even folks like me can afford. You’ve made me a happy woman and a slightly less cynical one.

It sure is nice to have something good to read. Maybe it will help to take my mind off the smirk on smug Mr. Eyewear Consultant’s face when he told me, “You really should try something stylish and fashionable for a change—it would make you look so much…younger.”

Why, it’s enough to make me shake my bony fist just thinking about it. *Shakes bony fist and mutters*   That impudent young upstart. Cheeky, brazen whippersnapper.

Happy Birthday to Me: My Two-Thousand Dollar Birthday Gift

I had a birthday a couple of weeks ago.  But contrary to the impression possibly created by the picture above, it was not my fiftieth.  As a matter of fact, it was my fifty-first. Or as I prefer to call it—my forty eleventh.  Because 51, in my opinion, is a numeral without much to recommend it—a rather dull digit without the pleasing plumpness and resonant roundness of 50.   Fifty-one is just…blah.

Anyway, I took the picture above (which shows my address number marker where I used to live) specifically to illustrate the post I was going to do last year about turning 50.  But long time readers of my blog may remember that last year about this time, we were moving.  Well, I say moving, but really, the problem was that we had nowhere to move TO though our house had already sold and the new owners needed to move in NOW.   So, things were a tad stressful and there was no time for thoughtful reflection on turning 50, especially since at the time, I was feeling about twice that.

And, as if all that wasn’t enough, just in time for my 50th birthday, the transmission on my usually reliable Camry suddenly refused to go into reverse, making driving a little nerve-wracking since all my forward progress had to be made with great care and consideration, lacking as I was the option of backing up.  And, yes, I did see the bitter irony in the fact that my car was beginning to fall apart around about the same time I was.  And, no, it wasn’t funny.  Not at the time, anyway.   Come to think of it, it’s still not funny.  

Which brings me to what Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man gave me last year for my fiftieth birthday.  I’d always dreamed of how I might get something really extraordinary when I turned fifty.   Maybe I’d take a special trip since I’ve rarely traveled farther than North Carolina.    And indeed, I did receive a lavish gift that involved travel.  And it cost almost two thousand bucks!

It was (drum roll please) a shiny, bright, sparkling…rebuilt transmission!

Yep, it was a beauty.  And when the man in the transmission shop told us (after gleefully swiping our Visa) that our transmission was guaranteed so that no matter where we traveled in the USA we could get it fixed if it failed, I told him, “Don’t worry…after paying for this, we won’t have the money to travel.” 

He was not amused.

Anyway,  maybe you’re wondering what wondrous thing Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man got me for my birthday this year.  Well, for a while there, it was looking like it would be another extravagant gift, perhaps even surpassing last year’s!  Yes, for a while there, I thought Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man would be giving me a shiny, bright, sparkling…new furnace!

Yes indeed, soon after my birthday, during the coldest snap here in six years, our furnace suddenly stopped. And although we kept it going for a while by manually spinning the blower fan just as we switched it on, eventually, that little trick didn’t work (not to mention the fact that doing that was really tiresome).  We had to figure out something more permanent.  Which we feared might be a new furnace.

To make a long story short—after much prayer and supplication and weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth and the repeated taking apart and putting back together of fan motors over a span of ten very cold days, we finally heard the sweet sound of our furnace roaring to life.  And we cheered and broke out the Welch’s Sparkling Grape Juice that I had gotten for my birthday and toasted our furnace and each other and all the many good things in our life.

“Here’s to the loud roar of our old heat pump and to warmth and to a husband who can fix anything!” I said. “Well….except for transmissions.”

Tom smiled and held up his glass and said, “And here’s to another year with you—and to you making it to fifty-two!”

We laughed and clinked our Winnie the Pooh jelly glasses together, drank, then poured another glass.

I raised my glass. “And here’s to love.” 

“Hear, hear,” said Tom. We clinked glasses again and sat back, sipping our juice and basking in the delicious warmth pouring through the vent, thanking God and all our lucky stars for our blessedness.

So here’s to warm hands and warm hearts, to cold sparkling grape juice, to cars that go backward and forward, to bland and humdrum 51…and to love, no matter what your age.

Hear, hear.

Wide-Eyed Wonder at the Wii We Won

 

If you want to see this better, click on it to enlarge it.

(The cartoon above was created by my daughter Ariel aka Lucky Pennies in Microsoft Paint.  Now, in case you were thinking, Gosh, that seems kind of mean, well, let me explain.  The truth is—I have a large fanny.  (Or Gluteus Maximus, if you prefer, with emphasis on the Maximus).   That’s just the way it is, no ifs, ands, or…um…buts about it.   There’s no getting around it.  (I mean, really…there’s no getting around it).  So, like Steve Martin making jokes about his huge nose (in one of my favorite movies, Roxanne, a hilarious retelling of Cyrano de Bergerac), I’ve always made jokes about my big rear end.  Might as well laugh, because there’s not a darn thing I can do about it.   So my family has always been given license to poke gentle and affectionate fun at my derriere.  And, yes, they’re laughing with me, not at me.  Really, they’ve always been the first ones to boost my confidence by telling me I’m pretty.  So, I really don’t mind being the…er…butt of their jokes.)

 

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Recently I heard yet another story about an Idaho man who won big, not just one—but three times—in the state lottery.  I always roll my eyes and sigh when I hear those stories because, although I’ve entered any number of contests in my life, I’ve rarely won a thing. 

 

Okay, there was that dozen eggs in the PTA raffle I won when I was six years old.  When they called my name, I was nearly beside myself with rapture.  I ran up to collect my dozen eggs, then in my excitement, almost tripped and dropped the eggs on the way back to my seat.   Yes, you read that right—I was practically apoplectic with ecstasy upon winning a dozen eggs.   Sad, but true.

 

So you can imagine my excitement recently when my daughter Ariel called me with some exciting news:   She had won a dozen eggs!    No, no…I’m just kidding.  Actually, she had won a prize for writing the best definition of “health” at a…what else…health fair at college.  She had won….drum roll, please…a Wii!  And a Wii Fit! 

 

Yes, it’s true!  She broke the family, never-win-anything curse!  Even better, she brought the Wii home for fall break.  I’d like to tell you that we spent her break communing in nature, discussing deep and profound philosophical insights, feeling one with the universe and all mankind.  I’d like to, but I can’t.  Because the truth is, when we weren’t out running errands or shopping for things she needed, we were one with our Wii.  (Now for any one that might not know, it’s pronounced  “wee” and don’t feel bad if you didn’t know because, a year ago, I didn’t either.  I pronounced it “why”).

 

And, oh my, this Wii is just way too much fun. To start with, it was a blast to make the little Beth Mii character (of course, pronounced “Me.”)  I could make my Mii as pretty and thin as I wanted to!  Never mind that later, after the Wii Fit had weighed me and done my “fitness evaluation,” that the Wii made my Mii fatter.  At least my Mii still had that gorgeous hair!  Yes, that’s right—the Wii Fit, after it weighs you, will actually change your Mii’s size to match reality.  That just amazes me.  Sure, it annoys me a little, too, but mostly…it amazes me.  Ariel and I made some more little Mii’s—she made Oprah Winfrey and Bill Clinton and I made an Obama Mii.   He was really cute.

 

Anyway, Ariel went back to college Sunday and took her Wii with her.   Good thing, too, because if she had left it here, you wouldn’t be reading this post because I wouldn’t have written it because I would still be playing that river bubble game where you float down the river in a giant bubble trying to get to the end, which only happens if you don’t burst your bubble on the rocks or if the bee doesn’t puncture your bubble with its stinger, thus drowning your little Mii.  Sadly, my Mii was drowned repeatedly, which, I can assure you, is most unpleasant. 

 

Yep, no doubt about it—I am a woman obsessed.   I have a wiikness for Wii, and the only cure is to get one myself or have counseling.  Or possibly I could exert my parental authority and tell Ariel of my grave concerns that the Wii might be too much of a distraction from her college coursework, so, regretfully, her father and I think it might be best if she left it here (I would say this, of course, with great gravitas, shaking my head sadly). Or perhaps I could rationalize buying a Wii for Mii—after all the Wii Fit provides obvious health benefits by encouraging people to exercise.  Yeah, that’s the ticket.  We need a Wii  ’cause it’s good for me!  Who knows… maybe it could do something for my big backside—tone my tush, give definition to my derriere…

 

Or…maybe not.  That’s probably just a little too much to ask.    

 

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(I sincerely apologize for the small print.  I have no idea why it came out that way.  I tried to change it, but it wouldn’t let me.  I’m sorry!)

 

 

 

The Strange, Sad Tale of a Beauty Shop Washout

So, I finally did it.  I went to the beauty shop to get my hair done.  It was about time, I’d say.  It’d been a full year and a half since I’d visited Jane at the Classic Image Beauty Salon—a year and a half since I’d been anywhere at all with beauty as my objective.  Okay, maybe actual “beauty” has never been my objective—let’s just call it “image enhancement” or…“lipstick on a pig,” if you like.  

Whatever you want to call it, it costs an arm and a leg, which is one reason I hadn’t been in so long.  Plus, you know how it is when you move to a new place—it’s not easy to find someone you can trust to come at you with a big pair of scissors.  I liked Jane.  We had an understanding.  She knew that I liked a little hair feathered around my high forehead, she knew how to perform the equivalent of a comb-over to make up for the hair I was losing, and she didn’t complain when I dragged my raggedy self in every 14 months or so and asked her to perform a miracle.  I mean, if I was a house, you’d probably call me a real fixer-upper.   She also never mentioned that my curly perm made me look like some refugee from the eighties.

So I put off going until my hair in front that I’d been curling back off my face with a curling iron just wouldn’t stay in anymore without about spraying half a can of Aqua Net on it, no doubt causing considerable widening of that hole in the ozone layer.

I’d noticed one of those chain places near where I buy groceries, so I thought I’d give it a try.  I showed up early, trying to beat the crowds.  The little bell rang cheerfully as I walked in.  There was one person there sweeping, and she looked up, frowning.  I could see it in her face.  She was thinking, Dear God, please don’t let this old lady with gray hair halfway down her back be my customer.   I smiled apologetically and a little obsequiously, like, I know I’m a mess and I’m sorry but can you please help me?

I sat down.  She swept slowly and carefully, obviously stalling for time, looking out in the parking lot eagerly every time a car passed, hoping she could foist me off to one of the other stylists.  But it was Monday, and apparently no one was eager to come in early for work.  So finally, she sighed audibly and resigning herself to the arduous task ahead, motioned me into the chair. 

It wasn’t long, though, after we’d chatted a bit and she realized that I didn’t expect miracles that she began to relax.  She was really quite nice.  I, however, was not so relaxed.  In fact, I was gritting my teeth in pain.  She (we’ll call her Rhonda) obviously believed that the only good perm was a tight perm.  With every roller she rolled, she’d give this little yank at the end, just to make sure there was not one iota of slackness in that curl.  It hurt so much that tears sprang involuntarily to my eyes, but I just bit my lip and thought about how sometimes, we must suffer for our beauty.  And, really, all that tautness had the effect of smoothing out my wrinkles.  Why, my face hadn’t looked that tight in years!  My first facelift!

Two excruciating hours later, she was done and it was time for the big reveal.  As she started pulling out more and more of the little rollers, it became apparent to us both that something had gone terribly wrong.  There was no curl…no, not a bit.  Neither one of us said a word.  All I could think was—I do not care, just let the nerve endings in my head recuperate.  And she was probably thinking—If I don’t say anything, maybe she won’t notice. 

But there was just no denying it.  Rhonda took out the last curler and stared bleakly at my reflection in the mirror.  My hair hung lank and limp.  Finally, she spoke. “You,” she said sadly, “are curl resistant.” 

She called over the other stylists and they stood in a circle around me, shaking their heads mournfully, as though observing the scene of an accident.  “I just can’t understand it,” said Rhonda.  “I’ve never had this happen before.”

They all cast sympathetic looks her way and some of them looked accusingly at me, as though if I wanted it badly enough and if only I had lived a good life, my hair would have curled.  “Curl resistant,” they all repeated, like a chorus in some really bad opera.  “She is curl resistant.”

Finally, Rhonda turned to me and said, “Okay, well…you go on home and see what happens overnight, and if it doesn’t curl, you can come back tomorrow and I’ll do it again for free.”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed.  Partly in relief, that I could get the heck out of there and partly at the idea that my hair might magically curl itself overnight, as I slept.  Rhonda was not amused.  There was nothing funny about curl resistance.

So…to make a long story short, my hair indeed did not curl itself overnight, and I did return, reluctantly, the next day.  The ordeal was repeated, and Rhonda and I both held our breath as she began to remove the curlers.  But, alas, curl resistance is a powerful thing.  We both stared dejectedly at my still lank hair.  Rhonda said nothing, but began to blow dry my hair, perhaps thinking the heat would somehow activate the curl.  But I just ended up looking like a cross between Albert Einstein and Bozo the Clown. 

It was pretty clear that nothing could be done—I was a hopeless case.  Rhonda looked depressed.  I felt sorry for her. “You know,” I said, fingering a few tendrils of limp hair. “I think I definitely see some curl this time.” 

Rhonda brightened and looked again at my reflection in the mirror.  “You know, I think you might be right,” she said, fluffing up my deep-fried frizz.  “Yeah, there is definitely some curl there this time!”

So, I thanked her and made my escape.  Both of us knew it—I looked like Buckwheat on a Bad Hair Day.  But, like I said, she was a nice lady.  At least, she didn’t charge me for the second time.

And, at least the frizz gives body to my thinning hair, though as it grows out, I resemble Bozo more and more.  Maybe I should start a new line of work—buy me some clown shoes and a big red nose.  Maybe I shouldn’t fight it—just go with the flow.

After all, there’s no fighting curl resistance.

Unsung Heroes #1: Ode to My Recliner

(My beloved)

I thought it was high time I paid homage to one of my dearest and most faithful friends—an unsung hero in my life—my recliner.   We take our recliners for granted, I think, but when we pause to ponder the pivotal part they play in our lives, we realize how often we overlook these stalwart and steady companions.  They demand nothing—yet give so much—never complaining about the…ahem…heavy burdens they bear.  They’re always there, waiting to comfort us at the end of a long, hard day.  They rock us to sleep, bearing us away to the Land of Sweet Slumber—like a magic carpet ride, only better.   So…all hail to thee, my beloved friend, my staunch and steadfast comrade.  I dedicate this poem to you…

(To any high-brow and high-falutin’ academic types out there who might read the following poem and be appalled at the sheer banality of “Ode to My Recliner,” well….it was meant to be funny, in case the preceding paragraph doesn’t clue you in.   I almost never write “serious” poems any more because I’m completely intimidated by those of you who sniff at poets who are accessible, especially those of us who haven’t taken one of your high-brow college poetry classes.   I would especially like to thumb my nose at those of you who disparage poet Billy Collins because you feel his poems are trite because regular people like me CAN ACTUALLY UNDERSTAND THEM!   Because when I read a completely obscure and ambiguous poem (like so much of modern poetry),  I feel as though the person who wrote it is showing contempt for us ordinary folks by willfully seeking to obfuscate.  I like poetry that leaves room for joy and delight and surprise, and poetry that we can all take pleasure in.  I love Billy Collins.  He got me reading poetry again.)

Sorry, I got carried away—I’ll step down off my soapbox now.  Perhaps I should do a post on that.   Anyway, here’s my tribute to my beloved Barcalounger.  Hope it gives you a laugh:

Ode to My Recliner

When the world seems hopeless and cold
You give blessed rest and console
My body and soul again made whole.

When I feel your soft touch on my weary face
And you enfold me in your sweet embrace,
I rest in your soft and welcoming grace.

As, weary, I gaze upon setting sun,
When my body and spirit are quite undone.
You carry me away to sweet oblivion.

Without judging, you greet me
Stout seat, you complete me
My retreat—my dear, sweet settee.

So let the world maltreat me,
Deplete and defeat me.
You receive and relieve me—sweet reprieve.

So give me a day of peace unencumbered
Please ease my way to the sway of sweet slumber,
My soft chairiot of sleep—my heart’s ease.

Oh, there is nothing finer than to be in Carolina
Supine in my recliner (oh, nothing is diviner!)
For none can outshine her—my beloved recliner.

[If my legs look huge here...well, please bear in mind perspective...where things closer to you appear larger than they really are  :-) ] 

A Passel of Personal Peeves

I’m feeling a little cranky these days, so I hope you don’t mind if I get a few things off my chest.  Sure, a riled-up rant doesn’t right wrongs, but when you’re rankled, raving can be a righteous remedy for relief.  Really.

You?  Oh, no, it’s nothing you did.  In fact, I’m addressing my rant directly to the guilty party, the proper rantee, or in this case, rantees. 

Rant #1

Dear people from whom we purchased this doublewide:

You must be feeling pretty smug these days to have found fools desperate enough to pay such an outrageous sum for your doublewide.  Not that I blame you for that—we made the choice to do so, and sometimes I think the sunrise alone is worth the price.  But anyway, that’s not what I’m writing about here.  I could write about the toxic waste you left in the garage or inquire as to how you managed to make so many large holes in the walls. And just how did that coffee end up on the ceiling anyway?  But that’s not what I need to discuss here either. 

No, Dear Sellers, what I want to say is this:  For the love of Pete, people, why did you leave us not one sheet of toilet paper when you left?  Not one dadgum sheet!  What kind of people actually take the partially-used rolls off the toilet paper holders when they leave?!!!  I’ll tell you who—cheap, cheeky chumps—that’s who.   It takes a merciless soul to intentionally leave another human being toilet paperless.  I’m no paragon of virtue, but every single time I’ve moved from a house, I’ve left not only toilet paper (with extra rolls!), but paper towels and soap, as well.  It’s the decent, humane thing to do. 
 
Didn’t your Mama teach you that?

Rant #2

Dear Cashiers from two different stores that shall remain nameless:

Perhaps you meant well when you asked me if I wanted the Senior Citizen’s discount.  But to be asked that twice in one week was a little hard on my fragile, 50-year-old ego.  Trust me, when I turn 55, I’ll be the first to let you know.  But until then, it might be better, unless you are absolutely certain of a person’s…ahem…mature status, to wait for them to ask for the discount.  Especially since you have a large sign with large print announcing it right at the register.

Or maybe you thought I couldn’t read it…because of my advanced, ripe old age.

Rant #3

Dear Cashier at the grocery store that rhymes with Jingles:
 
I was pretty excited to have that coupon for the Russell Stover’s Chocolate Rabbit.  Even though my kids are in college now, I still enjoy putting together a little Easter basket for them.  We’re on a budget, and the candy they usually get is more Hershey’s than Russell Stover’s, so I was particularly pleased to be able to get such a “fancy” treat.  Chocolate connoisseurs may smirk, but Russell Stover’s is lavish stuff for us.

You scanned the rabbit, and I smiled and handed you the coupon.  You studied it for a moment, picked the rabbit up and looked at it, then handed the coupon back with a curiously smug look on your face. 

“I can’t take that,” you said.

I was baffled.  “Why not?”

You announced, in a self-righteous tone, “This coupon is for the HOLLOW Russell Stover rabbit.”  Then you smirked.  “Your rabbit is solid.”

I looked at you, open-mouthed with disbelief.  No, not disbelief that the coupon actually said that.  In fact, when I looked at it again, I realized it indeed said “Hollow Rabbit.”  But I was incredulous that you would take such obvious pride in denying a simple, cents-off coupon to someone because they had the solid rabbit instead of the hollow one.  And the look you gave me—strangely triumphant and accusatory at the same time.  I mean, you would have thought you’d caught me trying to slip the rabbit out in my purse.  Oh yeah, you’re a noble one, you are, valiantly fighting those desperados like me who would actually try to sneak those hollow rabbit coupons past your eagle eyes.  You must be so proud.  I’m surprised you didn’t shout, “Security!  Coupon outlaw!” and ask them to pat me down for more illicit coupons. 

I pointed out to you that the solid rabbit was actually more expensive than the hollow one, but you were adamant, secure in your position of moral superiority.   So I put away my money and handed you back the rabbit.  “I guess I won’t get it then.”

So, congratulations.  You won, but your store lost a sale and the good will of a new customer.  And it wasn’t so much that you refused me the coupon—maybe they train you to be completely inflexible about coupons, and you were just following policy.  It was the fact that you seemed so self-satisfied about it and the way you looked at me like I was committing a criminal act instead of just trying to buy a chocolate rabbit.  Pardon the pun, but I would have to say that was a “hollow” victory for both you and the store you represent.

So there you have it—my picayune, paltry, perhaps petty personal peeves. 

Whew.  Thanks.  I feel better already.

Don’t Hate Me Because I’m…Sensible!

 

I was driving through the parking lot of a local shopping center the other day, when I noticed a young guy in a maroon car with his brake lights on, obviously about to back out of the parking space ahead of me.  Initially, I slowed, but then when I saw him look straight at me, I figured he was waiting for me to pass by.  But just as I drew near, he abruptly backed out, right in front of me.  So I slammed on my brakes and pulled slightly to the right to avoid a collision.  My groceries, which were in the seat beside me, slid to the floor.

I muttered a few choice phrases and stared hard at the back of his car.  He was taking him own sweet time about accelerating.  So that gave me plenty of time to read his bumper sticker. 

“I Hate Your Camry! ”

Despite my irritation, I laughed out loud.  As it happens, I drive a Camry.  I was driving it that day.  But the idea that anyone could hate a Camry was ludicrous to me.  Camrys just seem so innocuous and inoffensive.  How could anyone hate them?  It’s almost like hating…I dunno…a golden retriever.   You know—they’re reliable; friendly; largish, but they don’t eat that much; and you see them everywhere.  Yep, just your basic golden retriever of a car. 
 
I mean, it’s not like I was driving a Hummer or something.  That I could understand.  But a Camry?  Maybe he has some stereotype of a Camry driver in his mind.  Maybe it symbolizes something to him.  But I’m not sure what.  Dullness?  Conservatism?  Thriftiness?  Old age?   Well, I am a middle-aged, thrifty, sometimes dull moderate-leaning-to-the-left, so I guess there could be some validity in that stereotype.

But I bet you’re wondering—what was he driving?  A Civic?  A Miata?  Some other zippy, sporty, little car?  No indeed.  He was driving a… Buick Regal.  Which is basically just an American Camry.   I mean, my goodness, I don’t like to stereotype, but if you were playing one of those match games where you draw a line from a word in one column and its closest match in the second, and you saw the word “Buick” in column one and “Conservative Senior Citizen” in column two…well…would there be any question?

I wish I could have a word or two with that young whippersnapper.  A nice, motherly chat.  I’d talk to him about the futility and folly of hatred, about his lack of driving skills and judgment, and about the fact that it would have been far more prudent to get a Camry.  Better reliability, better crash rating, and an all-around better car.

I would remind him that he, too, will be old someday.  Because I think that what his bumper sticker is all about—he’s afraid he’s going to turn into his dad.  Or his grandpa.  But someday he, too, will be old, thrifty, and a little dull.  And he, too, will love the way his Camry glides along, a smooth and reliable ride, insulating him from young whippersnappers who would hate him just because he’s…sensible.

The Hazards of a Hug (or When Bear Hugs Get a Little Hairy)

Warning:  Boring, whiny, self-indulgent post ahead.

I mentioned briefly in my last post that I had sustained a “small” injury.  Well, it was small in terms of the actual body part injured, but since that body part seems to be rubbing up against a nerve ending, it turns out to be large in terms of pain, which is getting worse instead of better. 

Hence, this post.  Those that know me well know that I have a very hard time asking for help, so the fact that I’m writing this is some measure of my desperation.  At the risk of boring you to tears, I thought I’d fling this into cyberspace and see what comes back.  Hopefully, this will be my first and last post seeking free medical advice.  

The way it happened is almost comic.  My brother and his wife had come to visit and were taking their leave.  We were out on the porch taking last-minute pictures and giving big hugs in the way of long, long goodbyes that Southerners are prone to.  Janet and I were giving each other a big, ole bear hug, when I felt something go Thwack in my chest.  It felt sort of like a fan belt broke loose—it hit my chest with that much force.

In fact, Janet felt it too and jumped back.  I clutched my chest in amazement.  She looked so stricken that my first words were to reassure her that it was nothing she had done.  Then I thought, “What in the hell was that?”

It did hurt, but mainly when I breathed deeply—at first.  And, no, the Thwack was not the sound like a rib breaking would make.  It was more of a big Snap against my chest, like a giant rubber band.

Here’s where I tell you that I have a well-earned aversion to doctors.  Except for when I clearly have a raging infection that only antibiotics will cure, I always take the Wait-and-See approach.  Our bodies have wondrous self-healing properties.

But now I’m hurting more than I did at first.  I am even considering taking the ancient Darvocet I found in our cabinet.  And I’m real stoical about pain.   (Endured long and difficult labors with natural childbirth without so much as a Tylenol or cuss word—twice).   But it hurts when I bend over, it hurts when I breathe, it hurts when I push or pull with my left arm, and it hurts when I rise up from lying down.  And not just in my chest.  Because of the compressed nerve, I think, it hurts both in my back and in my shoulder.  It’s sort of like someone keeps running me through with a sword. 

So I did Internet research and finally came up with a pretty certain diagnosis—I have  “slipping rib syndrome.”  I know, it sounds kind of silly, but that’s what they call it.  Apparently, one or two of my ribs have pulled away from the ligaments that usually hold them in place and the cartilage tip of the ribs are slipping upward and impinging on the intercostal nerves.  So my ribs are literally getting on my nerves.

I believe this is the result of a long-ago injury to my chest and rib area when I was taking care of my Mama.  She had Lou Gehrig’s Disease and was in a wheelchair.  I often had to lift her when other measures weren’t effective.  She weighed about 160 pounds, and I recall feeling something tear in my chest and hurt afterwards once when I lifted her.  So I think the seeds were sown then for this injury, and the chickens have come home to roost.  (Is that a mixed metaphor, or what?!)

Anyway, the purpose of this long and dull post is to find out if anybody out there has any clue what I should do to hasten the healing and ease the pain.  (If you’re still awake and reading, that is).  I’ve been taking the maximum Excedrin, as well as Valerian to relax my muscles and Glucosamine and Chondroitin to build up cartilage and connective tissue.  And when I am able to do so, I’ve been applying heat to the area. 

Please forgive me for whining.  And for one of the worst mixed metaphors ever in the history of blogging.  Apparently, being unable to breathe deeply has starved my brain of oxygen.  But I know you understand.  

The Simple Life

I’m new to this blogging stuff, so I’m still fumbling in the dark when it comes to figuring out all the dandy doodads available through my excellent blogging host WordPress.  But I did manage to pick up on how to add tags to my posts.  (I am amazed at the resourcefulness people show in working as many as fifteen tags into their posts!)

When I wrote this post, ”Being There,”  I decided to make one of my tags The Simple Life.  After I posted, I clicked on the tag The Simple Life listed with my post to read what others had written on the subject.  I expected musings on nature, perhaps spiritual observations, or maybe, like me, simple people writing about their simple lives.  Imagine my bewilderment when I started scrolling down the page:  Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, Paris, Nicole, pregnant, DUI, eating disorder….

Say what?

It turns out there is a reality show called The Simple Life that stars Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie.  Now I have a feeling that this is pretty common knowledge.  But in case you’re saying, “Good grief, blueridgebluecollarwoman, have you been living in a cave?!!”  Well, no, but I do live in a mountain valley, which gives us terrible television reception.  There was a little satellite dish here when we came, but we never had it connected.  So we’re a little out of the loop when it comes to modern pop culture.  Before our teenagers went to college, they kept us just enough in the loop to be able to not look like total idiots at social gatherings.  But now that they’re gone, we’re slipping, I think, into some sort of time warp that renders us socially inept when conversations turn to TV and celebrities.

So I Googled The Simple Life.  It seems that the idea of the show is to put Paris and Nicole into situations far out of their comfort zone, which, it seems, would be almost any situation in the real world, since their world as rich, socialite party girls must be a bit small and limited.  It’s interesting to note that the description of the show on the Internet Movie Database included this line:

Plot Keywords:

Superficial / Superficiality / Stupidity 
 
I’m thinking that these keywords might be significant.  Now since I’ve never seen the show, I can’t comment on its quality.  But it seems unlikely that someone like me whose favorite TV show of all time is The Andy Griffith Show would be a fan.  I’m pretty sure I’d take Thelma Lou over Paris any day.  There is some portent, I suppose, in the fact that I tried to tag a post about nature and spirituality with The Simple Life, only to find the phrase hijacked by two bleached blonde playgirls.  But I don’t want to think about it right now.

I quickly changed my tag to Living Simply, and soon after, my post disappeared from the Simple Life page.  But I do enjoy imagining someone clicking on my post, hoping to see the latest pictures of Paris and Nicole, but being greeted instead with the terrible beauty of a flower spider, as she devours the unfortunate honeybee who wandered, unsuspecting, into her wretched grasp.