Why People Go Ballistic

I get it. I understand that going to the DMV is never, ever going to be a pleasant experience. But when it takes two days to get a simple license and car registration processed, there’s a problem. But this is the way things are now since 9/11 and the wonderful inception of identity fraud.

Now that I will be gainfully employed in the fine State of SC, it was time to become a full-fledged citizen again. I started this process on Thursday morning around 10am. In SC, you are required to pay a property tax on your vehicle and this needed to be done before I could start any paperwork at the DMV. I went to the office and quickly saw the signs stating you must go to the auditor if you do not yet have a bill to pay. The auditor’s office, of course, was on the opposite side of the building. No problem, I need the exercise.

In order to get a tax bill, I have to show proof of residency. Not easy. I have no rental lease, no mortgage, no utility bills and no license yet. Aha, my offer letter from the job was acceptable. They proudly presented me with a bill for $241. Before heading back to the payment office, I realized the real property tax office was close by. Since I had submitted an appeal on the value of a home site I own, I stopped in to check on the status. Cool – a refund check should be in the mail shortly.

There is a DMV office right across the street, so I headed over there. When I entered, I saw at least 100 people sitting in chairs waiting for their number to be called. I got on the pre-screening line behind a half dozen people. While standing in line, I realized that I was so excited by the news of the refund check, I forgot to stop at the payment office. Back to my car and back across the street. Of course it was raining, so my good hair day was going flat, not good for taking a driver’s license picture on a ten-year license.

After paying the tax, I decided to head back home, have something to eat, dry my hair and go to an alternate DMV office that might not be as crowded. I arrived there a little after 1pm. I had read all the information on their website and was sure I had everything I needed. I laid out everything at the pre-screening desk and the woman asked for my birth certificate. “I don’t need that, I have my VT license and my social security card,” I responded. “Nope, everyone has to show a birth certificate for a license,” she stated.

Back in the car and heading for home to retrieve my birth certificate. Round trip was probably about 45 minutes. I got back on the line for the pre-screen desk, smiled at the woman and presented my birth certificate. She handed me a number and I went to sit with about 30 other people. It was probably about a half hour before they called my number, but I was working on my patience skills and doing ok.

I headed to Counter 4 and presented all my completed forms and supporting documentation. She looked at my license application first. Naturally, my birth certificate has a different last name than my current name. “We need documentation showing the name change, like a marriage certificate,” the clerk said. I felt tears starting to well up. “Ma’am, I just drove all the way home to get my birth certificate. The lady said nothing about marriage licenses,” I pleaded. I then produced an expired passport, SC Voter Registration card and a Teaching Credential issued by the state. No good. It had to be a certified marriage license, well two actually, and they were sitting in a drawer in Vermont. No license for this girl today.

The clerk then looked at my paperwork for the car registration. “Do you have a signed Power of Attorney from the leasing company?” she inquired. More tears welling and my voice cracked as I responded, “No, I didn’t know I needed that.”   I produced a monthly statement for the car lease, but it meant nothing. I also produced all the paperwork from the dealership, all to no avail. I noticed on the leasing bill there was a customer service number. I called it and explained what we needed. “We can do that, but it can take up to an hour to be faxed,” the rep told me. It was now 4:15 and the office closed at 5PM.

The DMV clerk continued to look over my papers, visited her supervisor several times to ask questions and looked as if she were possibly accomplishing something. She then clipped all the papers together and handed them back to me with instructions to come back tomorrow. My phone rang – it was Toyota Leasing. They had faxed the paperwork. The DMV clerk retrieved the fax and processed the car registration just in the nick of time. I now had a car registered in SC, but still a VT license. Tomorrow would be my last free day before starting my job, so the pressure was on.

Knowing I could not get my hands on a marriage certificate for number one, I asked if a divorce decree would work. “Yes, so long as it is certified,” she replied. As I left the DMV office, I dialed ex numero uno. “Hey, crazy question, but do you still have our divorce papers,” I asked cheerily. Dead silence on the other end. Finally he spoke and said, “If I didn’t burn them, probably yes.” An hour later I arrived to his house, grabbed the papers and exclaimed that I needed a drink after a day from hell. He poured me a vodka and himself some wine. We sat and starting chit chatting. At some point he refilled my glass. I had not eaten much all day, so it hit me fast.

An hour later, my friend Molly called asking what I was up to. “I’m at Vic’s, come over, he has vodka. And pick up some food on your way”. At about 9PM, my ex’s wife arrived home to find three drunks at her kitchen table, empty food cartons and divorce papers – mine, not hers. Thank God she has a good sense of humor.

The next morning I headed to the Clerk of Court to get certified copies of the divorce papers because the ones from the ex were only a copy. I was prepared to deal with the typical bureaucratic BS, but surprisingly they were very helpful. I then drove to the probate court to get a certified copy of the marriage license to number two. Also completed painlessly. I headed back to the DMV and was shocked to be put at the front of the line because I had accumulated four hours of seniority the day before. Within 30 minutes, I had a SC license. I am never moving out of state again. I simply can’t guarantee I wouldn’t go ballistic if I had to endure this all over again.

Just Let God Do His Job

I have never been a particularly religious person, which can be difficult living in the Bible Belt. But I am a very spiritual person and I believe strongly in a higher power. One only need watch a sunrise over the ocean, hear the cacophony of nature on a summer night or see the smile on a child’s face to know that we didn’t accomplish this all by ourselves and some things are simply not man-made.

The past several months have not been my best, but I set out a plan and forged ahead. The number one priority was to find a job – one that I could love because it will probably be my last. I saturated the area with resumes, called in all my contacts and made the search my full time job.

On Wednesday, I received a call from a small upstate college where I had already completed two interviews. They asked me to return so that a formal job offer could be presented in person. In that instant, I felt my spirits lift and I knew life was about to take a good turn. I was given the option to come that afternoon or the following day. For anyone who has ever heard the little voice inside their heads, you will understand what I am talking about. Now I am not referring to the voices that crazy people hear causing them to commit crimes because Jesus spoke to them through their neighbor’s dog. This is that subtle little voice that nudges you in the moment you have to make a quick decision. My little voice whispered, “Wait until tomorrow.” Without hesitation, I responded that the following afternoon would work best if that fit within their time frame. The appointment was confirmed.

This was for an awesome job as Director of Continuing Education. I have always loved working in an academic environment and this was a warm, friendly campus. The job also offered a full range of benefits and more than ample time off. I was excited about this opportunity and felt blessed. When I weighed the pros and cons of this job, the only cons were the fact that it was a 30-minute commute that included a long stretch on Interstate 85 which I affectionately refer to as Death Highway. But driving can be meditative and I was going to make the best of it.

About three hours after confirming this appointment, one that was going to change my life, I received a phone call from an unknown number. I was greeted with a hello from a former co-worker at a firm where I had worked almost 20 years prior. At the time we worked together, he was an auditor reporting to the same boss as me, so we interacted a good bit. Now 20 years later, he is the Managing Shareholder at the same firm which has since grown into 400 employees across several states. I had sent him a resume a few weeks prior in the event he had any clients who might be hiring.

In a nutshell, he told me he had a position at the firm coming open and he thought I would be the perfect fit. I explained that I was getting a job offer the next afternoon, so he put together a meeting for the next morning so we could explore this possibility. I arrived at 10:30, had an hour and a half conference with three decision makers and five minutes later had an offer on the table. It was for my dream job and right in downtown Greenville – my home away from home.

Now I know you naysayers will chalk this up to coincidence, fate or simply synchronized timing. But for me, I believe that only a higher power could have so perfectly orchestrated this particular symphony in my life. I admit I had prayed a lot, something we humans tend to get very serious about when things are not going well. I didn’t pray for a particular job, or to win the lottery though I would be very beholding to that occurrence. I prayed for strength to endure and wisdom to make good choices. I was granted both. I also prayed for patience, something that is not always one of my chosen virtues.

In a matter of 24 hours, my life took a turn down a road that is seriously paved with gold. I am embarking on a job that makes me literally giggle with excitement every time I think about it. I once again feel strong, confident and ready to take on the world. And I will continue to pray for strength, wisdom and patience, because if we just let God do his job, things tend to work out.

How Cindy Got Her Groove Back

I think I’ve got the process underway. I believe I may be on the road to recovery, though as I type this I am knocking on wood, crossing fingers and toes, making the sign of the cross and furiously searching for an old rabbit’s foot. I thought I had reached this point a few times before only to slip back even deeper into the black hole. Like they say, one step forward, two steps back. But I really think this time is different.

I am amazed at the similarities between myself and the vivacious Stella, star of the 1998 movie of similar name. It is as if our lives are parallel, well, except for a few minor details.

I am not a wealthy, successful stock broker who can take a month off to go lay in the sun on a Caribbean Island. I am, however, planning to spend a couple of days in Myrtle Beach sleeping on Roger and Julie’s trundle bed.

I don’t get to pal around with the likes of Whoopi Goldberg. But I do have Molly and Ro, my partners in crime, my confidantes, my shoulders to cry on, my butt kickers when I need it.

I haven’t met my Winston Shakespeare, the Taye Diggs character who is hot, sexy, romantic and of course fabulous in the sack. Ah, who needs that when you are in love with your soulmate. (Umm, maybe I should think about this one a little longer. It is Taye Diggs after all, LOL).

I look nothing like Angela Bassett in a swimsuit. Oh, I have her body, I’m just not black. (Actually, I don’t have her body in the white version either).

I don’t have a young son. But I do have two grown daughters who are beautiful, smart, funny and amazing. They take after their mom.

I’m not in my 40’s. But I was once, though it was a long time ago.

Healing is a process, and much like the movies, it can often have a happy ending. I’m working on it, but I’m not buying the popcorn until the reviews are in.

(Special thanks to all my groovers – you know who you are)

I'll Do It My Way (Frank Sinatra style)

When my daughter was about four years old, we took her to see the movie Harry and the Hendersons. We thought we had chosen a wonderful family movie that she would remember for years to come. Oh, she remembered it alright. She sobbed uncontrollably all the way home. Her father and I lived with the guilt for years afterwards. I guess we just didn’t realize what a sensitive little girl we had produced. Of course, she got it from her mother.

I used to love going to the movies. Both my exes were movie lovers as well, so a once a week movie date was the norm for us. Nowadays, it is a treat to catch a movie while still showing in the big screen. At ten dollars a ticket, and don’t even talk about possible popcorn or a drink, it simply makes more sense to wait until the movie makes it to Redbox rental status.

Tonight, I was ready for a treat.  I had seen the trailers for Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I typically like anything starring Tom Hanks. The only other 9/11 movie I remember is Reign Over Me and it affected me deeply. Billy Joel never gave me the 9/11 song I believe he owed me, owed us. So it was time for a dose of reality. I went for it, by myself, which turned out to be a smart decision.

Before the movie even started, there were the trailers for other movies. I love watching the trailers. It provides me a list of movies I want to see.  I was crying before I got through the trailers, mostly by watching those for The Vow and Big Miracle. I had allotted myself five Kleenex for tonight’s feature. I was through two of them before the trailers ended.

I won’t be a spoiler, but the movie focuses on a family affected by the 9/11 tragedy and yes, someone died. The story that unfolds is beautifully told, poignant and delivers its message loud and clear – time waits for no one. When a life is ripped away from us, we are left to pick up the pieces, attempt to understand why it happened and, most profoundly, to live with the regrets of all we didn’t accomplish.

As I inch ever closer to the golden years, I am reminded daily of my mortality. I have lost friends, people my own age, who left behind unmet goals and unrealized dreams. I am at a crossroads in my own life, and the light has been red for too long.  I am doing my best to have the patience that Mother of the Sky, my favorite astrologer, keeps telling me I need. There are goals on the table, and strategic plans to achieve them, but some stumbling blocks are perched in the path and their removal is out of my control.

I don’t want to have regrets. I don’t want a hope chest full of goals that never came to fruition. I don’t want unsaid words roaming in my head. I don’t want to star in the movie called The Greatest Love Story Never Told. Perhaps the time to reshuffle priorities has come. Anyone else in?

In Honor of a Fallen Soldier

It’s a rainy Saturday, the kind of day that makes you lazy. At almost 11AM, I am still in bed having just finished a good book that made me cry at the end. I have two more to read before heading back to the downtown branch of the Greenville County Library to stock up on more.

As I look outside at the rain and gloom, I am reminded of a different Saturday two weeks ago. It was the day of the funeral of Pfc. Justin Whitmire. He was 20 years old. You couldn’t even say that he was cut down in the prime of his life; he never even got close to his prime. As a mother, to me he was still a boy. But he was a boy who already knew about dedication, love of his country and helping others, part of the reason he was serving as a medic.

On December 27, just 19 days after his deployment to Afghanistan, Justin’s patrol vehicle ran over an IED. Two fellow soldiers lost their lives in the accident. Justin had volunteered for the mission. As his friends and family said, that was typical of Justin.

The funeral service was held at Simpsonville First Baptist Church with burial at Cannon Memorial Park. Over three miles of four-lane road stretch between those two points. And for several hours that Saturday, the entire stretch was lined with people, many holding American flags. The majority of them did not know Justin Whitmire personally, yet they were drawn there to mourn his death and to show support to the family he left behind. I found the reverence overwhelming.

I will admit my call to this funeral was initially motivated by the announcement that Westboro Baptist was coming to demonstrate. The hope was to form a human chain that would block the sight of the protesters from view of the family. As it turned out, Westboro never showed. I believe it had something to do with the anticipated reception they might have received. Southerners are a friendly, welcoming bunch of people – unless you try to mess with their families. In that case, you may be greeted by the barrel  end of a shotgun being held by hands with an itchy trigger finger. I believe Westboro got the message loud and clear and decided to high-tail it back to the Land of Oz

The Patriot Guard was there via invitation from the family. A devout group of motorcycle riders, they assemble as a symbol of reverence and respect for those who defend our country as members of the armed services.  In addition to the Patriot Guard, thousands of other riders came to show their respects. As we stood along the processional path, we watched literally thousands of bikes ride past, many with flags propped high in the air. Riders had come from other towns, even other states, all simply to show respect and support for the Whitmire family.

It was anticipated that the funeral procession would begin the drive from the Church to the cemetery around 2PM. Due to the overwhelming number of people in attendance, the eulogies by clergy and family members, and the task of getting everyone assembled, it was delayed by well over an hour. Yet, no one left and no one complained. We simply stood our ground patiently knowing our purpose that day far outweighed anything else we needed to do at that moment. We were in it for the long haul.

The Patriot Guard rode first, paving the way for the hearse and family limousines.  They rode slowly, solemnly and with low-idling engines. They stared at us and we stared back, finding a kinship in why we were there. As the humming of the bikes subsided, the hearse carrying Pfc. Justin Whitmire came into view. Hands went to hearts or formed a salute and tears welled in eyes. Several more limousines followed. Family members mouthed the words “thank you” as they rode by. At least 100 additional cars carrying funeral service attendees continued the trek. The thing that struck me most was the quiet. Aside from the sound of wheels crossing blacktop, you could hear a pin drop. No one spoke, no sounds of the bustling downtown were heard, no horns, whistles, sirens not even from a distance. It was as if time was standing still – Mother Earth a part of the reverent moment.

As the last car drove down Main Street toward the cemetery, life fell back into a normal pace. We mourners strode back to our vehicles, some of us talking softly, some remaining silent. A huge traffic jam ensued in that small, crowded downtown. But no one got frustrated, no one blew a horn. We took our turns allowing each other to enter the flow. The level of respect stayed elevated. We had all been impacted by what we just witnessed. And I know that Pfc. Justin Whitmire was watching from above.

Wise Advice from a Wisenheimer

Without intention, I attempted to send the year out with a bang. I had an accident in my car today. Oh no, I didn’t mean I had a motor vehicle accident. I meant I had an unfortunate incident while driving in my car. I had a misunderstanding with my soft taco supreme that did not end well for my sweater. So my advice to all of you is to never, ever attempt to eat a soft taco supreme while driving. It is simply not a manageable situation and you will be quite embarrassed when you have to walk around the library and then the grocery store with sour cream, taco sauce and small bits of lettuce down the front of your shirt.

This taco altercation got me thinking about what other advice I might want to share with friends and family as we ease into the New Year. I always thought I should be an advice columnist. I am a wonderful listener, very empathetic, and usually able to offer sound, objective resolutions to people’s problems. Of course, when my own personal life unraveled like a cheap sweater this year, I realized I might not be as suited for this position as I thought, though I do still have the empathy thing going for me.

So here is Cindy’s advice for 2012. Like your Margaritas, take it with a grain of salt.

Take your keys out of your pocketbook and pay your bill BEFORE the manicure is done. If not, you are going to be cussing the whole way home about how you messed up your nails AGAIN before you even left the nail salon.

If you treat yourself to a Sonic Blast more than twice a week, you are going to gain weight. It doesn’t matter how many extra sit ups you do or walks you take, your jeans are going to get tighter.

Grandchildren are for spoiling.

When your kids get older and become financially independent and they want to spend money on you, let them.

Drinking Sleepytime tea does help you to fall asleep faster, but you are going to wake up an hour later to pee. It’s one of those Murphy’s Law kinda things.

Deciding to let the hair go gray is not a good idea. If you want to walk around with gray roots for two weeks to prove this theory, be my guest. But make it easy on yourself and just trust me on this one.

You can remain a Deadhead no matter how old you get.

The Bedhead look is never attractive and should be avoided, even if it is just to run to Dunkin Donuts for a coffee.

Once you reach our age, your butt is going to look fat in any pair of jeans you wear. Stop putting people on the spot by asking them about it.

Scanning the radio channels and finding a Beatles song will ALWAYS bring a smile to your face. There is a memory attached to every one of them. Savor the moment.

Men will always look at younger women and think it’s a good idea at the moment. Eventually they will come to their senses and give themselves a face palm. Allow them their moment.

Women will ALWAYS think a younger man will make them feel younger, will satisfy them sexually and will be great eye candy to show off to their friends. They are right.

True love never runs smooth.

True friends will always smooth out the rough spots in your life.

The truth will set you free.

Happy New year to all those near and dear to me.  I wish you love, health and happiness in 2012; and for me, I wish I win the lottery.

Too Old for Christmas?

It’s over and I’m glad. I am not typically a bah humbug kinda girl, but let’s face it, this year sucked and the holidays are simply a culmination of the crap. I now need to survive New Year’s Eve and then I can be done with it. Of course NYE is a bit easier to handle because overindulgence in alcohol is expected, not just tolerated. Out with the old and in with the new – yes, baby, I am ready for that.

I wonder if I am just getting too old for Christmas.  There were some definite signs that the holiday simply doesn’t pack the punch it used to for me. For example:

I didn’t get kissed underneath the mistletoe.

Jack Frost tried to nip at my nose so I tasered him.

Good golly Miss Molly, there wasn’t a damn thing that was holly or jolly.

There were no chestnuts – roasted or otherwise.

I never heard what she heard or saw what he saw. Who are those people anyway?

I didn’t rock around the Christmas tree, deck the halls or don any gay apparel.

I did, however, have a blue, blue Christmas…the result of a little too much ho, ho, ho.

But lest I sound too dramatic, the holiday wasn’t a total loss. In fact, when properly reprioritized the special moments rise to the top. My daughters, who have been my angels this past year, gave me the best presents ever. It was amazing how it all went down. They asked me what I wanted, I told them and that’s what they got me. What a great concept.

A week before Christmas, we did a mother/daughter/grandson day complete with lunch, shopping and sibling bickering. While strolling through the mall, the girls decided it made more sense for them to get me my iPhone that day since we were right in front of the Verizon store. I panicked! I am not good at making major changes and I wasn’t “prepared”. They dragged me inside and instructed the salesperson to “just do it.” It was like ripping off the Band-Aid. I left there shaking, holding a new phone I didn’t know how to work and lamenting the loss of my saved texts, voice mails, ringtones and ringbacks. I was in shock, but the girls insisted I would get through it. I did hang up on a few friends, had no way of knowing who was calling by the ring and I sent a few texts to the wrong people…oops, that could be trouble. I think I may need a 12-step program.

My other gifts included a gift certificate for a mani/pedi, a new wallet just like my daughter’s and a certificate to Chief’s Wings and Firewater that will be redeemed during Clemson’s 2012 football season.  

Of course all the bahs and blahs went by the wayside on Christmas morning.  At 8am, I started the coffee, set out the cranberry muffins and fried two pounds of bacon – one pork and one turkey for all the health-conscious relatives. Nobody ate the turkey bacon, exclaiming it was Christmas and they were treating themselves to the good stuff.

And then the true purpose of the holiday sprang to life as my little guy woke up, rubbed his sleepy eyes, walked into the living room and spied what was under the tree. I’m not sure how Santa got all those items down the chimney – a Sit ‘n Spin, books and puzzles galore, building blocks, stuffed animals, DVDs and a big, old fire truck. Then there were the gifts from grandma, nana and poppa, and mimi and grandpa. Wyatt oohed and ahhed as he pulled tissue paper out of bags and stuck his head in to see what he could find. He was like Little Jack Horner sticking in his thumb and pulling out a plum. His smiles made all the bad stuff disappear in an instant.

So now it is onward and upward to face the new year. Mark my words, there’s gonna be some changes in these here parts. By next Christmas I plan to rock, roast, nip, hear, see, deck and don. And I am definitely getting kissed under the mistletoe. Now who knows the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne?

My Cup Runneth Over

I got to pee in a cup today. It is not typically how I enjoy starting my day, but my future employer wants to be sure they are not hiring a pill head or drunk. Those who know me also know that I am hard-pressed to even down an aspirin. It has to be a really bad headache, or those times when my sciatica acts up, before I dive into the Advil gels. Other than that, and my daily dose of Synthroid, there isn’t much going into this body.

But you do have to take pause about the state of our society. Drug testing is a fact of life. If you want a job, you pretty much have to be willing to submit. Though we should all enjoy basic human rights, if you refuse to submit it presents the appearance of guilt, and employers have every right to say “thanks but no thanks” to your job application. How did we get like this? And more importantly, who licked the freaking cherry off my lollipop?

The drinking age was 18 when I turned 18, how convenient. I still remember my first legal drink. Richie Appleyard, my friend Janet’s older brother, took me to the Bluebird Bar in West Islip. I don’t recall what it was I drank. I’m sure Richie, the older and wiser of the two of us, ordered appropriately for me. Richie died a few years later, apparently having dove into an empty swimming pool while under the influence of alcohol.

My only foray into alcoholic beverages prior to my 18^th birthday was Boone’s Farm Apple Wine or Colt 45 drunk through a straw. I would take a few sips with friends, more succumbing to peer pressure than trying to get high. I was much too afraid of the wrath of mom to come home plastered. I did, however, make up for lost time after 18. My biggest accomplishment – downing 16 shots of tequila celebrating my college graduation. I was in bed for three days afterwards, eating toast and drinking chocolate milk.

My generation drank and smoked a little pot. We imbibed on the weekends after working hard all week. We kicked back at a local bar, sat around trading stories of our youth and our dreams for the future. The rowdiest we ever got was getting up to dance if the juke box played a particularly invigorating song. My personal favorite was Mack the Knife by Bobby Darrin. We were peace-loving hippies and we enjoyed the simple pleasures. And we didn’t hurt anybody. And more amazingly, if we got pulled over on the way home and the cop thought we shouldn’t be driving… he drove us home and told us not to do it again. And that’s the God’s honest truth.

So which of the generations that followed ruined it for the rest of us? Who decided they needed more, more, more of a kick? Who brought in the cocaine and, worse yet, the pharmaceuticals? Who decided Oxycotin and its derivatives were now the cool drug of choice?

Somebody is to blame for this more, more, more attitude. The technology has to be faster, the movies have to be more violent and the drugs need to produce a bigger and better high. Why? Was the beer and marijuana cocktail all that bad? Hell, I have friends old enough to collect social security who still find this combo more than enough.

Today I can’t go downtown and enjoy myself before assigning a designated driver. Even then, we have to be wary of public drunkeness citations.  Is my generation of senior citizens wearing tie-dyed clothing and carrying peace-symbol key chains really an issue? Do we really need to be subjected to three field sobriety tests by a Doogie Howser looking trooper looking to nail us? Do I really need to pee in a cup?

My parents raised me to work hard, never call in sick, give 100% to my job, respect my employer, follow the rules and participate in the retirement plan. Does an employer need to know more than that to size me up as a valued employee? Trust me, by Monday morning the hangover and the sweet scent of Mary Jane will be undetectable and I will be ready to report to work with a salute. So don’t ask me to pee in a cup. It insults my intelligence and my values.

What Came First - the Devil or the Egg?

This Thanksgiving, I didn’t cook a turkey. Well I did, but not until the Sunday after Thanksgiving.  It was not a conscious choice; it was a matter of menu logistics.

I was invited to spend Thanksgiving with my daughters and grandson. Holidays should be spent with family, and I was appreciative of this opportunity. The feast was being hosted by my ex-husband’s wife’s sister and brother-in-law. Sound complicated?  Welcome to my life.

It’s been a rough year.  So when I received the email invitation that included a note specifically welcoming me, I did what any sad woman with a broken heart does – I burst into tears.  After cleaning off the running makeup and downing a glass of wine, I read the rest of the email. There was a menu attached, along with suggestions for items that were still needed.  Deviled eggs. They needed deviled eggs.  I like deviled eggs.  I like experimenting with recipes.  So I signed on for deviled egg duty and commenced to searching for recipes.  My recipe search included two objectives – one was to find an outstanding recipe for the egg filling, the other was to find a recipe for making the perfect hard-boiled egg.  It was pretty easy to find both quickly.

I was planning to make two dozen eggs, which meant 48 halves. I calculated this would be enough for the 30 people who were coming for dinner.  Not everyone likes deviled eggs, and there would be so much other food.  I almost felt guilty about choosing such an easy assignment. This wasn’t going to be deviled eggs, this was going to be a piece of cake.

Twas the night before Thanksgiving and all through the house it smelled like methane gas. There were 24 perfectly cooked eggs sitting in the sink in a bucket of cold water. They needed two hours of refrigeration, so by 9PM I would be ready to start peeling. I set up shop in front of the TV thinking it would be almost meditative, though really it would be vegetative.  I carefully chose the first egg from the bowl, gently cracked it against the side of the bowl and started to peel.  Hmmm, the shell was not sliding off the egg as the recipe said it would.  I applied a bit more pressure and a few little chips of shell came off the egg, along with a big chuck of egg white.  OK, so I got one bad egg out of the bunch.  I spent a good five minutes, which in egg peeling time is a lifetime, to remove all the shell from just that first egg. The egg looked like it had fallen onto an IED in Iraq. It was pitted and uneven and little tiny slivers of shell were embedded in it. I remained optimistic about the other 23 eggs. I was so wrong. For two hours I fought with those eggs. Pieces of shell covered the chair and the floor around me. When all was said and done, I had a bowl of 24 of the ugliest eggs I had ever seen. It looked like a science experiment gone awry. Thank God for deviled egg trays – they would hide the damage – at least until an unsuspecting diner slid one out of its cozy nook. I know I overheard a few, “What the heck…..s” as everyone slammed through the buffet line. I simply didn’t take credit for making the deviled eggs. I told everyone the awesome Mac n cheese was my creation.

Joviality aside, the holidays are not about the food or the presents or the parties or the decorations. They are about family and friends and the home front. Late last night I was winding down, checking email and Facebook before heading off to bed. As I logged onto FB, I looked to see who was online. I clicked on a name and typed “Hello”, not sure if I would receive a reply. And just that quickly, I became engaged in a conversation that literally transported me round the world.

Michael Roberts is a US Army helicopter fighter pilot currently serving a tour of duty in Iraq. I came to know Mike through my daughter and her circle of friends. It was 11:30PM here on the east coast, but for Mike, it was 7:30am and he was just starting his day. It felt strange communicating with someone who was on the other side of the world on the other side of the day. It was just some small talk, catching up. But it ended with my usual plea – “Stay safe and come home soon.”  I realized that Mike, along with thousands of other servicemen and women, had spent Thanksgiving in the Middle East, far from friends and family. And most of them will also be spending Christmas away as well. So when you get frustrated because the malls are crowded, holiday traffic is a nightmare, your in-laws are overstaying their welcome or you screwed up the deviled eggs, take a minute to think about just how good you have it. I bet those soldiers would trade places with you in a minute – and they would have loved those eggs.

Thank You Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin

A little Sly Stone memory there.

For those who have followed my blog from the beginning, you know that one of my favorite holidays is approaching.  Ah yes, turkey sandwich day is around the corner. Thanksgiving is a time to ponder all those good things we have in life. It is a time to give thanks for the big things, the little things and all the incidental things in between.  And so, I bring you my list of things in my life for which I am most thankful.

I am most thankful for my two beautiful, intelligent, awesome daughters. They are more precious to me than they will ever know.

I am thankful I was able to experience two forms of birth when I had my daughters – with epidural and without epidural. I am more thankful I didn’t have to make a decision between those two methods after my two girls were born.

I am thankful that at my age, I still have a full head of decent hair.  I am more thankful to John Frieda for inventing his foam color product so no one, including me, knows just how much gray is in that head of hair.

I am thankful to my two ex-husbands, each of whom will always hold a special place in my heart. I am more thankful to their wonderful wives who have always welcomed my daughters, and even me, into their lives.

I am thankful to have known love for another person that is so deep, so strong and so unconditional that it takes my breath away.

I am thankful that even though I am not right now where I want to be in my life, I do have a roof over my head and food on the table.

I am thankful for an abundant network of amazing friends who are always there for me. I am more thankful that even though my political views do not always match theirs, they still love and accept me (even though Mikey called me an old lady, LOL).

I am thankful for a little boy who has crawled so deeply into my heart that he can never escape.

I challenge you all to think about those things for which you are thankful, and I double-dog challenge you to find a way to show your appreciation of those things. We all need to know we are loved, needed and desired, so pay it forward.

Now, as you prepare for Black Friday and holiday shopping, please remember if you are going to make a purchase from Amazon, you can go through the portal on this page and help me out. Simply put anything in the search box to be brought to the Amazon site. Complete your order within 24 hours and bingo…my blog gets a payment. And some have asked if you have to do it each time you order – the answer is yes, sorry. Just bookmark this page and you will be good to go any time you want to order from Amazon. As always, thanks so much for your support. Happy turkey day to all and to all a good sandwich.

Do Overs

Up until the time I reached my teen years, much of my social life was based around street games. With 20 houses lining our half of Krause Street, there was never a shortage of kids to form two teams for any number of games. The most popular were kick ball, whiffle ball, stick ball and good old-fashioned baseball. The concept was the same for all of them – the batter hits the ball as hard and as fast as possible and then attempts to run the bases before being tagged out.

I know there is a statistic about the average household having 2.5 children, though I doubt that was true back in the late 50s and early 60s. Seemed like the households on our street had a minimum of three kids each, the average closer to five. The Hamilton’s had a dozen, but they lived on the other section of the street and did not join in our activities.

The other statistic of which I am unaware is the ratio of boys to girls in families back then.  I know our street had more boys than girls, and being a girl was a disadvantage – at least until we hit puberty. When teams were picked, the girls inevitably got picked last. We were considered the weaker sex when it came to athletics.  There was no Title IX yet, so girls and sports just didn’t appear to be an appropriate combination. The boys knew they had to let us play, otherwise the moms would be called in to have a talk with them. It was easier to just include the girls, placing them strategically in the least effective positions. I typically batted last in the order and played a shallow right field.

I preferred whiffle ball. I wasn’t afraid of being hit by the lightweight ball that sailed slowly toward me, usually in an underhand throw. I could typically make contact with a whiffle ball. Stick ball was my least favorite. I simply didn’t possess the coordination to hit that little pink Spaldeen with the thin broom handle we borrowed from someone’s garage.

If I put on a good showing on my first two pitches, showing some actual possibility toward full contact, the boys would encourage me to hit that last pitch with all I had in me. And as I would swing through the air, so hard I practically cork-screwed into the asphalt,  one of the boys would yell “do over”, thereby awarding me one more chance to get a respectable hit. Do overs were bittersweet – it was thrilling to get another shot at making it to first base, but you knew it was a sympathy call. Sometimes, if really downtrodden, you would decline the do over and let the next batter take your place.

Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could have do overs in real life? I often say, “I would love to go back in time, but only knowing what I know now”.  Hmm, what would I do differently?  Well for one, I would start saving money from birth. I would never pick up that first cigarette at age 16 just cause it looked cool. I would make exercise a focal point of my life. I would never miss one of my daughter’s school functions because it conflicted with work. I would choose doing something fun over cleaning the house. I would start living life as a turkey sandwich way sooner.

What I would not do over is anything that would impact my relationships with family or friends. Those were chosen correctly the first time around. Oh, but I would have bulked up and practiced more so I could play a kick ass game of stick ball.

Hey – super special thanks to all of you who placed your Amazon orders via the link on this page. I made $16.49 this month! Don’t forget, Christmas shopping is around the corner. Bookmark the page.

Is Texas for Exes?

We baby boomers redefined marriage – and divorce. I believe the statistic is that 50% of boomer first marriages end in divorce. That translates to a lot of exes, perhaps even too many for a state as large as Texas.

This week, two very dear girlfriends each received the news that their ex was getting remarried. Though I don’t think either of them were pining for the ex, or waiting on any type of reconciliation, it was still a jolt to the system. Emotions that we work diligently to keep tucked away and hidden suddenly rise to the surface, and we have to face them head on. Though we heard the music in the background for a long time, now the fat lady is actually singing.

I have two exes. I am a lucky lady. Both of my exes are wonderful men and I remain friends with each of them today. I am also friends with their wives; vibrant women who have always been kind to me and most of all, extremely kind and loving to my daughters. We are all able to gather together for monumental family events like graduations, weddings and the birth of our first grandchild. When you share years of marriage with someone, you can’t simply discard all the feelings and memories because the relationship comes to an end. Well, at least not without a lot of therapy.

I certainly have many friends who would gladly ship their exes to Texas if they could. Not everyone is able to remain friends after a divorce, and it is usually for good reasons. Things like physical or emotional abuse are unacceptable and cannot be forgiven. In those cases, it is best to cut all ties and be done with it. But for those of us who were lucky to have shared a marriage with someone wonderful, it is a blessing to be able to maintain a friendship and retain the happy memories.

So what do you do when you get the news that the wedding bells are getting ready to chime for your ex? Here are some handy tips from someone with lots of experience:

Deal with those initial feelings and get them out of your system. If you need a good cry, rent a DVD like Hope Floats or anything based on a novel by Nicholas Sparks. Grab a half-gallon container of your favorite ice cream, along with a box of tissues, and have at it.

Plan a dinner party inviting all your divorced friends. The theme for the evening is “Reasons We Got Divorced in the First Place”. Rehash all the things about your ex that drove you to drink.  Start off with their annoying habits. This is sure to lead to uproarious laughter which will set the tone for a fun, though productive, night.

Reflect on all you have achieved in your personal life since the divorce, especially the rebound fling with the hottie who was ten years younger than you.

Start the diet and exercise program  –  again.

Call your ex, congratulate him, wish him the best and then ask when your invitation will arrive.

Send the happy couple a card or even a small gift – even though you weren’t invited.

Take those old records off the shelf, sit and listen to them by yourself. Mandatory listening includes Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive”, Helen Ready’s “I am Woman” and Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”.

Decide if you want to test the waters and find a soulmate with whom you can grow old. If the answer is “yes”, book a flight to Texas. I hear there are plenty of available singles living there.

Note: Special thanks to those who made a recent Amazon purchase via the link. I know at least one of you has a motorcycle. Remember, if you plan to buy something from Amazon, simply enter the site from the link at the top of the page. Doesn’t cost you anything, helps me keep the blog going. Love you all!

Depression is Depressing

Those of you who had been following my blog have been asking where I have been. Well, I’m back and with a bullet. I was on a trip to life’s amusement park, but there was nothing amusing about it. I spent the entire trip riding the roller coaster, and there were definitely more dips than ascensions. The person who designed this ride must have been on drugs. All I know is that I don’t want to ride it again.

The trick in taking an adventure to hell and back is to learn something from it. I learned a lot on this last one and I am happy to share the bullet points with you.

·         Don’t take things for granted. Every facet of your life, especially relationships, must continually be nurtured, fed and exercised.

·         The rug can be pulled out from under you at any time.  I have decided to stand on solid wood floors only from now on.

·         You discover your true friends when you are down.  Friends who you haven’t seen in years appear out of nowhere just when you need them (including California). They warm your heart and they thump you on the head when you need it.

·         Family is family. They will stand by you no matter what happens. Remember to always be there for them as well.

·         A broken heart will not kill you. It will come close, but it is a survivable illness.

·         Never underestimate the healing powers of sunshine. 

·         That whole theory about exercise and the release of endorphins is not a bunch of hogwash. It works.

·         Those disclaimers at the end of commercials for antidepressants contain very valuable information. Heed the warnings. Better yet, stay the heck away from them.

I will be updating the blog on a regular basis in between my paid writing gigs and spending my days with that very special man in my life, my grandson.

On a side note, as you know Google decided my blog was getting too popular and they apparently didn’t have the money to pay me that $300 I had accrued over six months time, so my Adsense account was inactivated. You can find a link to Amazon here on the blog. It’s pretty simple - if you are going to order something from Amazon, please enter their site from my page. It costs you nothing and it takes you directly to their site. If you buy something, I make a few pennies to pay for the blog.

Thanks again to all of you who held my hand as I walked through the valley of yuckiness. You guys are the best and I couldn’t have done it without you.

Top Five Career Choices in Today’s Market

There’s no doubt, these are challenging economic times. The stock market is taking more dips than the Coney Island roller coaster, and my retirement account is taking the ride along with it. I feel like I am in the dreaded last car, ready to fly off the back of the ride at any moment.

Making a living as a combination freelancer/granny nanny also comes with its challenges, though the pros are still outweighing the cons. But like most of us, I am keeping my eye on the situation and formulating a few backup plans in the event the bottom falls out. I try to stay abreast of the current job trends – what’s hot, what’s not. I am also an avid newspaper reader and television news watcher. Based on some recurring themes in the news, I think I have figured out the most lucrative careers to consider. This is not based on any published salary figures, government data or economic indicators. It is simply based on the fact that if I am seeing it in the news every day, there must be something to it. If these careers were not money producers, why would so many people be choosing them?

So I am about to let you in on my secret discovery of the Top Five Career Choices in Today’s Market. But hey, keep the info to yourself so we don’t have a glut in the job market.

Copper Poaching – Apparently there is big money in stealing copper from a variety of sources and selling it for cash. Qualifications for the job include being handy with tools, namely wire cutters, having reliable transportation, namely a getaway car, and the ability to carry heavy loads – think of the weight of jars of pennies. Applicants should enjoy working late at night and with little overhead lighting. You should also have knowledge of electrical systems as it appears several electrocution deaths have occurred in this field. (I wonder if OSHA has weighed in on this).

Meth Lab Operation – This is a great career for the chemistry major, or anyone who simply enjoys the thrill of mixing dangerous chemicals. The labs can be easily constructed in small spaces such as apartments and single-wide mobile homes, so overhead is low. For those who prefer to be on the road, you can set up a mobile meth lab in the back of your vehicle. I believe you are then able to claim the standard mileage reimbursement on your taxes.

Breaking and Entering – This age-old career is currently in resurgence. Though a good set of tools is required, apparently they are not always needed as car owners simply leave doors unlocked, windows open and keys in the ignition. A good night’s work translates to wallets, jewelry and a bevy of electronic devices. Form a relationship with a good pawn broker for top commissions.

Bank Robbery – Best-suited for masters of disguise. Successful robbers with unique disguises can actually develop a cult following in the media. A colorful career for the adventurous – especially when the dye packs go off. No equipment required, but you need manual dexterity to point your finger under clothing to give the appearance of a gun.

Counterfeiting – Initial investment necessary – high quality copy machine. Also need acting skills to be able to purchase a 99 cent pack of gum with a hundred dollar bill and keep a straight face.

It’s nice to know these opportunities are available, but I realize there is a drawback that might keep me from pursuing them – I’m allergic to jail cells.

Game On!

It’s Wednesday night – I’m playing the lottery game. I don’t just mean that I purchased a ticket, I mean I am playing my version of the lottery game. I play it every week, usually on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays.  I alternate the playing pieces depending on the day of the week. It’s either a Mega Millions ticket or a Powerball ticket.  And the game is called “What Am I Gonna Do When I Win?”

People always like to dream about what they would do if they won the lottery. I love the ones who say they would keep their job. Yeah, right! I would hang up my hard hat in a heartbeat. How is that for alliteration from a freelance writer? Seriously though, discontinuing working for a living would be the first item on my post-lottery winning checklist.

The initial part of my plan is quite practical. Let’s say I win $50 million. Wow, I like saying that. I like writing that. It has a nice ring. Anyway, the state would take about half, so now I am down to $25 million. Whew, I think I can manage on that reduced amount. And I would feel good knowing the other half was paying for scholarships for South Carolina students to attend college. Go Tigers!
So first I would take maybe three to four million off the top to set myself up for life. Why such a small percentage? Come on, just how many millions does one person need to live the rest of their life? At 57, we are not talking a hundred years. I don’t need luxury, I just want some comforts.

Next comes family members. I would pay off one daughter’s mortgage and buy a home for the other. That’s one way to keep her close by. Trust funds would be set up for each of them, as well as grandchildren. I remember years ago when my daughters were still students. I told them if I ever won the lottery, I would set up a fund that paid them each week but only if they were working full time. My younger requested partial payment for working part time. Always thinking, that one.

When all the family members are taken care of, it’s time to start having fun with friends. I picture myself going to the bank and paying off mortgages, but not telling them. Then I want to wait for the day the bank calls and says, “Um, Mrs. Jones, we received your mortgage payment but that loan has been satisfied by an anonymous donor.”  Yeah, I just want to be there when I see the look on their face! It doesn’t get better than that.

I have some specific plans. I am buying myself and my good friend Molly matching condos downtown. We will either be overlooking the Reedy River or Greenville Drive Stadium – or maybe both. We will never need to decide again who is going to be the designated driver when we party downtown. We will just catch the trolley home. Nirvana.

I know it’s a silly game. But sometimes it gets me through the night. I know the odds are like a billion to one, but hey, somebody’s got to win it. Why not me? Game on!

Wearing My Scars Out on My Sleeve

My 57-year-old body bears some scars. There is a large round one on the back of my left leg. My college boyfriend went through his motorcycle phase. I didn’t know much about riding motorcycles, including the fact that you should wear long pants to protect your skin from exhaust pipes that reach extreme temperatures. I can still remember how my skin actually seared to the pipe as it tore away from my left leg.

I also have a scar on the inside of my right forearm. Unfortunately, the location makes it look like an attempt at slitting my wrist. But it is actually what I call a love scar. The night before my daughter’s wedding, I offered to iron my future son-in-law’s shirt for the rehearsal dinner. A combination of excitement, exhaustion and trying to do a thousand things at once resulted in a nasty burn from the iron. As ugly as it appears, it always reminds me of my daughter’s wedding and how ironing Eric’s shirt was sort of a rite of passage. Silly, but to me it means something.

My most unfortunate scarring incident was caused by me, but left its mark on my daughter. She was about four years old and we were living in Salt Lake City. I noticed a spec of dirt in her eyebrow and unconsciously picked at it to clear her face. When she erupted into full-blown chicken pox two days later, I realized it wasn’t dirt after all. My daughter relishes telling the story whenever someone questions the still noticeable scar. It has become one of our family jokes.

My mother bore many scars on her arms and hands, some from her days working with hot solder at her electronics job. But most of them were oven burns. My mother loved to cook and bake, but somehow she never mastered the art of pulling pans in and out of the oven.

Scars are permanent and we are reminded of them each time we scan our bodies. But there are also internal scars and although we can’t see them, we shouldn’t forget how we got them, how we healed them and the lessons we learned. These scars are usually the result of a loss – a friend, a family member a lover. The injury that causes them is usually much more painful than that of a physical scar and it endures for a longer time. The most frustrating thing about internal scars is that they are so much more difficult to treat. You can’t apply aloe and a bandage and hope for the best. There is no steadfast treatment that works like a charm. You simply wade through the pain, one day at a time, waiting for it to subside.

As painful as the internal scars may be, we learn a lot about ourselves from them. Since they are inside, often on the heart, we do a lot of self-reflection as we attend to them. We grieve, we vow not to make the same mistakes in the future, we usually come out stronger on the other end. And as ugly as they may be, we become a better person because of them.

We sometimes forget about our internal scars, until a life event rattles our cage and the painful memories come flooding back. The trick to healing is to focus on the positive things you learned from the experience, rather than the pain itself.  We need those reminders to nurture our relationships, to keep them healthy and scar free. I am planning to wear mine on my sleeve as a reminder to avoid pitfalls and focus on positive energy. I just have to figure out how to do it on sleeveless shirts.

Life Becomes Art

Building a turkey sandwich is an art. First you have to pick the perfect bread for the base. It might be fresh-baked whole wheat sprinkled with grains, or it could be marble rye with seeds. I am old enough and wise enough to not settle anymore for plain white.

Condiments go on the bread next, usually mayo, but sometimes I add a little spicy mustard for some kick. Next come the layers of thinly sliced turkey carved from the roast, covered with a slice of Swiss or Vermont cheddar cheese. I gingerly add tomato slices and then gently drape a piece of crisp lettuce on top. For a special treat, a few slices of freshly fried, extra crispy bacon are the finishing touch.

When we construct a turkey sandwich, we take our time to layer every ingredient just so, and then the top slice of bread is applied nestling all the ingredients together so the flavors can blend. Ever so gently, we slide our fingers under the sandwich and slowly pull the entire creation toward our waiting lips and mouth. And just like that, the insides begin falling out – onto the plate, onto the floor, flinging themselves while splattering mayo everywhere. The whole damn sandwich falls apart right before our eyes.

Isn’t this the way of life? We plan, we maneuver, we work hard, we follow directions, we set goals and we build dreams. We take our time, carefully choosing our friends and our partners and building solid relationships. And sometimes, just like a house of cards, it crumbles. It happens to the best of us, it happens when we least expect it. It’s a wakeup call about shifting priorities, shoring up relationships and making smarter decisions.

When our turkey sandwich falls apart, we curse, we whine, we bitch and moan. And then we pick up the pieces and we start over. When your life is like a turkey sandwich, you have to have the fortitude to accept the stumbles. Learn from them, choose an alternate plan and start to rebuild. Sometimes we just want to throw the whole damn sandwich in the garbage and go hungry, but let’s face it – you know you really want that sandwich and it’s not going to make itself.

The Fountain of Youth

Baby Boomers, in general, do not enjoy aging. Though I refer to myself as a “gracefully aging Boomer”, there honestly isn’t a graceful thing about it. I hate the wrinkles and brown spots that have invaded my body. I cuss the aches and pains I feel each time I go from a sitting to a standing position. I do my best to cover the gray, and I visit my local Curves five times a week in an attempt to shed my love handles.  And it certainly doesn’t help that I have one of those tall, skinny boyfriends who doesn’t show his age.

I find myself squinting more and seeing less. I have to say, “Excuse me, can you repeat that?” more often than I like. I can no longer wear spikey heels and most of my tops hang loose as opposed to getting tucked in. I keep trying to hold back this freight train called aging, but it is picking up steam every day.

The average Boomer medicine cabinet is chock full of anti-aging products.  There are creams, lotions, and gels that profess to keep the skin smoother. There are capsules, liquids, tablets and green teas flush with anti-oxidants. Teeth whiteners, age spot removers, slenderizers, tenderizers and mending implements.  If you have seen it on an infomercial, chances are we have purchased it. It’s a billion dollar industry.

Put away your wallet, throw away the creams and get ready for some exciting news. I have learned the secret to feeling young. My honey and I discovered it quite by accident on a recent road trip. We found our fountain of youth in Bethlehem, PA, but there are hundreds of them dotted across the country.  They are easy to find, they are fun and you can get in for free. The minute you walk through the doors, you will instantly feel more youthful. They are called casinos.

You think I am kidding, but I swear the moment we walked into the Sands Casino in Bethlehem, we looked around, then looked at each other and said, “We are the youngest people in here.”  The men all appeared to be in uniform – plaid Bermuda shorts, strange colored golf shirts, white tube socks and athletic shoes with an orthopedic look to them. The women had beauty parlor hairdos, elastic-waist pants and gobs of brightly-colored, but tacky, jewelry. And lots of red lipstick. Some were in wheelchairs, while others dragged oxygen tanks behind them. I have yet to figure out how being in a room that allowed smoking was a good fit for them. They were seated at penny and nickel-slot machines, pressing buttons and pulling levers. The sad thing is, no one was smiling. They appeared almost zombie-like. Even when their slot machine rang up three cherries and erupted into the sounds of bells and clanking coins, they appeared motionless.

I am going to continue with my regimen of exercise, eating right and slathering anti-wrinkle creams on my face. I am going to continue to put up a fight against this freight train of aging. But when I get into a slump and need a boost to make me feel like I am not an old lady, I am gathering up my quarters and heading for the slot machines. Hey, we do whatever it takes.  

Taking Things for Granted

One of the benefits of living life as a turkey sandwich is that you tend to lessen the penchant for taking things for granted.  But it’s human nature to fall off the wagon, even when we are making a conscious effort.

There are many things I absolutely no longer take for granted.  Important things – like a steady paycheck and health insurance.  I wouldn’t trade my current status for life back in the daily grind, but there was some comfort in knowing that if I had an off day and chose to sit at my desk looking busy even though I was day dreaming, I still got paid for it. As a freelancer, the formula is pretty simple – you no work = you no get paid.

I try my best to appreciate everything I have in this life – family, friends, good health and a comfortable living environment.  I work at maintaining my health by eating nutritious food and exercising.  Material things are no longer the priority, and I have discovered that a simplistic lifestyle actually soothes the soul.

And yet I still catch myself at times faltering in the appreciation department. Perhaps a friend calls and I choose not to pick up the phone because I am in the middle of something.  I chain myself to the computer trying to make a few extra dollars and go an entire day without stepping outside to breathe the fresh air or feel the sun on my face.  I let a day go by without telling my soul mate I love him and that I think he is grand.

I was traveling the past two weeks.  The first half was a road trip from South Carolina to New York.  The countryside I saw on those 900 miles was exquisite.  When you see the rolling hills of the Shenandoah Valley or the green farmland of Pennsylvania, you really don’t have to think twice about whether or not there is an almighty power – it is truly God’s country.  The second half was spent in Vermont, right smack in the middle of the Green Mountains.  I did appreciate the cool temperatures at night after the sweltering heat we have had in the South.

I was alone for the 900-mile drive back to SC – a great experience that allows for lots of reflection.  I find it funny how my brain writes while I am driving long hours. I have written entire books in my head during these road trips. Now if I could find a mind-reading book publisher, I could be famous.  Along with writing the world’s greatest novel during my drive, I also gave myself the pep talk about how and why not to take things for granted, especially relationships. We must nurture them, work at them, shine them up like a fresh apple before taking a bite. If we don’t, they will wither or become stale.

The magnificence of life, love and family became apparent within hours of my return. I had a visit from Wyatt and was truly amazed at the changes in him in just two weeks. I watched him sit on the floor completely engrossed in a stacking toy – placing each piece one on top of the other, removing them, and starting all over again. And then his mom asked him, “How does the duck go?”  He looked at me, eked out a loud “Quack” and broke into a giant, proud smile.

As we hustle through our busy days with endless errands, work projects, phone calls, traffic jams, aggravations, emotions and just a plethora of junk and static – stop, even if for just a moment, and really smell those roses. Remember what life is all about. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, reshuffle those priorities. If you see everything in a different light when you reopen your eyes, savor it for a minute. And make a solemn vow to not take it for granted, because there are no guarantees it will be there tomorrow.

Customer Service - A Dying Art

I have become my mother. I find myself all too often referring to how things were “back in my day.” I guess I knew this time would come, though I swore for many years I would never be one of those people. But apparently it is a requirement of the aging process to get that way. It is part of the grand scheme of life for things we took for granted to start to lose their luster, thereby forcing us old fogeys to make comparisons.

For six weeks now, I have been “communicating” with my insurance company over hail damage to my car. I have been with the same company for many, many years and I have always been more than pleased with their service. But the ball got dropped on this one, actually, it got dropped three times. It was on my mind while driving this morning because I had a voice mail from a manager wanting to discuss the claim. 

I decided to pull into Mickey D’s for an iced tea. In the south, sweet iced tea is the equivalent to the nectar of the gods. It is one of my many vices, so I try to limit myself to one or two a week on special occasions. I was headed to my daughter’s to help her get the house ready for my grandson’s first birthday party this weekend. I knew that big, old 99 cent iced tea would taste good while cleaning house and working up a sweat. Indeed, this qualified as a special occasion.

I pulled my car flush with the ordering speaker and waited for instructions to speak. “I’ll have the 99 cent sweet tea please,” I ordered politely.

“Hdahiw wkhcowb aschowdho shbcia,” was the response I heard. I sat there stunned, not knowing if I should ask her to repeat it, say my order again, or just drive forward. It was just a tea, nothing complicated. So I decided to drive to the payment window and hope for the best. I gave the cashier my one dollar and eight cents, and inched forward to the pickup window.

A nice young man gave me a wide grin and handed me my tea. I looked at him a little confused and he said, “Do you need something else?

“A straw please,” I replied.

“Your Egg McMuffin will be right up,” he said as he handed me the straw. Now I got a really confused look on my face and he knew something was wrong. “I didn’t order an Egg McMuffin,” I said.

“What was your order?” he inquired. Now he had the confused look on his face.

“Just a tea. But I ordered the 99 cent large tea,” I explained. He took the small tea back and grabbed the correct sized tea from the counter and handed it to me. I noticed something dripping down the side of it. It looked like milk.

“Can you wipe this, there’s something dripping down the side,” I requested.

“Oh my gosh,” he said as he took it back and grabbed a napkin. “Sorry about that,” he apologized.

“No problem,” I lied. I smiled at him, told him to have a nice day and drove off.  It was not a day of good customer experiences for me so far. But hey, I am working hard on not sweating the small stuff. After all, I live my life as a turkey sandwich now. So I got the wrong tea, he exchanged it, he wiped the dripping foreign matter off the side, he smiled and told me also to have a good day. Move forward, go enjoy my grandson and the rest of my day. Besides, a good long sip of this yummy sweet tea is going to taste great.

Imagine the look on my face when my mouth filled up with unsweetened tea! Yuck!

And that’s when I started mumbling about how customer service today is not like it was “back in my day.”