Tag Archives: musings

Here’s to Jeanie…

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“Got a problem with earwax? I was about your age, I figure, when I started having problems with earwax.”

Those were the first words out of the mouth of an elderly gentleman when he approached me in the Diabetic Needs, Ear Care & Bladder Control aisle on one of my recent trips to Target. Not wanting to be rude, but also not entirely sure I’d heard him correctly, I turned my head and simply said, “Excuse me?”

Seeming to have fully confirmed his suspicion that my ears were indeed chock full of wax, he took a few steps closer to me, got up on his tiptoes (still not sure why he did that since he was already about a foot taller than I am), cupped his hands around his mouth like he was getting ready to cheer on a batter at home plate, and loudly stated, “YOU MUST BE HAVING A PROBLEM WITH EARWAX! I WAS ABOUT YOUR AGE WHEN THAT SAME DARN THING WITH EARWAX STARTED HAPPENING TO ME. IT’S A ROUGH THING, THAT EARWAX!”

Now, I ask you…how is one supposed to respond to a declaration like that? My first instinct was to simply request that he please, for the love of God, stop saying the word earwax. My second, which is the route I ended up choosing, was to explain that no, it was not a relief to earwax I was seeking, but earplugs. Appearing openly disappointed that I wasn’t being plagued by serious earwax issues, he inquired further, “You tryin’ to avoid swimmer’s ear or is someone snorin’?”

This man, as it turned out, asked a lot of personal questions.

A few seconds into my explanation of why I was looking to buy earplugs (I still can’t tell you just exactly why I felt compelled to explain my purchase to him) I became aware of a woman’s voice, bordering on a shriek, calling, “Clark! Clark? Clark!? Where in the Hell are you this time? CLARK!” Having no idea that the man in front of me was, in fact, the Clark that the voice was so desperately seeking, I assumed it was a disgruntled parent looking for a child and continued with my explanation.

It was at that very moment that a red and sliver scooter came screeching to a halt at the end of the aisle. The woman driving the scooter had a bright red, shiny face that indicated her anger even before she spoke. Pointing directly at my new friend, she bellowed, “YOU!” and backed the scooter up until she disappeared almost completely out of sight…beep…beep…beep. Then, just like in a scene from a movie, she came cruising around the corner at full speed (at least a good 5 mph) and headed straight for Clark. When she’d driven the 6 or 7 feet and arrived at her destination, she came to a dead stop, shot an angry look my way, zeroed back in on Clark, and not so daintily exclaimed, “Well, Hell!” In response, Clark, who appeared completely unaffected by the scene, simply shrugged his shoulders and stated, “Sorry Jeanie, I just got sidetracked.”

Seeming determined to make an awkward scene just that much more uncomfortable, Jeanie switched gears (not literally, thank God, as the front wheel of the scooter was dangerously close to my newly painted toes) and turned her wrath on me. She looked me up and down, clenched the handles of the scooter just a bit more tightly (if it had been a motorcycle she was sitting on this would have been the equivalent of revving the engine I should think), spun her head back around to Clark and commanded, “When you’re done flirting with Little Miss Bedroom Eyes here, maybe you could come help me find my creams!” And with that, she was off.

The last image I had of Jeanie was of her zipping away on her scooter. I’m 100% sure that if that woman could have gotten up the speed to pull off a pop-a-wheelie on that thing as she shot away from us, she most certainly would have. As I watched her go, I found myself staring directly into the eyes of two kittens playing with an oversized ball of pink yarn, their images outlined in silver sequins on the back of Jeanie’s shirt. Anyone familiar with my history with cats knows that this was a very clear sign that things did not bode well for me. Not well at all.

As it turned out, I was right. The very first words out of Clark’s mouth after Jeanie rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight were, “Hey, don’t worry about her, she’s just grouchy these days because her hemorrhoids keep acting up in this heat.”

Too much information, Clark. Too. Much. Information.

For the second time that day I found myself stunned to silence, and though I searched desperately, I just wasn’t able to come up with a single response that seemed even remotely suitable for the occasion. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be able to pull off a really heartfelt, “Oh, that’s a real bummer.” And, while I thought trying to relate to her situation might be the polite thing to do, somehow saying, “Been there, done that,” just didn’t seem all that soothing either. Instead, I bit the inside of my cheeks (whether it was to keep from laughing or dry heaving I still can’t be sure) and turned my full attention to a pair of Dr. Scholl’s socks that claimed to be the best product in existence for the circulatory health of anyone suffering from diabetes. The silence that hung in the air was interrupted only by the sound of Jeanie’s motor as she zoomed down another aisle.

Since all good things must come to an end, it was at that point that Clark simply gave me one last sideways glance, shrugged his shoulders again, and wandered off in pursuit of Jeanie’s creams. At least that’s where he should have been headed if he knew what was good for him.

As I tried to turn my attention back to the very elegant selection of earplugs after watching Clark wander away, I noticed for the first time a mother and her young daughter standing in front of the display of sugar free candies. The little girl was watching me pretty intently, so I assumed they must have witnessed the classy little scenario that had just played itself out. Trying to make light of the situation, I was just about to cross my fingers, hold them up in the air and whisper, “Good luck, Clark!” but before I could, the little girl turned away from me, looked up at her mother, and asked, “What are bedroom eyes anyway?” As you might imagine, the mom was not happy. Fiercely grabbing her daughter’s hand, she shot a stern look of disapproval in my direction and stormed off.

So, there I was. Alone. Thoroughly confused. And as luck would have it, surrounded by a massive and downright disturbing display of incontinence products all vowing to look, fit and feel like real underwear. It may just have been one of the most pathetic moments of my life. So many things had gone wrong in the last two minutes that I didn’t know where to begin counting. I’d disappointed Clark by not having a real problem with earwax, I’d angered Jeanie just by looking at her, and I’d made a mother upset by putting her in the position of having to explain what bedroom eyes are to her child. The fact that I’d committed all of these wrongs unintentionally didn’t seem to help.

Later in the afternoon, while scarfing down the last of the sugar free chocolate candy I’d purchased in my moment of despair, I was still thinking about the strange turn of events that had taken place on my otherwise routine trip to Target. However, it wasn’t just my unsettling interaction with Clark and Jeanie that I was pondering. No.That would be somewhat understandable. Instead, what I found myself contemplating was the fact that in my 42 years on this planet, I’d been called Bedroom Eyes exactly twice in my life.

And both times by elderly women.

I know…there I go bragging again. But honestly, how many people can actually make that claim?

The first time was on Christmas Day when I was 16 and was reintroduced to my best friend’s grandmother. I remember her hearing my name, rolling herself across the kitchen floor in her wheelchair, and taking a good long look at me before saying, “Ooooh yes, I remember you. You’re the one with those bedroom eyes!” At the time I had absolutely no idea what that meant, but the look on my mother’s face was priceless when I went home and asked her what it meant if someone had bedroom eyes. Better yet, I especially remember her expression when, after asking me why I wanted to know, I told her it was because Heather’s grandmother told me I had a pair.

That was a long time ago, and in my quest to get this story written down, I took the liberty to Google the exact definition of the term Bedroom Eyes.

Ginormous mistake.

While most of the descriptions I found were far too scandalous for my little PG rated blog, I did find one or two that I could use. According to my research, and I quote, “Bedroom eyes refer to a heavy-lidded or half-shut eye, reminiscent of a hazy, dreamy look shared during intimate moments. Bedroom eyes is a term often used to describe how a person looks at another when filled with longing and anticipation of…”

Okay, that’s just about enough.

You simply can’t imagine how wretched it makes me feel to think that Jeanie took one look at me and decided that I’d clearly set my sights on Clark. In my defense, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it was a little hard to resist all that talk about earwax and hemorrhoids, but I swear I was doing my best to keep things platonic. And maybe, just maybe, if the setting hadn’t been so darn romantic with all the adult diaper packages boldly displaying happy couples who were secretly wearing belted undergarments and plastic underpants, I would’ve been a little less likely to turn on the charm right then and there. I mean, come on, there’s only so much talk about leakage barriers a girl can take before she’s forced to act on her impulses and start throwing sultry looks around the geriatrics aisle of the local department store.

Considering the circumstances, I think I did one heck of a job keeping my behavior in check.

Truth be told, the “heavy-lidded or half-shut eye, reminiscent of a hazy, dreamy look shared during intimate moments” that Jeanie saw in my eyes was actually the result of not having had a good night’s sleep in months. I was heavy-lidded alright, but not because Clark got my hormones raging. The fact of the matter was, Clark was right, there was someone at my house who snored and the earplugs I was so desperate to buy were my attempt to solve the problem. And as far as displaying any “looks filled with longing and anticipation”? I can assure you that those looks were directed at the earplugs themselves. After all, they were, perhaps, my ticket to finally being able to get some much needed shuteye. But hey, if someone wants to confuse my overtired, worn out look of exhaustion and fatigue with a look of passion, desire and seduction, then so be it. Who am I to argue?

Anyway, here’s to Jeanie…..I sure hope she was able to “find some relief” in that heat.

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Timing is Everything

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Timing. It’s a funny thing when you think about it.

I don’t mean funny as in LOL or funny as in hardy har har. I mean funny as in bizarre. Strange. Extremely unfortunate.  Good timing is often given credit for helping people begin new relationships or careers; two of the most important contributing factors to a person’s happiness and well being. On the other hand, bad timing is often blamed for the demise of those very same things. We’ve all heard people say, “He/she would have been just perfect for me, but the timing was all wrong,” or “If the timing had been right, that job could have been mine.” And let’s not forget split second timing…the kind that wins or loses races for athletes. The same kind of timing, I swear, that makes the difference between really great tasting microwave popcorn or the charred remnants that make you think you’ve accidentally fed yourself ashes straight from a fire pit.

And then, my friends, there’s the kind of timing that simply can’t be described in words. It’s the kind that allows a UPS delivery man the opportunity to overhear an innocent, but nonetheless disastrous comment you’ve made through your open bathroom window on a rainy summer morning.

Oh yes, timing is everything.

Please…allow me to set the scene. This morning was a typical one at the Field house. Morning exercise rituals had been carried out, breakfasts had been eaten, and dishes had been cleaned and put away. My son and I were looking forward to a day filled with school supply shopping and lunch at a favorite eating spot. Having already showered and dressed, I was anxious to get a move on. Setting a fresh towel on the window sill for him to use when he was done, I asked him to please come into the bathroom to take a shower so we could get going. As he walked down the hallway he popped his head in and gave me the same response to that request that he’d already given me several times this morning, “Okay Mom, just give me a sec!”

It’s only a slight exaggeration to say that he’s responded to me with that same statement about 3,948,509 times this summer. And you know what? I wasn’t in the mood to wait today. I just wasn’t. So, summoning my most authoritative tone, I loudly complained, “All I’ve been doing all morning long is giving you extra secs and I’m tired of it, now come in here and take a shower!” Even though my hands were still gesturing wildly from the dramatic air quotes I’d put around the word secs, the impact of what I’d said still managed to fully embrace me. I heard the unintended inappropriateness of it the second I said it. And so, surely, did the young man in the brown UPS uniform, who at that very moment in time, had the misfortune to be dropping off my new jeans on the back steps. The back steps that were only about 4 feet from the open bathroom window. The very same open bathroom window out of which I had actually just bellowed the words, “All I’ve been doing all morning long is giving you extra secs.”

Sweet Mother of God…what had I done?

Wanting to, as quickly as possible, right the very tragic wrong that was unfolding, I frantically pulled up the screen so I could stick my head out the window and show my face. I wanted the young man to see me while I politely and casually explained that all was not as it seemed…or rather, all was not as it sounded. My intent was to provide a calm and reasonable explanation of what he had just overheard. Unfortunately, any amount of intended serenity for that moment went out the window (if you will) when, by the time I pulled myself together to speak, I realized he was already down the steps and halfway across the walkway leading to our driveway. For some strange reason he appeared to be in a real hurry to get out of there. Frazzled and panicked, I stuck my head as far out that window as possible, and in the same frenzied voice that a parent trying to keep a child from running out into traffic would use, I screeched, “Just to clarify, I’m actually talking to my son in here!”

Yes. Well done. That made things all kinds of better.

For the second time in 20 seconds I realized the catastrophic implications of what I’d said and the downright failure of my use of language. As I dangled there awkwardly, I struggled to maintain my dignity as much as I struggled to maintain the balance of my full weight on my hips as they rested on the window sill. That unfortunate image, I’m afraid, is the last thing that poor driver saw as he halfheartedly waved over his shoulder, tossed me only the briefest of backward glances, and went into full scamper mode before disappearing around the side of my house.

What was I to do? After a quick scan to the left and right to make sure none of my neighbors were anywhere around, and in as refined a fashion as was humanly possible given the position I was in (imagine the elegance and grace an elephant might exhibit while making its way around a ropes course), I finagled the upper half of my body back inside the bathroom and slid the screen window back into place. Trying to figure out what my next move should be, I turned to face my inquisitive son who, as it turned out, was still standing in the bathroom door looking thoroughly confused. 2829310-630x383Torn between whether I wanted to run out the front door to see if I could catch the UPS driver (who at that point was very likely burning rubber to get out of my neighborhood) or respond to my son when he asked, “What just happened here?” I decided to answer his question. Knowing that the specific set of circumstances I found myself in at that moment didn’t exactly lend themselves to introducing the topic of the birds and the bees in the gentlest of ways, I decided to go the completely irrational route. Hands on hips, chin lifted in the air to appear somewhat virtuous, I responded, “He obviously thought I was going to the bathroom in here, and I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t.” With a somewhat incredulous stare, he said, “Mom, that doesn’t even make sense!” Becoming increasingly panicked and desperate, I furthered my explanation by making even less sense. ”Wouldn’t you be embarrassed if you thought the UPS man heard you peeing when it’s just about to rain?”

What?

And with that I stormed out of the bathroom and down the hall, but not before I looked over my shoulder and said accusingly, “None of this would have happened in the first place if you’d just taken a shower when I asked you to!”

There. I showed him. So much for remaining calm and reasonable.

So here it is, only a few short hours later, and as I sit here on the couch half expecting the authorities to show up at any moment, I can’t help but think about timing. It really is a funny thing when you think about it. In fact, any other Wednesday I might end a post by stating that I hope everyone enjoyed a happy hump day…but somehow, on this particular Wednesday…the timing just doesn’t seem right.

Some Things Are Just Better Left Uncounted

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About seven years ago, when my son was two, he was learning to count. Like most kids that age, he counted everything in sight. Oranges in the fruit basket on the kitchen table, blocks in the middle of the floor, dancing animals in the pages of books…you get the idea.

Since I’m a teacher and it was close to the end of summer, we set out on a trip to the store for school supplies one day in late August. Things went smoothly until we arrived in the checkout line and encountered the cashier. A very well endowed cashier. A very well endowed cashier who was, and I’m not even kidding, wearing a necklace that boldly displayed the words Everything’s Bigger in Texas!

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If I’m being honest, the only time I’d ever seen a woman more…blessed was when I was about nine and I accidentally glanced at a calendar (I can only assume it was supposed to be hidden) hanging not so discretely behind the counter at a gas station; it’s an image that haunts me to this very day. And speaking of being scarred for life, I’ll never forget how the bottom of the cashier’s necklace fell, not so daintily, between her two…well, you know. Underneath her blue uniform vest, she was wearing a tight white V-neck t-shirt that covered a hot pink bra outlined in black leather the likes of which I’d never seen. It was an outfit that would have fit right in on the album cover of an 80s rock band.

Except for the fact that this woman was easily in her late sixties.

I’ll give you a minute.

Despite the blood gushing down the back of my throat because I was biting the inside of my cheeks to keep from roaring at the ridiculousness of the situation, I politely and casually piled my items on the conveyer belt of the checkout. Halfway through my attempt to empty my cart, to my surprise, I noticed that my son was doing some checking out of his own. I desperately hoped it was the necklace hanging from the woman’s neck that had him so enthralled. Either way, I was too busy to worry about it as there was a long line forming behind me.

Before I knew it, I’d placed the last of my purchases on the counter and was ready to cash out. The process went smoothly, but my concern deepened as I noticed my son’s continued interest in this woman’s bosom. The next thing I knew, eyebrows raised in curiosity, he held up a pudgy finger, pointed right at her (eyes still glued to her chest) and asked, “Wus dat?” Frantic to get his hand out of the air so that nobody, especially our cover girl, would notice what he was pointing at, I grabbed his little arm, kissed him, and told him he was silly.

I blame myself for what happened next.

Apparently feeling helpless after two more attempts at asking, “Wus dat?” and not receiving an answer, my precious son leaned forward, poked that same pudgy finger into each of the woman’s ample breasts, and proudly exclaimed, “One! Two!”

I honestly don’t remember much about what happened after that,  but I do recall the gentleman standing behind us keeling over and wheezing for what seemed like a full sixty seconds before he was able to catch his breath. His bellowing laughter echoed from the walls of that super mart, only adding to my mortification. He laughed so uncontrollably that he ended up excusing himself and standing in another line where his laughter continued until we left the store. The young couple that was standing behind him took pity on me and smiled a bit before the young man whispered, “He only said what we were all thinking.”

The cashier herself never blinked an eye. In fact, it wasn’t until recently that I  discovered that she’d ever even been aware of what happened. All these years I’ve secretly wondered if it was really possible that she never felt the pokes…and believe me, there’s a question I never thought I’d find myself pondering. I mean, was it really possible that having her breasts counted in public was a daily occurrence, and therefore, when my son used them as an abacus it went unnoticed?

Either way, I remember not being able to decide if I should apologize to her or ignore what had happened as she seemed to be doing. After all, the question What should you do when your child counts the breasts on a large chested woman in public? wasn’t one that was answered in any of the books I’d read while preparing for motherhood. In the end, not wanting to make the matter any worse, I scurried away like a frightened rabbit as my son smiled and waved happily at the nice young couple behind us.

Over the years, though sometimes it’s been a bit of a trial, I’ve avoided going back to that particular cashier’s line during my return trips to her store. Even if it would have taken me less time to go to the 20 Items or Less aisle, I’ve waited a good 15 minutes behind someone with 58,876 items and 8 screaming kids to buy my 2 or 3 items in order to avoid facing her.

To be clear, it’s not that I’m embarrassed about what my son did, though it’s certainly not one of my proudest moments as a parent. It’s the fact that I didn’t apologize to her. I should have. I realize now that the fact that she didn’t acknowledge the incident probably had something to do with self preservation and that makes me feel awful. Also, in her defense, her fashion choices have become much more subdued over the years and even though it doesn’t show up very often, I’ve even seen her wearing the necklace a few times and it always makes me smile.

To make a long story even longer…yesterday afternoon I had a few errands to run and I was in a huge rush. Going through her line was going to save me a lot of time. I mean, for crying out loud, it had been almost seven years. It couldn’t possibly be an experience that she remembered, right?

Wrong.

With my head held high, I made my way to her line with my contact solution and York’s Peppermint Patty. I looked her in the eye, smiled, and thanked her after she asked me if I wanted the chocolate left out. After taking my bag, I turned and began walking away with victory bells ringing in my head.

And that’s when I heard her ask, “That boy of yours still countin’ to beat the band?”

Horror of all horrors.

I’m 100% sure that the blush that swept across my face left me looking like one gigantic, freckled, overripe raspberry. For a moment I was speechless, but then I managed to respond, “Yikes, you remember that do you?”

She smiled, chuckled, and said, “Oh yes, it’s one of my favorite stories. My grandchildren think it’s a riot!” And then, because she had more people to attend to, she grinned and said, “Don’t be a stranger.”

I’m not proud of it, but my first instinct was to say, “Oh, you can count on it,” but realizing it was probably too soon, and then remembering that I’m a 42 year old woman who should occasionally act my age not my shoe size when I’m in public, I simply returned her grin and waved my goodbye.

After all, some things are just better left unsaid uncounted. Well, both really.

 

If Crafting is Right, I’m Always Going to be Wrong

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I once saw a bumper sticker that proudly proclaimed If Crafting is Wrong, I Don’t Want to be Right! Let’s just say…it made me chuckle.

Crafting is not one of my gifts, but as the director of the annual school play for the last 15 years at the middle school where I teach, I often find myself needing to go to craft stores. I assure you that these places are no less foreign to me now than they were when I first starting visiting them over a decade and a half ago. You see…I have very little patience or stamina when it comes to having to cut, fold, glue, paint, sprinkle, peel, bunch, trace, measure, wrap, or God forbid…sew. If I’m being honest, I’m also not a huge fan of cooking since it involves many of the same skills, but that’s not technically a craft. Or is it? Honestly, I have no idea.

Either way, that fact, combined with my general lack of awareness 99.9% of the time, has more than once proven to be a recipe for disaster. At one particular craft store, try as I might, I simply cannot win over one of the clerks who, God bless her soul, has had to put up with me and my ridiculous (albeit unintentional) antics for years. This woman senses my fear. She makes me sweat. My knees have actually buckled in her presence on occasion, and I’m not going to lie, there have even been times that I’ve felt light headed around her. There’s no doubt in my mind that if she knew my name, she would greet me as Seinfeld always greeted Newman. “Hello, Karyn.”

It might have been the time I claimed to have desperately searched every single inch of the store for cow print fabric before having to resort to bothering her, only to find that as I was asking her for help, I was, quite literally, standing in front of a giant display of cow print fabric large enough to be seen from space. Her response was a very dramatic roll of her eyes, a sharp point in the direction of the fabric which truly was only inches from my face, and a frustrated blurt… “If it was a dog, it woulda bit ya!” Though I thought about it, I decided it best not point out that if she were the kind of person who could see the glass as half full, then she just might have given me credit for at least being in the right aisle.

Of course, it might also have been the time that I accidentally bought 20 yards of fabric when I only needed 2 and then tried to return it the next day. (Incidentally, if anyone ever needs 18 yards of fabric with the world’s strangest neon pink and green turtles floating every which way, I can totally hook you up.)

Finally, it could have been the time she caught me looking perplexed at a rack of Lindt chocolate rabbits that looked exactly like dinosaurs from just the right angle, and asked me if I was okay, only to be baffled by hearing me say, “Yes, but I could have sworn those rabbits were dinosaurs just two seconds ago.” images

Yup. Any or all of those experiences could have turned her against me, but in the end, one thing is clear…the woman thinks I’m a lunatic, and frankly, I don’t blame her.

There’s only been one occasion when I’ve had a visit to the store go somewhat smoothly, and when all was said and done, even that didn’t end well. I’d found myself in the position of having to make a quick trip into the store, and for some reason that night I just felt confident. I could feel it in my bones that things were going to go my way. I walked in and went straight to the aisle where the mini wooden clothespins appeared to be waiting just for me to purchase them. Feeling slightly giddy from that accomplishment, I set my sights on the checkout line so I could make a quick escape. That’s when I heard the melodious voice of my nemesis, who perhaps not shockingly, appeared to be in the middle of a heated discussion as she explained to another customer the precise reasons why the navy blue fleece was 50% off but the light blue fleece was, in fact, full price. I waited patiently, feeling only slightly guilty that I was comforted by the fact that perhaps it’s not just me who is so often the victim of this woman’s scorn.

While the battle with the irrationally angry customer drew to a close, I prepared myself to approach the register. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that The Soup Nazi episode of Seinfeld wasn’t far from my thoughts. When it was my turn, I stepped up to the counter, bade my most sincere hello, made a little joke about the fact that I found what I needed all by myself which actually made her chuckle, and then began the process of paying. As has so often happened in the past because of the terror she instills in me, not once did she need to wait for me to find my debit card. Not once did she need to bark a reminder to enter my pin number. And not once did I drop all the change out of the open zipper of my wallet causing her to huff and puff at me in disgust while I scurried around on the floor collecting my coins like a dog chasing its tail. I don’t want to brag, but I was on fire. My newfound confidence paid off and the transaction was flawless.

Before I put away the pack of gum that I’d also purchased, I asked her if she wanted a piece and was gifted with yet another smile. Oh yes, I could taste the triumph. As I walked to the door feeling like a goddess of victory, mentally congratulating myself for having finally won the woman over, I heard her commanding voice bellow, “Hey Darlin!” This, I was convinced, was the moment I’d been waiting for my whole life. I was absolutely sure she was going to say something like, “Welcome back,” or “It was great to see you!” as this was the way it had played out so many times in my dreams. Instead, when I turned around and said, “Yes?” I instantly panicked because I noticed she’d put her game face back on. She squinted her beady eyes at me and declared, “You were a whole lot better lookin’ when you had some meat on your bones.”

WHAT?

Having recently lost a significant amount of weight, I could only figure that it was her way of complimenting me, and deciding to choose my battles, I simply smiled, nodded my head, and said, “Noted,” before I disappeared through the door and out into the parking lot.

That was around Halloween, and though my next encounter with her wasn’t in her store, it was still memorable. The next time I saw her I was doing some grocery shopping for a Christmas party that I was hosting when I spotted her in the frozen foods aisle.

I’ll say it again. It was Christmas time. I came across her in the frozen food section of the grocery store.

The similarities to “Same Old Lang Syne” by Dan Fogleberg, one of my all time favorite songs, were almost more than I could bear. As I continued my shopping I found myself rewriting the lyrics of the song in my head…

“Met my craft store nemesis in the grocery store

Though it wasn’t quite Christmas Eve

I first noticed her in the frozen foods

But I dared not touch her on the sleeve

She didn’t recognize the face at first

But then her eyes flew open wide

She didn’t hug me and I prayed she wouldn’t curse”

Before I could go any further with my remake, a curious thing happened. I saw her standing in the checkout line right next to me (as the song goes). You can’t imagine my horror when she spotted me, and after a great deal of effort, stood up on her tip toes to look over the barrier between the two aisles. Looking like a bobblehead hovering over a row of Mentos and TicTacs, she asked if I was the one who’d posted something about her on ‘that Facebook.’ Before I could answer, her head disappeared, I heard a minor crash, and then she came puffing around the corner rubbing her knee. Once she was standing directly in front of me she explained (between breaths) that in the past couple of months she’d had two different people try to take her picture with their telephones. Though I desperately wanted to ask her if they were rotary or hand cranked telephones, I kept my wits together, and because I had, in fact, posted about my encounters with her on Facebook, I began apologizing profusely. Just when I thought she might start talking lawsuits she said, “Why are you apologizing? I got a huge kick out of it, but I’ll tell you this…nobody’s gettin’ my pick-cha!” I’ve never been so relieved in all my life. The best part of the whole experience was that right before she left the store, she turned around, winked at me, and said, “Merry Christmas Darlin’!”

It was truly a Christmas miracle.

It’s been over a year since that night, and I’m proud to say that I’ve not only kept “the meat off my bones”, but up until recently, I’ve kept a low profile in her store. My visits have pretty much been incident free.

However, as we all know, all good things must come to an end, and my spree of good luck came to an abrupt halt a few weeks ago when I walked into her store to purchase some zebra print fabric. I went immediately to the fleece fabric by mistake, but then, ever so cautiously, made my way to the regular fabric section. By the time I found myself standing in front of the black and white prints, I was feeling a real sense of accomplishment for 1. having been greeted by my tormentor who, smiling brightly, said, “Must be play time!” as she passed me in one of the aisles, and 2. finding my way to the zebra print fabric without needing to be directed…I found it all on my own. All that was left to do was to take it to the cutting area, ask for the 2 yards that I needed, and then get the heck out of Dodge.

As luck would have it, she was there, working the cutting desk by the time I arrived. As I waited in line, I held the fabric in my hands and mentally rehearsed what I would say (no, I’m not kidding). I would ask for my 2 yards, but since she appeared to be especially chipper, I thought I might begin by joking about not being able to decide if I needed 2 yards or 20. All that changed, however, when I noticed that the line was getting longer behind me and she was all business again. Instead of joking around, I placed my fabric down in front of her and politely asked for 2 yards. That’s when she did something rather unexpected. She asked me how the play was coming along and then followed up by asking what the title of the show was. I told her the title was “Night of the Living Beauty Pageant” about a couple of hucksters trying to make money quickly. I added that the zebra print fabric I was buying was for one of the contestants named Miss Wildlife.

That, my friends, is when the fairy tale came to an end.

After a look of sheer confusion swept across her face, she looked down at the fabric, looked back to me, and then looked back at the fabric several times in succession. It was now my turn to ask her if she was okay. Her response? “Well Darlin’, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that you and I have different ideas about what a zebra is.”

Much to my despair, I looked down and realized that I was holding the wrong fabric.

Yes. I’d found the fabric I desired without needing 7 people to help lead me in the right direction. Yes. I’d remembered to take the fabric to have it 1972448_10201754112081248_137055863_ncut in the cutting area and had not just taken the whole darn roll up to the register as I’d done countless times in the past. But, no. I had not grabbed the right fabric. (In my defense, isn’t a giraffe yellow and brown? ISN’T IT?)

There aren’t enough words in the English Language to describe the horror of that moment, but, being a seasoned scene maker in that store, I forced myself to remain calm. I could feel my face burning up. I could feel my palms beginning to sweat. But somehow, by the grace of God, my mouth, which had gone completely dry, managed to form the words, “Dear God, it looks like I grabbed the wrong roll of fabric.”

That’s when things really fell apart.

She looked deep into my eyes, not a smile or even a semblance of a smirk to be found, and bellowed, “Bolt!”

I felt the first tingles of panic begin to run down my spine. Fearing I might pee my pants, I crossed my legs and then raised my hand, held three fingers in the air (Girl Scout style) and solemnly swore to her that I would leave as quickly as humanly possible the second I went back to the shelf and got the roll of fabric that I really needed.

Having only become more irritated by my plea, which very clearly had fallen on deaf ears, she leaned close enough to me so that I could feel her breath, and eyes bulging, responded as she had just moments before. “Bolt!”

I stood in disbelief while I pondered the fact that after all my years of crafting debacles, this…THIS is what had finally pushed her over the edge.

I was being kicked out of the store.

Unable to mask my humiliation, I scanned the line that was now at least 10 people deep, and asked, “You seriously want me to leave the store?”

That did it. She rolled her eyes, picked up her walkie-talkie, radioed the front counter for help, looked right at me, and veins popping, hollered, “It’s a BOLT of fabric, not a ROLL of fabric!” Turning her attention to the lady in line behind me, who herself was making no attempt to suppress her chuckles, she pointed at me and proclaimed, “This one’s gonna do me in one day, I’m tellin’ ya! She’s gonna be the death of me one a these days!”

I have a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English. I have a Master’s Degree in Middle Level Education. I’ve spent the last 20 years of my life teaching English to eighth graders. Much of that time is spent working on vocabulary. When we do our vocabulary work in class, we often discuss how words can, and often do, have more than one meaning. And yet…none of that seemed to come into play as I stood there motionless, having just convinced myself that she was having me removed from the store once and for all by telling me to bolt.

The relief that I felt when she rounded the corner of the counter on her way to personally escort me back to the zebra print fabric was rivaled only by the relief I felt by making the realization that she had not been calling security on her walkie-talkie to have me removed from the premises.

Did I get my zebra print fabric? You bet. Did I have to go to the end of the line and wait another 20 minutes to get it cut? Sure I did. Did I make another trip back into that store during the next two weeks before the show went up? Not on your life. Even if it meant I’d have to personally cut, fold, glue, paint, trace, measure, sprinkle, bunch, peel, wrap and/or weave zebra print fabric out of straw at a spinning wheel after meeting deep in the woods with Rumplestiltskin himself…I would not go back anytime soon.

If Crafting is Right, I’m Always Going to be Wrong. ALWAYS. How’s that for a bumper sticker?