50 Cent Gas

Why is it so many people don't know what they have until they've lost it? I'm not talking about the keys to the car,  or those high-priced designer bifocals just added to the collection, or those "it's on the tip of my tongue" memories.  Losing those things can be traumatic, especially when one finds oneself digging through the morning's coffee grinds and bacon grease in the trash to get to the keys AND glasses they accidentally threw away because...uh...uh...because...uh...what was the question?  I can't remember.  Something about...sounds like...it's on the tip of my tongue.  No, really it is.

HEY! THAT REMINDS ME.

Did I ever tell you about the time I had to walk two blocks to school in the rain?  Really?   I've mentioned that already?  About two dozen times?  What about how much I paid for a gallon of gas for my Volkswagen Bug?  50 Cent! Yes, I do realize that's 1976 money and not relevant today.  And what do you mean, "50 Cent is a wrapper dude!"?  Sometimes you young people don't make no cents.

WHERE WAS I?

Oh, I remember now.  Why is it that so many people don't know that they've lost it?  I'm not talking about the missing "thing-a-ma-gig" they use to measure coffee grounds--it's on the tip of my tongue--or the keys to the safety deposit box, or occasionally directions back home.  No, I'm talking about...uh...uh...what was the question?

HEY! I HAVE TO INTERRUPT YOU TO SAY SOMETHING THAT HAS NO RELEVANCE TO WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!

Did someone just say it's supposed to snow today?  Have I  ever told you about the time Peggy Nugent and I got stuck in the snow in 1962 in my dad's 1954 Ford Fairlane? Excuse me?  Eighteen times?  Really?  How about when I tried out for the cheerleading squad and didn't make it?  No?  Really?  You haven't heard that story?  Well,  I was in my freshman year, or was I a sophomore?  No, I think it was the summer between the eighth and ninth grades.  It was a Friday night in the school gymnasium.  Wait a minute.  I take that back.  It was Saturday afternoon on the football field, and...

hello?  hello?  Where did everyone go?

Why is it that so many of you people are lost and don't know it?

It's not me.  I know where I am.  Hey!  Have I ever told you about the time...

I Want My Sexy Back

Tom and I went to see the movie Les Miserables last Saturday night in Asheville, and afterward we ate Italian with our friends, Ken and Laura.  The restaurant was packed so we sat at the bar while waiting for a table.  I was sipping my water when Tom leaned over and whispered, "If I were single, and I saw you sitting here, I'd hit on you."  It took me a few seconds to absorb what I had just heard and then put it into some context that made sense.   "HEH?" I replied. My response was so loud everyone in the bar stopped and looked our way.  I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly.  (It's my hearing; not so good anymore.)  At sixty-six (two and one half years short of seventy) there ain't no way I could be considered a pick-up for a sexy rendezvous.  Not possible. Nope.  Nah. Can't be.  Doesn't compute.  He repeated it again and yes my husband did say that.  Now you're probably thinking that I was thinking his comment warranted a sweet response.  Nah.  I leaned over and said, "Do I know you?"  Then I left with the twenty-seven-year-old bartender.  Hey!  It could happen. If J-lo can do it, I don't see why I can't!

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FY-EER!

Okay. I'm lying.  I left with with Tom.  Well, he had the car keys, and the bartender didn't return my winks (I find I'm invisible to younger men) so I didn't see I had many options.

The truth is I'm not sure I want my sexy back.  It did nothing but get me in trouble when I was single and hanging out at bars.  Well, I didn't Hang Out at bars,  but I did frequent them on occasion.  That is what young people did before Internet dating became an option for finding love.  I tried finding my Prince Charming in places other than bars:  car repair shops, Harley motorcycle clubs, Jiffy Lubes, Wal-Mart's gun and hunting department, Ace Hardware, construction sites, cigar shops, but to no avail.

I was looking for candlelight dinners, eye contact, hand holding, tender touches, sweet nothings whispered in my ear, walks along a sandy beach, long intimate talks, promises made.  That is what I wanted when I sat down on those barstools all those many years ago.  I was looking for love, but my sexy back betrayed my intentions and cried out,  "MY CLOCK IS RUNNING OUT, GUYS! I'M DESPERATE!"

Then one cold January day in 1980 it hit me:  Tractor Supply.  Why hadn't I thought of farmers before?  They like sexy backs, too. So I slipped into my cowgirl boots, Carhartt overalls and camouflage baseball cap and hurried down to a 160-acre farm on Morgantown Road in Greenwood.  And there he was.  My husband-to-be.  The father of my future child.  My happy-ever-after.

Oops!  It appears my pants are smokin'.  Nope, they're definitely on fy-eer.  I hate it when that happens.

Mood Swinger

I'm grumpy.  Snippy.  Testy.  Prickly.  Not happy. Walking mad woman.

I only mention my state of mood because I'm thinking that you're thinking I'm an excellent example on how to live your life:  one who is always happy, who loves unconditionally, is eager to please, a friend to everyone, never judges, complains or holds a grudge, and doesn't sweat the small stuff. I'm thinking you're also thinking I'm loving and affectionate, too.  From what you've read about me in my blog, I think you think I'm someone to emulate, to strive to be more like.  While you're desperately treading just to keep your head above the sludge of life, you see my happy, stress-free existence as an inspiration, a goal to attain. You do think that, don't you?

Hello?  Hello?  Is anyone there?

It's true.  I'm a mood swinger. There!  I said it! I'm not the perfect person you thought I was.  But I've noticed lately that you're not "all that and a box of Cracker Jacks" yourself.  We are in this together, honey.  You and me.  Just like Oprah, we need to claw our way out of the sewer, crawl with bleeding fingers up to the high road, forsake our old self-destructive ways, strive to reach our personal best, hire excellent publicists, and then set up a secret bank account in Switzerland.  Are you with me on this?

Hello?  Hello?

There you go.  One vulnerable moment, a weakness revealed, and you're off to another blog, seeking inspiration and guidance elsewhere. But that's okay because I've found my own personal life coach.  For ten years she's been right under my nose, leading by example.  She is perfect in every way, and I'm going to follow her example on how to live life, except I'm not going to lick my butt.  I can't reach it.

Maggie want a treat?

The 25% Rule

My ears hurt.  My lips and tongue have gone to sleep from inactivity.  My eyes are half closed but you don't notice.  You've forgotten the 25% rule:  four people in a group, each person gets to contribute to the conversation 25% of the time.  With you, with me, it would be the 50% rule.  You get half, I get half. You talk, I talk, you talk, I talk.  Not you talk, you talk, you talk, you talk.  Get it?  I hope so.  There'll be a manners and math test later.

It's Good to be Bad

It's good to be bad.  It's cool. It's camp. It's just a silly little phase we're going through.  We, an intelligent, thoughtful, and mature society, will eventually get sick from our over-indulgent, insatiable appetite for mean and rude and gross and despicable "lowest-common-denominator" behavior and say, "ENOUGH! WE'RE MAD AND WE'RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE!"  We will individually and collectively climb up on top our soap boxes and demand change.  Our children (our future) will see us take a stand for good form, decency and civility and learn that bad really isn't good after all.

IT'S ABOUT THE MONEY, STUPID!

Oh, okay then...never mind.