Simply Whimsy

"I know this is going to sound weird," he said, "but I think we were lovers in our past lives." I was standing in Bruce Maximus' office holding a folder with nine short stories and three illustrations that I was hoping he would accept for his Simply Whimsy column in his newspaper, The Mountain Gap Gazette. The column ran once a month, and every year he would invite writers to present him with twelve of their best efforts to make people smile, and from these he would select one to run for the following year. After years of building the courage to stand in front of this man to show him my spin on imaginative writing and illustrations, I was finally there, but the reception was not what I had expected.

"There's something about you. I can't put my finger on it," Bruce Maximus said. "When you, a complete stranger, walked through that door moments ago, the first thing that came to my mind was to hug and kiss you and run away with you." Before I had a chance to respond to his startling revelation about our past romantic connection, he continued on. "Did you see that movie with Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour: Somewhere in Time? Well, at this moment I feel like a love-struck Christopher Reeve." 

We were standing facing each other in the middle of his office, Bruce and I, chin to nose--my chin to his nose. I'm short but he is shorter. Not that there is anything wrong with that. It's just that I have always preferred that my lovers to be taller than me with big muscles, Roman noses, lots of unruly hair and barbed-wire tattoos on their forearms. I know; I know...love comes in all sizes and shapes, so I shouldn't be so picky. But love is not what brought me to the office of the publisher and editor-in-chief of The Mountain Gap Gazette on this particular day.

"I was hoping, Mr. Maximus, that you would like my best efforts to make people smile enough to pick me this year," I said. Just an arm's length away from me, he stood completely still, except that he was breathing heavily and panting, so I guess he was not standing completely still, after all. The expression on his face could best be described as "desperately yearning." I wanted to tell him that I was forty years his senior; I wanted to tell him I was married; I wanted to tell him that he was wrong about us in our past lives--he surely had me confused with someone else--because I would never have sex with a short man. But I kept my mouth shut--did I mention that I wanted him to pick my best efforts to make people smile?--and I just listened to love-struck Christopher Reeve...I mean Bruce Maximus.

As if Bruce Maximus knew what I was thinking, he said, "I don't care about the age difference. Love has no boundaries." I guess if love has no boundaries, then that would mean tearing up a silly little piece of paper that legally binds two people together, like, for example, my husband, Tom, and me. "After all this time, fate has brought us together again," he said. "Now that I have found you, I never want to let you go."  I thought about Tom and how much I loved him and the life we had together. I thought about my dog, Maggie Mae, and how I would miss spooning with her every night. Could I leave them for Bruce Maximus? It would be hard, yes, but sometimes we have to make difficult choices in life; sometimes we must sacrifice to achieve our goals, and I really, really, REALLY wanted to see my stories and illustrations in the Simply Whimsy column of The Mountain Gap Gazette.

"Did you hear anything I just said?" he asked. His mouth was so close to my ear, I could feel the heat from his breath.

"Huh? I said and I'm pretty sure drool was running out of my mouth and down my chin when I said it.

"I'll be fishing until noon and back home around one," Tom said. "Oh, and you're talking in your sleep again, Sweetheart." 

Before the Lion Ate Me

Before the Lion Ate Me is a title that came to mind while I was in the shower this morning. That happens all the time: not the shower--I only shower when I'm dirty--but the title thing. I'll be standing there with a bar of soap up my armpit when out of nowhere a title to a story pops into my head. Sometimes I get the intro, middle, and end of the story but not today. Just Before the Lion Ate me is all I was given. I knew what it meant though. It's about those times in my life when I broke--or should I say tried to break--one major rule: never raise your voice in anger at a loved one.

That's right. I've never been given permission in my entire life to express my anger at a family member, friend, or mate by raising my voice to the point of yelling or screaming. Nope! Not once. I know what you're thinking: Why would I want to yell or scream? Well-adjusted people don't do that. Well-adjusted people resolve conflict by sitting down with the other person or persons and calmly and maturely discussing the matter point by point, and, in the end, everyone walks away with a resolution, kisses and hugs. Right?

WRONG!

Friends of my family yell at their friends. Family of my friends scream at their family. I see it all the time. What surprises me is that the majority of the time, no one says or does anything about it, i.e. yellers and screamers are given permission to express their unbridled anger without consequence. It amazes me that they can shake, rattle and roll the foundation of what was--before their eruption--a pleasant gathering of friends and family and get by with it. What is more startling is that they believe they have a right to behave that way. Not so for me. If I ever attempted to step over that line in the sand--you know, the line that separates the words "Go ahead; yell and scream; it's okay" and "Do not yell or scream, or else..."--I knew I could be in grave danger.

It is the "or else" part of consequences that makes me stop and think before crossing that line, but it wasn't always that way. I had to learn the hard way that there are some things in this life I'm not allowed to do:  1) Never say "I never, ever get sick," or else...  2) Never brag about material possessions, or else...  3) Never boast about achievements, or else...  4) Never say, "I don't need to leave a few minutes early for my job interview; there won't be a train on the tracks today," or else...  5) Never wear white pants to a spaghetti dinner, or else...  6) Never say, "I don't need to write that down; I won't forget," or else...  7) Never look at a lamb and assume that there's not a lion hiding underneath that nice soft exterior, or else...  8) Stop and think before you raise your voice in anger at a loved one or a lion in sheep's clothing...OR ELSE THE LION MAY SMACK YOU DOWN BEFORE EATING YOU!!

Don't Hate Me

Don't hate me because I'm prettier than you.

Don't hate me because I'm not.

Don't hate me because I have more money than you.

Don't hate me because I'm poor.

Don't hate me because I'm lighter than you.

Don't hate me because I'm dark.

Don't hate me because I'm smarter than you.

Don't hate me because I'm not.

Don't hate me because I am a woman.

Don't hate me because I am a man.

Don't hate me because I say go right.

Don't hate me because you say left.

Please

Don't hate me at all.

You are me; I am you.

We are the same. 

To hate me is to hate yourself.

And God knows...that just ain't right!

Some Maintenance Required

When I was very young, I awoke each morning, sprang out of bed, and raced past a kitchen counter that had absolutely nothing on it with my name attached. There was not one thing there for me to swallow, inject, insert or apply in an effort to fix whatever ailed me. Like a car just off the assembly line, everything about me was brand spanking new and worked perfectly. No maintenance required. I had plenty of get-up-and-go under the hood, and even though I was rough on my body, chassis, engine and transmission,  I spent no time in the repair shop. It seemed that whatever I did or did not do did not matter; I was indestructible.

Not one thing for me to swallow, inject, insert or apply 

When I was thirty-something, I awoke each morning, climbed out of bed, and jogged past a kitchen counter that held my daily dose of undisciplined indulgence. Like a car with a few years on it, everything still worked pretty good, but not perfect. There was some maintenance required, but I didn't take the time or make the effort. I still had sufficient power under the hood, and even though I was rough on my body, chassis, engine and transmission, I spent little time in the repair shop. It seemed that whatever I did or did not do did not matter; I was still invincible.

...and there waiting for me was my undisciplined indulgence. 

When I was sixty-something, I carefully eased myself out of bed and slowly shuffled into the kitchen. There, on the counter all lined up and standing at attention waiting for me, were a long line of daily doses of consequences for having lived six decades ignoring the maintenance manual that came with me. Like an older model car with little effort given throughout the years to required care, everything about me (or so it seemed) was needing repair. My body, chassis, engine and transmission were now spending a lot of time in the shop. It seems that whatever I did or did not do really did matter after all.

My daily dose of consequences

Time is Like a Fickle Lover

She just wasn't herself. How long had she been so forgetful, he wondered? A year? Two years? Longer? Between the two of them, she had always been the one with the photographic memory and instant recall, but at some point during their forty years together, she had changed. Now he was the one saying, "Remember when?" "No," she would answer. "I don't recall that at all."

"You make me feel broken," she said, tears welling up in her eyes. They were standing in the kitchen where she had only minutes before put her car keys in the refrigerator and a stick of butter in the wicker basket by the door. He watched her do it, but he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Oh, my goodness! Are you serious!? Tell me you didn't just do that?" She was stunned by his aggression. "What? she asked, but instead of telling her what she'd done, he took her by the hand and led her like a child over to the wicker basket. "Butter in the basket? Really! Is that where it goes?" Then, still holding her hand, he walked her over to the refrigerator and instructed her to open it. When she did, he once again admonished her. "And keys in the frig?!" 

He just wasn't himself. How long had he been so intolerant with her, she wondered? A year? Two years? Longer? Between the two of them, he had always been the even-keeled one. "Nothing rattles him," she would say.  "He uses thoughtful rationale with every challenge in life and then handles it with calm resolve." But at some point during the latter part of their four decades together, he had changed.  Now she was the one saying, "It's just part of aging; there's nothing to worry about." "Yes," he would say. "Oh, but I'm afraid that there is."

"You're kidding me, right? Don't you remember?! You told me that last week and the week before that?!" His irritation stopped her in mid sentence. She remembered she had told the story before, she just couldn't recall to whom. She was doing that a lot lately--repeating her stories--but most of her friends and family would just say, "Oh, yes. You mentioned that before," in a respectful manner. So why was the one person in her life who should be understanding and supportive critical of every  mental hiccup? Why was he punishing her for something that was out of her control? Were his intolerance and hurtful reactions underpinned by fear? But fear of what? Her looming dementia and how it would negatively impact his life? She thought about what her future would be like living with someone who reacted with frustration and ridicule instead of kindness and love every time her brain didn't perform to his expectations. She had read somewhere--not that she could remember where--that if you misplace your car keys, there is no reason for concern; however, if you're holding your car keys but have no idea what they are used for...well...let's just say that could be a whole different story.

Later...a whole different story

He just wasn't himself. How long had he been like this? Two years? Three years? Longer? Oh, what does it matter, anyway? Time is like a fickle lover. With its passing, you never know what surprises tomorrow will bring.

"Have you seen my car keys, Sweetheart?" she said to her husband of forty-seven years, who was standing at the kitchen sink washing twelve of his favorite ping pong balls.

"Are those the pointy, shinny things that go 'Pop, Pop, Clankety, Clank, Clank' in that micro-thingy?"

"Yes, dear."

"Are keys those things that won't float in the toilet?"

"Yes, dear."

"Are keys those things I use to scratch my initials in the table?"

"Yes, dear."

"Are keys what I use to wash my ping pong balls?"

"Yes, dear. Do you know where they are?"

"Nope! Haven't seen'em."

Be Loved

Harriett Louise Bush

Born February 26, 1922

Daughter

Sister

Aunt

Wife

Mother

Grandmother

Great-Grandmother

Died February 26, 2014

All she ever wanted in life 

was to be loved.

Happy Birthday, Mother, with love

Sausage Biscuits, Gravy and Three Sisters

My friend Connie posted the following on Facebook. 


The other day as I was leaving the house I reminded John that there was leftover sausage gravy in the frig and biscuits in the bread box. When I returned home a couple hours later I saw the biscuits abandoned on a plate. John was complaining that it didn't taste good and moaned about being poisoned. I was puzzled that the food had gone bad that quickly. As he reached past me to dump the plate's contents into the trash I stuck a finger into the "gravy" and tasted it. Wait a minute. That's not gravy! John, that's the sour cream vegetable dip!  (Connie's true story)

* * *

Three sisters, ages 92, 94 and 96 live in a house together. One night the 96-year-old draws a bath, puts her foot in and pauses. She yells down the stairs, "Was I getting in or out of the bath?" The 94-year-old yells back, "I don't know, I'll come up and see." She starts up the stairs and pauses;  then she yells, "Was I going up the stairs or coming down?" The 92-year-old was sitting at the kitchen table having tea, listening to her sisters. She shakes her head and says, "I sure hope I never get that forgetful." She knocks on wood for good measure. She then yells, "I'll come up and help both of you as soon as I see who's at the door."