A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Sixty-Six

A funny thing happened on the way to sixty-six. Actually it wasn't just one thing and I don't know if I would call them funny, but it changed my perspective on a few preconceived notions.

SMARTER THAN MY PARENTS

By the time I was fifteen, I was smarter than my parents, but a funny thing happened a few years after my son Jason was born.  I started getting dumber and by the time he was fifteen I was about as smart as a box of used crayons.

HAPPILY-EVER-AFTER

In my teens and twenties, visions of fairy tales, knights in shinning armor, prince charming, and happily-ever-after danced in my head, but a funny thing happened in my thirties.  These illusions were replaced by notices of disconnect, nights alone and confused, days with a stranger, and happy-go-lucky divorce lawyers.

EXPERT ON PARENTING

Before I had children, I was an expert on parenting, but shortly after my little angel was born, a funny thing happened.  (It was from those midnight, 2, 4, and 6 a.m. feedings). I forgot everything. Not to worry, though.  My childless friends were there to tell me what to do.

NURTURE VS. NATURE

Genetics have no influence on offspring and parents have 100% control over how their children behave.  You have to admit that that's funny.  Not true, but funny...and only in retrospect.

APPRECIATION

I used to think that there was a direct correlation between sacrificing for your children and appreciation for your sacrifice from your children, and funny as this may sound, I still think that.  But that appreciation is on a time-delay mechanism that starts screaming the moment that adorable little grandbaby is born.  

SUGAR AND SPICE

If you are sugar and spice, everything nice, and sexy too, your husband will never, ever stray.  Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha.  Wait one soybean-pickin' minute!  That's not funny.

EVERYONE KNOWS YOUR NAME

Remember that invention that's going to make you rich and famous, or that Broadway play that has your name in lights on the marque, that amazing picture you're going to paint, or that novel you've always wanted to write that will propel you into the stratosphere where everyone knows your name?  Remember that? Oh, sure you do!  Well, don't give up.  Keep the faith.  It could still happen.  Remember Grandma Moses?

IT MUST BE TRUE.

"If they say it, it must be true," was what my dad always said.  He trusted everyone, so I trusted everyone, too.   That is, until a funny thing happened over and over and over again.  People lie.  It's a human thing.

BE NICE

Avoid conflict at all costs.  Even if it means being treated with disrespect.  Just take it, honey.  Be nice.  Nice people come in first.  Wait a minute.  That doesn't sound right.

BELIEVE EVERYONE

Believe everyone, especially home repair people.  If they say they will be at your house at 10 a.m., count on it.  Reschedule everything around the fact that they will be on time.  Oh, and the price they give you to do the job.  Count on it being fair and reasonable.  Why are you rolling your eyes?  Don't you believe me?  Okay, I'm lying.  It's a human thing.

MEMORABILIA

Save the ticket stubs from every concert you've attended, keep thousands of loose pictures (with no information on the back) in shoeboxes, and never get rid of old and obsolete documents.  When you're gone, your children will enjoy spending hours and hours going through your memorabilia, or they may just throw it in the trash.  I'm not sure what Jason will do, so I'm saving everything...EVERYTHING.

LOVE

If the person you have chosen to love is mysterious, aloof, not certain how he feels about you, and treats you with a lack of respect then he sounds like the man for old me.  Not me now even though I'm old, but me back then when I was young and smarter than my parents.  Why I didn't think I was worthy of love is as mysterious as the men I chose.  But a funny thing happened on the way to sixty-six.  It occurred to me in my fifth decade that I deserved better.

...and along came Tom...the love, love, love of my life.

Speaking of Getting Caught

Yesterday I started out writing about how some people don't realize what they have until they've lost it, but with so many distractions  (coffee brewing, Maggie Mae chewing on her ball, Tom humming a tune from Movin' on Up), I lost my train of thought and strayed from the point of my story.  What!?  It happens!

I'm talking about love.  There.  I said it right up front so I won't be tempted to stray.

Speaking of being tempted to stray, have I ever told you about the times my first, third, fifth, and sixth boyfriends strayed? Yep!  They all cheated on me but not in that order.  It's complicated.

Speaking of complicated, have I ever told you the story about my best friend Sandy, her horse, and my first husband? Yes?  I've told you that story?? Shoot!  I'd love to tell it again.

Speaking of love, why is it that some people don't realize what they have until they've lost it?  You didn't think I could find my way back, did you?  Go ahead.  Admit it.

Speaking of admitting it, did you know that most people who cheat don't admit it until after they're caught.

Speaking of getting caught, once the dirty little secret is out, that is when regret makes an appearance.

Speaking of regrets, have you noticed how some people don't realize what they have until they've lost it?

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.