Star Wars XXX: Rise of the Octogenarians!

 

.Hey!  George Lucas!  Think you're done with the Star Wars movies? Think you can just sit back and let Disney cranky out Mandelorian episodes with that entirely too cute Baby Yoda while you're collecting mounds of cash?

Yeah...wait until you hear my movie pitch.

     

One of the more difficult things people of my age must start to think about is taking away the keys from our parents.  Losing the car keys is one of those last nails on the coffin of independence for the elderly, and many do not let go without a really unpleasant fight, or before they cause some kind of accident someplace because "there wasn't a stop light there in 1954."  (Actual quote from my grandfather several years before he passed away.)

Well, middle agers who are sandwiched between their yoyo-ing kids and their aging adults, TAKE HEART!

Or be afraid.

I'm here to tell you, the elderly are rising and taking back their freedom and taking the streets from us.  And they do not give two dusty farts who they roll over in the process.  

Personally, I blame AARP. These people have been told from age 55 on up that they are strong and independent and active seniors in the best  of their lives. And then we come along and ruin their active fun.  Except now, some dingleberry went ahead and invented a couple things that, much like Mountain Dew, wasn't MEANT to be a weapon for the elderly, and yet here we are.

First of all, the rolling scooter. 

The motorized rolling scooter has been around for some time and has been used by both the disabled and the elderly alike.  In fact, there are ads making these mechanical chairs look downright romantic and fun.  (A Rally, anyone?)  One step up from a golf cart, long the mode of travel for those in enclosed retirement villages (where they were free to run over each other and posed no threat to the outside world) these rolling carts, first meant to be an aid for those who had trouble shopping, or who were starring in "My 600 pound Life," have now become the hottest of hot rods for the active octogenarian.  

At first I thought it was just this one rude guy at the Farmer's Market.  He wheels around the market like it's his own personal Daytona 500. He weighs about 325, smokes a cigarello, which he has no problem blowing in your face if he deigns to stop at your booth, and, yes this is the best part, he is always only half dressed. And not the half you'd like dressed.  

That's right, this whirling dirvish comes dressed to the 9's...(if 9's is a term used for those partially dressed and not all covered)..which his shirt only pulled down halfway and his shorts only pulled up halfway.  Fortunately for us, (and for impressionable children) he drives quickly, is covered in a cloud of smoke, and has a fully backed seat so the world can't view his...line of demarcation, straight on.  The side view is, believe me, enough.

But, here's the thing. He's not so much the problem. Nope...there are those who uses these carts as actual on the road vehicles.  I saw this while attempting to make a left hand turn the other day...here comes this guy in a scooter than has a ROOF and he's purring along at 6MPG, IN THE ROAD.  And he looked at me...our eyes locked...and he smiled a little smile as I sat there and waited, waited, waited for him to cross the intersection.  And he SLOWED DOWN and the light turned red and there we both are, in the intersection, and now the other drivers have to wait for this codger to get his supercharged upgraded wheelchair out of our way.  And I swear to you...I swear...that old man smiled...and he flipped me the bird.

 It was as if he were saying, "Take away my license?  I'll take away a large chunk of your life."

Unfortunately, scooters in all their various versions aren't the only weapon these new non-drivers have.  Nope, ladies and gents, I give you....the E-BIKE.

Now, I've read about e-bikes, pedal bikes with tiny little motors on them (wait...don't we have something like that already...mopeds? Motorcycles?) but I read about them in VELO magazine, a professional cyclist publication.  (Yes, I read Velo.  Just because I don't exercise doesn't mean I can't read about other people exercising.)  I DID NOT read about this in AARP.  ( I did read about Simon Cowel's accident on one of these, which makes what I'm witnessing that much more befuddling.)

E-Bikes are supposed to be good for serious cyclists to help them manage high mountain climbs and extra long rides, like more than 100 miles or whatever.  However, that is NOT how I'm seeing them used. Nope, all I see are the elderly tooling around on these things, two wide, in the road, taking up space ("bike lane?  I spit on your bike lane!") and slowing us all down.

And guess who's riding around the farmer's market, ignoring the rules about riding bikes in the market, and making people get out of the way?  Yep...the old people on E-Bikes.

I should also note...one gent on one of these bikes stopped at our booth. His motor looked like it had been torn apart and rewired.  We'd tried to make polite chit chat with him...but the fact that he'd tinkered with something electronic (my parents can't figure out how to make their Netflix turn on) and he was SHIRTLESS AND STINKY (because...that's the cycling life?) was too distracting.  Also, I mentioned that he should be careful, because, you know, Simon Cowell fell off of one those and broke his back...and that old man...that 80+ year old shirtless, stinky rule breaking man, swore at me and rode off, nearly knocking down two pregnant women and a dog wearing a t-shirt.  And I know, like I know my own name, that he was laughing an evil laugh as he rode off.

So we've got these motorized scooters and these e-bikes, all loaded with ancient ones, all running roughshod through our streets and farmers markets.  

What's next?  I can see it now:  some enterprising retired mechanic opening a black market shop where he motorizes bikes and those giant trikes by the light of the moon.

And then you know what follows?  GANGS!

And that brings me, Mr. Lucas, to your next Star Wars movie: Star Wars XXX (Or whatever number they're on. I don't pay attention) Rise of the Octogenarians!

Good "old" self check: Why I won't be shopping at Woodman's again.

Happy Thursday all!

Since Peaches moved out I really don't have a reason to get my girth out of bed much before 7:30, which is about when I need to run a brush over my teeth and get into my desk chair for work.  Generally, however, I do get up a shade before 7, get a walk in, feed the cats, make coffee, that sort of thing.

I accomplish more before 8 AM than I do the entire rest of the day.  Wait...that didn't sound right.

Anyway, this morning, I decided to get up at 6, and get some light grocery shopping done.  Now, we have two 24 hour stores the same distance from my house. One is Meijer, one is Woodman's.  Product by product, price by price, I like Woodman's more.  They have more local brands that I really like. They have the flavor of Yoplait yogurt that Skippy really likes.  The thing is, I always feel a little claustrophobic in Woodman's because they are always more crowded, they have a lower ceiling, which makes them feel smaller.  Also, Meijer has a better meat and produce department.

So the biggest deciding factor for where I go and spend my grocery dollar tends to rest on the check out experience.

When it comes to check out, I like Woodman's more, as well, because they unload the cart, scan stuff, and load the cart again.  Given the constant pain I have in my hands and back, any help I can get with the groceries is appreciated.

The thing is, Woodman's NEVER has enough cashiers, which means standing in line forever, which, if you have read this blog for longer than a week, you know standing in line is not my favorite thing to do.  (Self check is NOT an option.  It's too hard on my hands and back.)  So if I shop at Woodman's it's either because Hubby is with me or because it's a weird time of day when the sto
re won't be mobbed.

Self check? You ask. Do I use self check?  NO!  Not if I can help it.  Unless they're handing discounts out for using a machine that gives you no customer service and yells at you for mystery items in the bagging area.

And, of course, I have trouble handling self check because it's never just SELF. Something always goes wrong, then I have to WAIT for a person to help me.  Add that to the sweat I build up (which triggers hot flashes) loading and unloading groceries and scanning them and bagging them and what you wind up with is a giant sweaty woman aching hands and back, swearing never to return to self check again. 

So today I arrived at the 47 check out lanes at the front of my Woodman's store.  It was 6:50 AM.  This is notable because, as I learned THIS MORNING, there are no live cashiers before 7 AM.  Oh sure, there's a big sign that says there's a full service lane....but there's no one in it. Which means self check.  So I hauled my cart down to self check...where there was a back up!  WHO ELSE IS SHOPPING BEFORE 7 IN THE MORNING ON A THURSDAY?

Apparently everyone.  Well, okay, four people which was just enough to bog down the self check system and make me wait in line.  TO CHECK OUT MY OWN GROCERIES.

Also, the people checking out their groceries at self check were all having, let's say, difficulty.  I actually waited four or five minutes before giving up and moving down to the regular lanes.  Better to wait for someone to open up a cash register than to watch people separately and in oh so many different way bog down the check out process.

I waited the six minutes (actually more like eight) it took for a cashier and bagger to walk over to an actual check out lane and open up. I then got my cart in there and let them do their work. It was early, so I expect little polite chit chat and I got what I expected.  But since I'd bought enough items for the silence to be uncomfortable, I thought I'd just kick things off a little.

"So I figured I'd wait for you to open up. I can't really do self check on my own," I said with a smile on my face.

"Oh then you're not going to like the news," muttered the cashier.

"Yeah, they're tearing out all of these lanes and putting in all self check," added the bagger, a sort of emo-hipster girl who could not have been more than thirteen.  (Also, she was clearly being trained by the cashier who was clearly exhausted with the training.)

"All?"  I gasp.

"Well, like, half of them.  That's what Gary decided," said the cashier.  "I wish I could decide stuff."

Granted, they never have more than half the check out lanes open at any given time. In fact, if Woodman's would open half the lanes, I would probably not have to stand in line there and I'd shop there more often.

Still, this was really disconcerting news.

"I'm not sure I like that. I have arthritis. It's hard for me to use the self check," I said in a conversational manner.  "Is this a matter of a labor shortage?"  (Woodman's is CONSTANTLY looking for cashiers. I figured maybe they just gave up looking.)

"No, this is a keeping things moving thing," grumbled the cashier.  "Other stores have all these self check lanes and it seems to be working."

You know what else would work?  Adding literally one, just one, more cashier to every shift.  Seriously.

"Wow. That's really disappointing that they are going that route," I say.

"Yeah, a lot of the old people aren't going to like it.," mumbles the emo-hipster bagger. 

Let's let that sink in for a moment.

Tiny blonde sad teen girl who is training on the job...did she just call me old?   Did she just lump me in with the OLD PEOPLE who can't operate self check, not because their hands are crippled with arthritis, but because they are confused by technology?  Did she just add me to the group of patrons who will be unhappy with this change not because it means, yet again, fewer services for the same amount of money, but because I'm too old to do things for myself?

I AM NOT OLD!  I was shopping before 7 in the morning! Old people don't shop then...well except for that one guy who was really bogging down self check this morning.  You know where old people are at 7 in the morning?  They are at DENNY'S. They are not grocery shopping.

I tried to reign in my rage.  "Well, I'm glad you're still going to have some real check out lanes.  I like having the extra help."

"Yeah, well, this wasn't my decision," said the very weary cashier.  "And a lot of old people are going to really not like this."

AGAIN WITH THE OLD!  First of all, aren't those OLD PEOPLE, also your customers?

Second...I combed my hair, I brushed my teeth, I put on eyeliner and a cool radio station T-shirt. I AM NOT OLD. I protect the use of self check because I don't like self check, and if it's not a matter of labor shortage, then why should I have to check out my groceries and scan them and bag them and load them in my cart?  

They don't make me do all that at Meijer.  

They also don't call me "Old" at Meijer.  

Just sayin'.

And because I'm an idiot, I just figured this out.

       

When you reach a certain age in the middle years of your life (Why yes, I am pretty optimistic about how long I'll be gracing this earth. I mean, if I can't die until my credit cards are paid off I might just live forever) you start to look back and start to look at stuff with the clarity of age and experience.

Such was my morning yesterday.

In order to explain this 43 year break down in realization, I have to go back and explain my early grade school years.

I went to a tiny parochial grade school in the Flint area of Michigan.  It was a two room school, my father was the principal and the 5th-8th grade teacher.  (Until I was twelve I thought everyone went to schools like mine.)  I attended this school from kindergarten until fourth grade and all those years I had exactly one teacher:  we'll call her Mrs. Smith. (Not even remotely her real name.)

Mrs. Smith wrangled grades k-4 (roughly 30 students or more most years) with no breaks other than 3 short recesses (Which is when we had gym class with my dad.  But that's a story for another day.  I will say we managed, and entire school, to have recess with no supervising adults other than my father, who was generally busy keeping score for some gym related sport inside or outside the school. And no one died.) totaling less than an hour a day, during which time she was expected to eat her lunch, correct papers, and make any parental phone calls she had to. Oh, and also lesson plan for five grades.  

I should also mention the following points:

1) 90% of the time she and my father were the only two adults in the building.

2) There was no teachers' lounge. Teachers had to use the same bathrooms the kids did.

3) It was a far more delicate age when teachers simply did not admit to having personal needs such as bathrooms breaks, (Or coffee. I never ever saw Mrs. Smith drink coffee during the day. I know my father did, but in the privacy of maybe the church office when no one was looking.  If I were still teaching, you can bet I'd have a coffee pot brewing in the classroom all day long.)

There. Now you're caught up.

The rules of the classroom were if Mrs. Smith was called out of the room for any reason, she would appoint someone to be in charge.  This person was generally a fourth grader, but sometimes it could be a younger person. The kid would stand at the front of the room and if anyone talked, they would right that kid's name on the board.

That kind of power can corrupt a kid.  There was a lot of bargaining and graft that went on. A kid in charge could write some one's name on the board for any reason...and blackmail that kid's Twinkies right out of his or her lunch.

The kid in charge could also let other students go use the bathroom.  We didn't have bathroom passes, it was a two room school with one hall. It wasn't like we could wander or get lost.  And with less than 50 students in the building, everyone knew where everyone else belonged.

So on this day that tickled my memory so many years later, Mrs. Smith had left the room for something and left a kid in charge. It's not important who that kid was, because it wasn't me.  This blog is about me.  So the kid in charge is of no consequence to the story other than to say this kid allowed me to go to the restroom while Mrs. Smith was out of the room.

Keep in mind for this next part, I was seven, MAYBE eight years old.

I walk into the bathroom. There are two stalls and one sink in there.  (Did I mention this was a TINY school?)  One of the stall doors is closed. No biggie. I figured it was an upper grade girl or something. 

And then I heard a voice.

"Sarah?"

This was no girl. This was a grown up in the bathroom. For a moment I looked around, possibly wondering if God was truly a woman.

But no, it was my teacher.

My TEACHER... IN THE BATHROOM!

This concept to a little kid is foreign.  Sure, by the age of seven kids know what bathrooms are all about. But very few honestly believe grown ups like teachers and pastors and presidents actually use them.  So to be in there with my teacher...that was startling...and for her to talk to me...

This may have been when I began having issues with people in public restrooms.

"Yes?"  I asked in a tiny voice.

"Will you please go get Mrs. Jones?"

Mrs. Jones was the school secretary who worked maybe six hours a week.  On that day she just happened to be in.

Forgetting why I was in there in the first place, I left the bathroom, went to the office, told Mrs. Jones (Not her real name) that Mrs. Smith needed her in the bathroom and then went back to the classroom.

And this is when my idiocy began.

See, the brain can only process information as it can relate it to its own experience.  For example:  If an alien ship landed on my front yard and Martians walked out my brain would have trouble understanding what was happening and would then define the event in terms related to something I'd already experienced.  But if a space ship landed on the front yard of say, someone who had already been probed by aliens, then he or she would be able to absorb the scene and fully understand what it meant.

Such was the case with my seven year old brain.  I had no idea why one woman would need another woman in a school bathroom.  And so, my brain explained the scene in terms I could grasp.

Clearly, Mrs. Smith was stuck on the toilet.

Not only did this seem plausible to me, this was, in my head, the complete God's honest truth that I felt HAD TO BE SHARED.

Which I did, with my best friend, DJ (sort of his first name.)  DJ pretty much went through life thinking I was a moron, while I was convinced we were best buddies.  So he blew me off.  So I turned my other best friend, Kayla (not her name) who was far more sophisticated than I was, and therefore not at all interested in bathroom stuff.  So, hoping to get a rise out of SOMEONE at this shocking news I had, I told my other sort of best friend who was by far the most gullible person I knew, Debbie.  (Oh yeah...that's her real name.)  And Debbie and I had a good giggle over the FACT that Mrs. Smith was so stuck on the toilet she needed Mrs. Jones to help her up.

But here's the thing:  Almost 42 years later  I was putting on my make up and this scene flashed through my brain and, having now been a WOMAN for quite some time, the facts of the event as they probably really were played out in my head.

Yeah, see, Mrs. Smith wasn't stuck on the toilet.

Nope.  Mrs. Smith most likely had gotten caught needing some punctuation protection and since this was a parochial school in the 70's, there was no dispenser of such and thus she needed Mrs. Jones to come in and help her out.

And because I'm an idiot...it took me more than four decades to realize that.

Hey, Taco John's Cashier! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders!

Good Saturday morning to you all!

So yesterday the company I work for had a company wide day off, with pay. (Yes, I work for the best company on the planet. )  This was great because I'd had a physical on Tuesday (that was humiliating) and my doc wanted me to go in for some blood tests after I'd fasted 10-12 hours.

My new diet thing is to not eat one tiny bite between 10 PM and 10 AM.  I know this sounds weak and that I shouldn't eat anything after like 7 PM, but our dinners around here are late because Peaches has school late.  So 10 is still early for me. So far I haven't lost any weight, but I do feel super proud of myself.  So there's that.

Anyway, I was trying to figure a way I could have a legitimate 12 hours of fasting on a work day without killing myself, since I work until 1:30, and coffee was on the list of stuff I'm not allowed to have before the blood test. Enter my boss and his wonderful day off.

I got to the clinic at 9 AM, a whole day of fun errands planned and 12 solid hours (dinner was early) of fasting under my belt.  I was hungry.  Very hungry.  So hungry that when I saw the line for the check in at the clinic I almost gave up. I mean, how many people make Friday, 9 AM appointments?

Apparently all of them.

That line lasted about ten minutes and I was on my way to the lab for my blood test. Now, I've done these before.  I've blogged about these before because the people who work in this particular lab aren't...how do I put this...really all that customer service minded.  They'll see you when they see you and the lady at the desk can and will vanish for no reason and for long periods of time.

I don't know why I keep going to this clinic.

Anyway I get to the waiting room and It. Is. Full.  Not like, oh hey, there are a couple ahead of me. No, more like, I have to stand in the hallway because all the chairs are filled.  Which is what I had to do after again waiting in line and checking in at that desk.

Why the registration desk couldn't have passed that information to the lab I have no idea.

After standing in the hall for ten minutes a chair finally opens.  (One should note, four people left the exam rooms in the lab while I stood out there, but no one went in.  Must have been coffee break time.  I swear I smelled donuts.)  I brought a book along, prepared for this one, so I took the chair, which was in the tight far corner, right next to an old man who smelled of moldy moth balls.

Lovely.

Another ten minutes passed with no one going in or out.  The old guy's smell was so strong I thought about getting up and standing in the hall again, especially since more people had come in to the lab to wait and it was getting hot in there, and a little claustrophobic. But I didn't want to be rude.

After a few more minutes the old lady sitting across from me went in and came back out in less than a minutes.  She'd gotten there long before I had, and I'd been waiting almost half and hour.  She was all cheerful and sweet, getting whatever it was she needed done in less than a minute after long wait.  I look forward to a time when I'm old and retired and have nothing else on my schedule than waiting at the lab.

Like that's ever going to happen for me.

The old lady's son had driven her. He looked to be a little younger than I am, and he seemed equally cheerful, although it was clear from their conversation that he, indeed, did have something else better to do. He still had to go to work.

"Oh, that's fine," says old lady.  "Next time I'll just drive myself.  I can still drive you know."

She said this while trying...and failing...to get her arm into her coat sleeve.  All I could think was, yes, and when you are driving, if you could just put out a notice on Face Book for everyone else so we can avoid the roads, that would be great.

Finally, FINALLY it was my turn.  Again, as I walked back to the room I could smell coffee and donuts.  At this point I'd been fasting, and more importantly not having coffee, for almost 13 hours.

The woman taking blood spent a few precious moments delaying my test so she could whine about how many people were in the waiting room.

Well hey, maybe if there were fewer donut breaks here in the lab and maybe if the front desk lady didn't flirt with some dude who just stopped in to say hi...and then vanish from her post for ten minutes, things would be less log jammed. Let's not blame the people in the waiting room for the department's lack of dedication to their jobs. 

I didn't say that of course, because I'm a coward. Instead I said, "Well, I'm sure it'll clear up soon enough and things will slow down for you."

"Oh but I'm off at noon, so I really don't care."

She said that.  Out loud. To me. 

My test took a couple minutes. Just a quick blood draw, and then I was bandaged and on my way.

Given that it was already after ten, I rearranged my schedule a bit and ran to Taco John's for a quick
breakfast. 

I love Taco John's breakfast burritos and if you haven't had one, you should. They are yummy.  So yummy, in fact, that I never allow myself to have one because, well, I blame some of my weight problem on eating way too many of them back when I worked for EVIL BOSSMAN.

I get to the drive through and they always ask if I want to try something. Generally I say no and then just place my order, but today I was super hungry and I figured if they were suggesting it then they must certainly be able to make it FAST.  So whatever that fuzzy voice was suggesting I was all in.

She told me the total, and I pulled around.

I gave her a twenty.

She gave me $1.25 back.

Okay, I'll admit, I don't know exactly what price she said it would be, but it I was about to eat an $18.75 breakfast burrito, I sure did want to know what kind of endangered animal meat it contained.

"I gave you a twenty," says I.

"No, you gave me a $5," says she, with a defiant curl of her snarky face.

"No, I gave you a 20."

"No, you gave me a five."

This could go on all day, and honestly, if 1) she didn't have my money and 2) I wasn't now deep into the 14th hour of no food and no coffee, I would have just driven off.  But this was not an argument I was going to lose because I was right.

How was I so sure?

Because I NEVER carry cash. Like NEVER.  And on this morning I'd stopped at the ATM and gotten some cash and, as we all know, ATMS ONLY shoot out 20's.  Which means the only cash I had in my purse was in the form of 20's.

"Look,"  says I , trying to keep calm, "I know I gave you a 20 because it's the only cash I have in my purse.  I just stopped at the ATM and that's what I got."

At this point, Snarkface opens her cash drawer and counts her 20's.  She then heaves a heavy sigh of one who has been wildly inconvenienced and she says, "Fine."  Then she closes the window.

Now I'm sitting there with my food and the $1.25 she gave me for change. She walks away from her post for a moment then comes back and starts texting.  Yes, she started texting.  I have no idea what or to whom she could possibly be texting. I'd like to think she was reaching a manager who would tell her to stop giving me grief, but it's more likely she was griping to social media at this old woman who was lying to her about change.

Again, I  knew I was 100% right.  So text away sweetheart. I'm going to sit here until I get my real change back.

After a couple minutes she opens the window and holds her hand out.  I'm guessing, since she didn't tell me, she wants the change back. So I hand her a dollar and a quarter.  She gets some more money out of the drawer and then pauses.

"Did you give me that quarter back?"

"Yes," says I.

"Are you sure?"

ARE YOU KIDDING?  "Yes, I'm sure," I say in my very best stern mom/teacher voice.  "I gave you the quarter back."

"Whatever, I'll just let you keep the quarter. Here's your change."

I count it.  At this point I suspect that she's now undercharged me for the burrito, but it was a special item so maybe there was a sale. Whatever, I'm not going to get into that argument with her because I am not 100% sure of what the original charge was.

I drove away, exhausted and ready for a nap.  But when I got home and ate my steak and egg burrito (that's what she said over the intercom?) I felt triumphant.

Yes, Taco John's Snark Girl...NEVER GET INTO A BATTLE OF WITS WITH A FASTING SARAH WHEN CASH AND FOOD IS ON THE LINE!

Don't poke the bear, even when laundry is involved.

Yes, there's an age gape between us.

Good afternoon!

My dear Hubby got another year older two weeks ago.  Now, normally for Hubby's birthday I just giggle and tell him he's a year older than I am  (He's three months older). I figure it's payback for when we were both 17 and the government decided to change the drinking age from 18 to 21  but anyone who turned 18 before September 1 could still drink.  Hubby made it by 11 days. Me?  Well, unlike most of my friends in college, I couldn't legally imbibe until MY SENIOR YEAR!

That was a big deal back then. Now, it's all about how big that number is for your age, and right now his is one year bigger.

Now, we haven't yet crossed that magical line of 50, and we're both sort of healthy and keep ourselves in A shape.  So yeah, I don't really think of us as old.  (Well, except when I think about how I'm the oldest person in my company now...then I feel old.)  But something happened this morning and I have to share it with you. I don't know if it's old age, or maybe we're just that oblivious to everything. You be the judge.

This is awesome. I would like this.

So for his birthday I got Hubby two very fun t-shirts to replace two of his fun t-shirts that our idiot #4 cat destroyed. See, we have three nice cats and then there's the Idiot #4 who thinks every piece of clothing, bedding, towels, rugs, rubber mats is all his to drag around the house.  We've had to cover all laundry, clean or dirty in the laundry room.  I can't have kitchen towels hanging on racks or drawer handles and now, since we're on to his game, I can't put towels on the racks in the bathroom.

Several of our shirts have been shredded with claws (getting the shirt out of the basket) and teeth (dragging it up the stairs and around the house.)  Many of those are Hubby's.

Anyway, so he has these two shirts. And he's going to see his sister in Colorado for his annual two weeks of being an unshaven mountain man.  So this morning I told him if he wanted anything washed before he leaves tomorrow night he should put it in the basket.

He says, "Well, if you find those two new shirts you got me, that would be great."

I say, "I washed them and put them in your basket."

He says, "Did you put them in Skippy's basket?"

I say, "I don't do Skippy's laundry with ours."  (We are all about the same size and we all wear t-shirts, usually black, grey, or red in color.)  "I'll check my basket, maybe it got in there."

So I went downstairs and checked my laundry basket. Nope. Not there. I then checked the dirty laundry. Also no.  I was very close to knocking on Skippy's door and WAKING HIM UP...  

Let me pause here for a moment.  Since Skippy's baby days we have one rule in the house.  "Don't Poke The Bear."  Skippy is NOT a person who wakes up well.  Even as a baby, if he woke up on his

own, fine.  But if something startled him awake, or if we moved him while he was sleeping or if someone woke him up on purpose, he would cry and yell and be generally unpleasant.  The same holds true now, almost 23 years later. If the boy is sleeping, we do not wake him up.

And I almost did, because the other rule we have is "Don't Go Into Skippy's Room."

No one wants to see what's in there.

Well, I'm not stupid. Before I subjected myself to Grumpy Skippy, I went upstairs to do something I haven't done in a good long time:  Go through Hubby's drawers.

Some wives put away every one's laundry, but I don't come from that kind of stock. My mother washed, dried, sorted, and folded the wash and then put it on the stairs.  Now, if you were smart, like my father, you'd pick up your pile of laundry and carry it to your dresser or closet and put it away right away.  If you were dumb, like my brother and I, you would let it sit there, the pile getting bigger on Mondays and Thursdays (because that's when you do laundry.) You'd get what you needed, underwear, sports uniform shirt, whatever, from the pile, but you never actually MOVED the pile up to your room until it became so LARGE one of the parents would trip on it, sending all the clothes, and usually the parent, down the stairs in a flood of textiles and yelling.

I don't do that either because we live in a ranch and the stairs to the basement are narrow enough.  So I put them in COVERED laundry baskets  (because of Idiot #4) and that's where it all sits until they decide to get their clothes. And if the basket gets too full and Idiot #4 knocks the top off and drags their clothes around I'm not rewashing them.

My point is,  for the last 20 some years Hubby has put his clothes in his own drawers.  So today I went up there and looked in his drawers and it was in the third drawer I opened that I found the following:

The two shirts he was looking for.

On the top of the pile of shirts in the drawer.

With the logo right side out so you knew exactly which shirt it was.

And oh yes, did I mention the shirts were RIGHT AT THE TOP OF THE PILE?  Do you know I almost poked the bear to find these shirts and there they were...right at the top of the drawer, literally the last thing he tucked into that drawer yesterday when he put his laundry away.

Now, I don't know if that's a sign of old age or what, but I know I had a good chuckle. In fact, I laughed the whole time I sent him the above sentences in three texts.

And then...this happened.

Hubby texts back:  Thanks. I guess I'm in the blog...

Old age...BRING IT!

I HADN'T EVEN THOUGHT ABOUT THE BLOG!

Friends, I very nearly forgot that I have this beautiful, lovely blog where I can poke fun at myself and others for the amusement of you fine people.  

THAT is old age for sure!

Yikes!

Stripping in the Pancake House parking lot and meeting my future self.

Good afternoon all!

Those of you who have known me a long time...and by that, those of you who knew me before children, before the children went to school, and before the children grew up and got jobs and decided they didn't need me...know that I've been a person who cared about what other people thought.  I mean, not nearly as much as my mother, no one could possibly care about what other people think than  my mother, but I cared.  I tried to be polite and dress nicely if for no other reason than my parents would think I would a good kid who didn't cause trouble.  (And, unfortunately, I pretty much was a harmless kid who didn't get into any trouble.)

As I've gotten older, however, I've found that how much I care about what other people think has gotten to be a smaller and smaller part of my brain space.  People make comments, well meaning comments, that devastate and hurt. You know what they are, whether you've said them yourself (and we all have I'm sure) or whether someone's said them to you (also, it's happened to all of us.)  

Over the years many such comments have been tossed my way, mostly from well meaning people who just want me to be a better me, or a less "me" than I already am. But from cooking to organ playing to rearing my kids and allowing them to be the humans they want to be whether they're perfect or not, (by the way, thanks to those helpful comments, I don't cook often and I never play organ...so there's that.) I've all but stopped caring what people say about me. At my age I know who I am and what I am, and yes, I have my shortcomings and I have a big mouth and I'm irreverent, sometimes bawdy.  But my goal in life is to make people laugh and feel comfortable.  I tell stories that make me look a little stupid so that others forget their own troubles for a few minutes and feel great joy that they aren't me, living in my world. (I should get that cross stitched on something.)

To that end, I tell you this story so that you can feel better about yourself, or maybe  maybe make you happy that you're you and not me.

This past Saturday my mother and I were supposed to go to the City of Brookfield Farmer's market, like we've been doing for much of the summer.  She was to sell her pictures, I was to sell my books.  Well, all last week I watched weather reports and I knew it was going to be 29 degrees (That's Fahrenheit, for all my Non-US readers) and it was going to be cold. I didn't have a problem, but my books don't break in cold weather.  I checked in with her on Friday and asked if we were going. She said yes.  

In our very sexy winter gear for the Packer Game.

6:15 AM...I'm in the car, dressed to my teeth in warm weather gear. I've got the snow boots and two layers of socks, wool and regular.  I've got the long underwear under my jeans and I'm rocking four layers under my coat and I have three more layers at the ready.  I'm wearing gloves but I have mittens to go over them plus I have two hoods a pair of ear muffs and a scarf.  It's what we in Wisconsin call, "Dressing for a Packer Game."  (In fact, it's what I wore to a Packer game last year. )

We got about ten minutes away from the Market and I get a call from my mother...who has just read the instructions on her tube of hot glue (something she uses in all of her pictures) and apparently cold is not good for hot glue.  So, nope, we're not doing the Market.)

So there we are. It's cold, it's still dark, we're starving because I was going to get donuts at the gas station on the way to the market and I didn't yet, and I'm dressed in enough layers of clothing to be bullet proof.  Hubby suggests we go to breakfast. My favorite meal in the world is breakfast in a restaurant.  I never say no to that!  

We head to a lovely little local spot, The ORIGINAL Pancake House. I don't know how many of these there are, but there's only one close to us and the place is always packed.  But we figured it would be less so since it wasn't yet 7 AM.  

We were right. The parking lot was empty except for one pick up truck.  But heavenly smells floated

out of the restaurant and I knew two things:  1)  We were going to wait the 20 minutes it would take for them to open because I didn't want to eat any place else and 2)  I needed to get a couple layers of clothing off because I was already sweating and when I sweat my skin gets itchy and when my skin gets itchy I can't sit still and it's VERY hard to drink coffee and eat breakfast when you're bouncing around like you have fire fleas.

Here's the thing though...have you ever tried to undress in a car?  Even taking off a coat involves body contortion and removing socks and...yep, long underwear, well that just can't get done in a car seat.  I have a great vehicle for changing clothes. You can lay the back seats down and there's plenty of room and the windows are tinted. Unfortunately, on Saturday, every square inch of space was occupied by my Farmer's Market boxes.  

So yes, I made sure the coast was clear and I stepped out of my car into the frosty air and I removed three layers up top and a layer of socks and yes, the long underwear came off.  I then got properly dressed and got back in the car and announced, "I have a blog post."

To which Hubby said, "You just undressed and dressed with your head on a swivel and now you're going to tell all your readers about it including several people at our church?"

Yep....because at this point while I don't care to have anyone see it, I don't mind telling you about the time I had to strip in the Pancake House parking lot.  

But lest you think my life is all glamour and awesome, I had to go to the Sam's Club Pharmacy today...and I didn't time it right.  I went after 2.  You need to get there before 1:30.  After 2 is when all the old people get there after the first movie matinee of the day and before dinner at Perkins.

I get there and I'm kicking myself (which is fun to watch) because there's one woman ahead of me and ahead of her is a man.

But then I get in line, after running a footrace with a gaggle of 90 year olds. No WAY was I getting behind THAT cloud of old.  Good news, all those early morning walks paid off. I can out walk a group of people in their 90's...so long as they pause in front of the Depends display.

The old man at the counter has clearly been there for a while.  how long?  Well, the pharmacist, who would rather just stand in the back and not talk to people, is actually talking to people at a little auxiliary window because this guy has the place backed up....how backed up...worse than a 90 year old on Tylenol 3 during a prune juice drought.  (Some of you are howling at that and some of you don't know what Tylenol 3 can do to you.)  

Anyway, I'm about ready to be upset by the old guy when I hear the following exchange:

"There's nothing we can do for you," says the snarky clerk who always looks at me like I have warts.

"That's what you people told me yesterday.  I waited forever and then you tell me there's no time, you're out, whatever."

Hmmmmm, interesting.

Clerk moves the GIANT bag of what I surmise to be his life giving meds away from him and says, "I'm sorry, but you're out so we can't help you."

I don't know if this was a problem with his insurance or what.  I'm still getting over the fact that he's been there two days in a row.  Wow...

"Oh sure. You all say that.  We can't help you. Go over here. Stand in this mile long line. Wait for nothing. But we can't help you."

I WANTED TO KISS THAT WRINKLY OLD MAN ON THE LIPS. THIS WAS MY NEW HERO! 

The snarky clerk got the even snarkier clerk over to help her and they both them told him they couldn't help him. While smirking and basically rolling their eyes at him and sharing with everyone in line just how dumb they thought he was.  Meanwhile, I was falling in love.

"Oh yeah. You can't help me. You couldn't help me yesterday. "

"Well today is a whole new day," says UBER SNARK.

Seriously?  She's all, "today's a new day" and they're doing the same thing to this guy?

They finally get him to move on so that old Lady McSuper slow can inch her walker up to the counter and spend some quality time chatting about how stupid the old man was. Meanwhile, It's like Night of the Living Dead in line behind me with oldsters grumping about standing so long and some sucking on their oxygen very impatiently.  

By the time Lady McSuper Slow and the Two Snarks are done ripping my new favorite person (loudly enough for me to hear and I'm behind the sign that tells us how far away we have to be for everyone to have privacy)I've been in line almost ten minutes and I'm grumpy.  I walk up and they're going to treat me like their new snarky best friend but no, sorry, I'm not all that enthused about knowing that they yap about customers behind their backs. Sure, the guy was loud, but from I surmised he had a right to be and even if he didn't you don't talk about him behind his back to other customers.

When I get old I hope I have half that guy's courage so I too can tell off some snark infested pharmacy clerk at Sam's Club. 

But hey, the highlight of my courage for the week was undressing in deserted sub freezing parking lot. I may not be on the right track.