Thanksgiving Weekend with Fran and Stan - A story in three acts deserving of a show on Broadway - Part 3: Please Tell Me It's the Vanity Mirror Light

     After an exhausting, adventurous, and memorable weekend with Stan and Fran, we pack the car and drive home.  It’s Thanksgiving weekend and everyone else had the same idea, evidently, because the roads were at a standstill.  Miles and miles of taillights as far as the eye can see.  We somehow managed to make it home after a 7-hour car ride.  It’s after 9pm, Buttercup has to be on the school bus at 7am, and The Yankee has to go get the dogs from the sitter.  I rush to comfort an exhausted Buttercup and get her ready for bed while The Yankee takes the truck to fetch our ever-growing canine family.  I kissed a soft, rosy cheek, said prayers for a good day at school tomorrow, then rushed out to the car to start un-packing.  I hauled heavy suitcases filled with dirty clothes and Black Friday bargains and lit candles to make the house smell like home again.  I started a load of laundry then called to order takeout Chinese food.  The restaurant closed at 10 and if The Yankee didn’t dawdle, he could get there in plenty of time. 

     Then the phone rang.

     “Hello?”  It was The Yankee.  “We have a problem,” he said matter-of-factly.  “Great.  Don’t tell me one of the mutts bit the dog sitter.”  “No, worse,” he said in that tone that can be described by whatever word means the antithesis of comfort.  “It’s the truck.  I think she had a stroke.”  Oh no.  Not that.  “What’s wrong with it?” I dared to ask.  “I think the transmission is shot.  It won’t go in reverse and third gear is history.  I finally had all the dogs loaded up and the guy felt bad for me so he said I could just drive through the grass.  I think we might owe them a load of sod.”  My heart sank.  Even though my Black Friday bargains cost less than $150, I was still trying to figure out if there was a way to get any money back.  A new transmission for a truck is thousands of dollars … which was exactly a million more than we had to spare.  It was already after 10:00 by the time he called me, so I was worried about our Chinese food I had ordered.  I hurriedly called the restaurant and told them that we really did want it and they agreed to wait for us.  I am now a loyal patron of the Hunan Panda. 

     

     Still slightly panicked, and sick of unloading the car, I set the table for dinner and waited for The Yankee and our canine pack to arrive.  More unpacking ensues as each furry tail wags in excitement and kennels are transported to the laundry room, all the while our food is getting colder and colder.  I finally sit down for a bit of well-deserved nourishment when I hear, “Where are my keys?” 

 

     Oh.  Crap. 

 

     “What do you mean you can’t find your keys?  How did you get home?”  He rolled his eyes with that look of exasperation that only dumb people can get and said, “I keep my truck keys on one ring and the rest of the keys on another.”  Now was not the time to explain to him what a moronic idea that is.  I looked in the yard, in the dog kennels, under the truck, and in his jacket pocket.  He looked under the truck floor mats, in the mailbox, in the clothes hamper, and under the bed in the guest bedroom.  I guess panicked people don’t think clearly.  I finally determined that his keys were not going to be found this particular evening and my egg rolls were getting pastier by the moment.  I left him sorting through Buttercup’s toy box and flopped my exhausted, weary body in a chair.  As I ate my dinner, The Yankee paced through the house, getting more and more hysterical by the moment.  Between bites of lo mein, I could hear, “Transmission’s dead!  Can’t find my keys!  Traffic sucked!  I can’t use chopsticks!”  You see, boys and girls, this is why Mrs. Bertha has to write about her life.  Because otherwise, she would be a scary, crazy lady. 

 

     After a restless night of tossing and turning, we put Buttercup on the bus and headed to the car lot.  After finagling a low-money-down, “is-that-the-interest-rate-or-your-phone-number” loan contract, we arrived home in a used vehicle.  At least we would both have a way to get to work the next day … let the payments commence.  (I’m sure you’re wondering … we picked up the lost keys the next day.  They were in the dog-sitter’s yard.)

 

     So, here I sit today, remembering my first Black Friday experience with my cutesy-poo cousin, Fran.  I look out the window and see the “new” car and gaze lovingly at the Hunan Panda menu on my desk.  The phone rings and I hear a canary-like voice on the other end of the line: “Are you going Black Friday shopping with me again?!!!”   “What?!” I scream, “I’m going through a tunnel!  Can’t hear you!!”  Click. 

 

     Of course I’ll go, but I’m buying that girl a plastic tree.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Thanksgiving Weekend with Fran and Stan - A story in three acts deserving of a show on Broadway - Part 2: Why God Made Plastic

     A shower door closes.  A hairdryer blasts.  A dog barks.  The Yankee elbows me in the ribs, “I think the cacophony is your wakeup call.”  I didn’t know he knew what “cacophony” meant.  I wonder where he learned that word?  I float up to the Mountain of Knowledge and ask Elvis what he thinks. 

     “BERT!”  The harsh whisper wakes me from my dream.  “It’s 2 o’clock.  Time to join Camp Price Tag.”  I’m groggy and barely coherent.  “Where did you learn the word ‘cacophony’?”  “I have no idea what that word even means, but the troops are stirring.  Get up.”  I roll my exhausted self out of bed and head to the shower.  The mirror reveals a pair of eyes looking more like cinnamon candies atop a 3-piece luggage set, but there is a germ of life behind them.  I loofah my arms and legs with extra force this morning, willing the blood to flow faster.  I don my festive Christmas shirt and add enough makeup to my face so I look “not dead”, as Sgt. Fran had demanded.  I stagger out to the living room, tote bag in hand and say hello to Fran’s mother, my Aunt Kitty.  She is a dry-humored soul with short gray hair, thick round glasses, a pill for every ailment, and a surgery story for every body part God ever made. 

     As I walk to the kitchen, Fran comes around the corner, keys in hand, and I get a glimpse of her “festive” attire.  Her thick hair was festooned with felt antlers and a blinking Christmas-light necklace hung around her neck.  She waved her hand at me and I noticed one finger was completely covered with a “ring”, approximately the size of wall sconce, that was shaped like a little elf, complete with pointy-toed shoes.  We look at each other with equal disdain and say, “You’re wearing that?” at the same time, followed by a unison, “YES!”  I walk towards the kitchen as Fran says, “I already fixed you a ham bun for breakfast.  That’s all you’re getting until the restaurants open so toss it in the tote bag and let’s get in the car.  Bargains await.” 

     I would click my heels together, but I’m too tired.

     We get in the car and, of course Aunt Kitty’s knee is bothering her, so I fold up like a lawn chair and squeeze myself in the back seat.  Fran slams the door, starts the engine, looks at me in the rearview mirror and says, “Hang on to your bippie.”  I was about to say, “But I’m too sleepy to even find my bippie,” but I was too late.  She floored it, tires squalling into the darkness of her neighborhood, as I held on to the door handle and said prayers for every sin I’ve ever committed.  One coffee stop later, we’re at the door of Ritzy Retailer, waiting in line like every other goober who decided to join Club Price Tag in the middle of the night. 

     On and on we shopped, hour after hurried hour of deals, bargains, and Christmas cheer.  Fran sailed through the aisles like a pro, I ran behind her for dear life, and Aunt Kitty’s watch kept beeping to remind her which pill to take next.  We ate “lunch” at 9 am, got manicures at 10, and heard songs about roasting chestnuts at least 524,298 times.  By the time Fran pulled a parking job a la “Blues Brothers” in her driveway, it was 7pm and I was numb from the knees down.  We ordered pizza, listened to Aunt Kitty’s beeping pill watch, and fell asleep like drunk college kids at a pledge party. 

The next morning, I staggered to the living room, feeling somewhat rested but still sore from the 400 miles we had walked the day before.  As Aunt Kitty recounted in detail her most recent surgical procedure, Fran skips into the living room, her towel tied in a turban around her hair.  “Good morning, my lovelies!” she shrieked in that chipper tone I can only liken to a canary.  “Are we ready for our adventure?!”  My eyebrows narrowed, “What adventure?”  “We’re going to get a CHRISTMAS TREE!!!”  I’m sure I turned pale, “Why can’t you get a fake one like everybody else?”  She looked appalled, “And miss the fun?!  The scent?!  The ADVENTURE?!  Oh Bertha-Butt, you are soooo funny!”  I was skeptical.  “And exactly where are we going to get this Christmas tree, Fran?”  She clapped with glee, “Lizard Gizzard Mountain!!  It’s over in the next state but it only takes about 3 hours to get there.  Then we climb up and pick the best tree we can find!  What’s wrong, Bertha?  Why are you crying?” 

  

     So, an hour later, we’re back in the car, flying up Lizard Gizzard Mountain.  The curves are so sharp, my motion sickness is kicking into overdrive while I furiously chew strong mint gum and hope I don’t throw up.  In one ear, I have The Yankee detailing every screw and chisel he saw on his Black Friday trip to the hardware store and in the other ear, Buttercup is having an autistic fit because the DVD player is skipping with each sway of the car.  Something like this: “And then they had this screwdriver set that was originally $55 and it was on special for $35 and if you bought a dozen gasket rings for the dishwasher, they were only $17 a piece and I know you said don’t spend more than about 100 bucks but they threw in a free hammer so I knew you wouldn’t mind.”  “Uh oh!  Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, DDD is bwoken, DDD is bwoken, DDD is bwoken, oh no, oh no, oh no, DDD is bwoken …” (*wave of nausea* Don’t throw up, Bert.  Just keep breathing.)  “So I went ahead and got the screwdriver set but they only had 11 of the darn gasket rings for the dishwasher, so I said ‘Well, heck, why don’t I just get a gasket ring for the dryer too while I’m at it’ and they went ahead and threw in a free hammer anyway …”  “DDD is bwoken, MAMA!! DDD is bwoken, oh no, oh no, oh no …” 

     This better be the best freakin’ Christmas tree the bloody world has ever seen.

     Three hours, two packs of Astonishing Mint Gum, and a bwoken DDD later, we arrive at the base camp of Lizard Gizzard.  Up we hike, carefully avoiding anything that looks like it might turn an ankle, until we find the best tree Lizard Gizzard Mountain has ever produced.  As Stan and Fran debated the virtues of height over diameter, I pondered the mysteries of Christmas tree hunting and came to the realization that God made plastic for a reason. 

     Stan, bless his heart, saw my green tinged face and decided it was time to go home for a relaxing dinner.  He took a longer, but less curvy, way home and I have since decided that I really love him.  We spent the evening swapping stories as we looked at the naked tree in their living room, looking exponentially larger inside the house than it did hanging off the side of Lizard Gizzard Mountain.  It had been a memorable visit, and that’s just the point.  This sisterly crap we do with each other is not always easy, but it sure is memorable.  I was a little sad we were leaving the next day, but happy that we would be going back home to peace and quiet. 

     How very wrong I was.

Thanksgiving Weekend with Fran and Stan - (A story in three acts deserving of a show on Broadway) - Part 1: Two Chickens and a Novice

     Thanksgiving.  My family has never been one for many traditions when it comes to this particular holiday.  Sure, we have a bird and some trimmings, and we all sit around the big table and talk at once.  But that's about it.  No fights over the wishbone, no sporting events on the TV, no mystery cranberry wobble for everyone to place bets on what it's made of.  We're pretty laid back that way.  This was Thanksgiving to me and I never had reason to question it until I got the phone call.  

My mother had informed everyone that, as turkey is not her favorite bird, she would be serving two chickens for Thanksgiving.  The Yankee nearly had a heart attack at the thoughts of a turkeyless Turkey Day and was reeling from the shock.  “No turkey, Bert?  How is that even possible?”  As he wandered from room to room like a lost child, muttering “No turkey?” to himself, the phone rang.  It was Fran, my cutesy-poo cousin (who’s seven-foot husband Stan likes to tell everyone how he shook hands with D.B. Cooper just before the parachute went off), who squealed and said, “Hey! Come go Black Friday shopping with me!”  “Black Friday?  Are you nuts?” I laughed.  She was not phased.  “We’ll get up at 2am, get dressed up with a little Christmas cheer, and head out for the best deals.  You HAVE to come!”  I have no sisters and Fran has no siblings, so we have to rely on each other to do sisterly crap.  I tried to keep this fact in mind as I weighed the options of a life-long “sisterly” memory versus driving in traffic to sleep a few hours and get up to shop.  “Are you there?” she asked.  “Sorry,” I said, “Just got a little lost in thought.  I’ll have to talk to The Yankee about it.  He’s still mourning a Thanksgiving feast devoid of turkey.  Mom’s decided she wants chicken.”  “At THANKSGIVING?!” she shrieked in my ear.  “Tell him if he’ll come along, he can have all the turkey he wants.  And beer.  Turkey and beer.  Tell him.” 

     My mother had informed everyone that, as turkey is not her favorite bird, she would be serving two chickens for Thanksgiving.  The Yankee nearly had a heart attack at the thoughts of a turkeyless Turkey Day and was reeling from the shock.  "No turkey, Bert?  How is that even possible?"  As he wandered from room to room like a lost child, muttering "No turkey?" to himself, the phone rang again.  It was Fran, my cutesy-poo cousin (who's seven-foot husband Stan likes to tell everyone how he shook hands with D.B. Cooper just before the parachute went off), who squealed and said, "Hey!  Come go Black Friday shopping with me!"  "Black Friday?  Are you nuts?" I laughed.  She was not phased.  "We'll get up at 2am, get dressed up with a little Christmas cheer, and head out for the best deals.  You HAVE to come!"  I have no sisters and Fran has no siblings, so we  have to rely on each other to do sisterly crap.  I tried to keep this fact in mind as I weighed the options of a life-long "sisterly" memory versus driving in traffic to sleep a few hours and get up to shop.  "Are you there?" she asked.  "Sorry," I said, "Just got a little lost in thought.  I'll have to talk to The Yankee about it.  He's still mourning a Thanksgiving feast devoid of turkey.  Mom's decided she wants chicken."  "At THANKSGIVING?!" she shrieked in my ear.  "Tell him if he'll come along, he can have all the turkey he wants.  And beer.  Turkey and beer.  Tell him." 

     I walked through the house and found The Yankee, pale and wide-eyed, muttering "No turkey?" to himself.  "Hey," I jabbed his shoulder with my finger.  "Fran wants us to drive 4 hours in Thanksgiving Day traffic so you can keep an eye on Buttercup and I can get up at 2am to go shopping with her."  He awoke from his turkey-daze and answered with an emphatic, "HECK.  NO."  Fran could hear our exchange over the phone, "You didn't mention the turkey, Bertha-Butt."  (Her nicknaming gives her that endearing quality.  I keep telling myself that.)  I sighed, "Fran says you and Stan can shop for guy stuff like oil filters and sandpaper."  He was unmoved.  "I am not driving through all that traffic just so you can shop in the middle of the night like somebody with no sense."  "She has beer."  He snorted, "So does my refrigerator in the garage."  I paused.  "She has turkey."  "What time should we be there?"

     Knowing Fran and her penchant for, ahem, "accessorizing", I was worried about her ideas for dressing with "Christmas cheer".  As a safety precaution, and the fact that she still can't grasp that I need shirts in a "2X super-duper-extra-holy-crap-you-could-dress-a-giraffe-in-a-shirt-this-long" size, I decided to be proactive and design my own festive attire.  One simple black T-shirt, two bottles of red and green fabric pain, and a box fan later, I had an easy-breezy yet stylish shopping shirt with a Christmas tree on it.  It was inexpensive to make, totally un-embarrassing, and fairly screamed "BERTHA".  Perfect.  Two weeks later, I packed the car, made the requisite pies, and headed out for Mom and Dad's Chicken-giving feast. 

     Despite a dinner devoid of the traditional bird, it was a pleasant (and delicious) Thanksgiving.  The chicken was moist and my pies were inhaled.  We said our goodbyes and hit the road.  With "light" traffic, we sauntered in to Fran and Stan's front door a mere 7 hours later.  Buttercup was asleep before her head hit the pillow and The Yankee made a beeline for the turkey.  Moaning in the ecstasy of a lost love, he savored every morsel of turkey as he stuffed his face standing over Fran's stove.  We gave him (and his love) a bit of privacy.

     "I'm a novice, Fran."  She clapped her hands like a little kid, "I know!  It's so exciting!!"  Just then, the happy squeaky kid disappeared and the platoon sergeant appeared to brief me on the Black Friday drill: "Up at 0200 hours.  Quickest shower on record.  Enough makeup that you look not dead but not enough to take forever.  Attire: festive.  Purse: exchanged for a tote bag.  Shoes: sturdy enough to run.  Oh, and my mother is coming along."

     What did I get myself into?

I walked through the house and found The Yankee, pale and wide-eyed, muttering “No turkey?” to himself.  “Hey,” I jabbed his shoulder with my finger.  “Fran wants us to drive 4 hours in Thanksgiving Day traffic so you can keep an eye on Buttercup and I can get up at 2am to go shopping with her.”  He awoke from his turkey-daze and answered with an emphatic, “HECK.  NO.”  Fran could hear our exchange over the phone, “You didn’t mention the turkey, Bertha-Butt.”  (Her nicknaming gives her that endearing quality.  I keep telling myself that.)  I sighed, “Fran says you and Stan can shop for guy stuff like oil filters and sandpaper.”  He was unmoved.  “I am not driving through all that traffic just so you can shop in the middle of the night like somebody with no sense.”  “She has beer.”  He snorted, “So does my refrigerator in the garage.”  I paused.  “She has turkey.”  “What time should we be there?” 

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

             Thanksgiving.  My family has never been one for many traditions when it comes to this particular holiday.  Sure, we have a bird and some trimmings, and we all sit around the big table and talk at once.  But that’s about it.  No fights over the wishbone, no sporting events on the TV, no mystery cranberry wobble for everyone to place bets on what it’s made of.  We’re pretty laid back that way.  This was Thanksgiving to me and I never had reason to question it until I got the phone call.

Knowing Fran and her penchant for, ahem, “accessorizing”, I was worried about her ideas for dressing with “Christmas cheer”.  As a safety precaution, and the fact that she still can’t grasp that I need shirts in a “2X super-duper-extra-holy-crap-you-could-dress-a-giraffe-in-a-shirt-this-long” size, I decided to be proactive and design my own festive attire.  One simple black T-shirt, two bottles of red and green fabric paint, and a box fan later, I had an easy-breezy yet stylish shopping shirt with a Christmas tree on it.  It was inexpensive to make, totally un-embarrassing, and fairly screamed “BERTHA”.  Perfect.  Two weeks later, I packed the car, made the requisite pies, and headed out for Mom and Dad’s Chicken-giving feast. 

Bertha’s Bakers Dozen ™: Weird Crap I’m Actually Thankful For

     Thanksgiving.  Turkey Day.  That yearly overload of turkey, pumpkins, and relatives.  Whatever you want to call it, Thanksgiving is a time for reflection and true gratitude for the many ways we are blessed and a reminder to be a blessing to others whenever possible. 

     This Thanksgiving I am going to be thankful for all the usuals I take for granted: a house to live in, food to eat, a family to annoy me.  But this year I’ve decided to add a few non-traditional entries to the list.  Well, Letterman has his ten; Bertha has her Bakers Dozen … and this time, it’s the Weird Crap I’m Actually Thankful For list:

13) I’m thankful for the times my daughter gets sassy with me because I remember the days when she was intubated and couldn’t make a sound.  The silence was deafening. 

12) I’m thankful for the countless hours my husband ignores me, because while he’s asleep in the recliner, at least he’s not at a bar ignoring someone with a cuter butt. 

11) I’m thankful for badly-timed phone calls from annoying relatives because calling means they aren’t close enough to drop by.

10) I’m thankful for thin hair that takes 3 minutes to style because it gives me more time to skip and jump.

9) I’m thankful none of the restaurants in town can manage to produce a decent glass of sweet tea because it forces me to drink more tap water and really focus on tackling this darn fluoride deficit I’ve been battling.

8) I’m thankful for parents who “count” to their children in public with no intentions of ever following through because by the time they get to 2¹¹/₁₆, I’ve caught up on all those prayers I’ve been meaning to say.

7) I’m thankful for the stereotypes about fat chicks, Southerners, and Christians because it helps me to remember that those skinny atheist vegans are all alike. 

6) I’m thankful for people who scream on their cell phones in public because it reminds me that it is worth the struggle to teach my daughter the defunct tradition of basic etiquette. 

5) I’m thankful for 90 lb., 20 year old blondes parading around on the arms of middle-aged men because it reminds me of three key points: 1) Curves equal power, 2) Age equals wit, 3) The fact that my husband loves me for my brain makes me as scared of head trauma as the 90 lb. blondes are of carbs. 

4) I’m thankful for stale bread because it gives the birds in my yard a momentary diversion from the fun of dive-bombing my car. 

3) I’m thankful for bombastic fish stories spewing forth from every paunchy, bald, mid-life crisis sufferer at the restaurant because it makes me less irritated at my own husband for being shy and silent in public. 

2) I’m thankful for the IRS because I’ve always had such a hard time wondering what to do with all my extra money. 

1) I’m thankful for the dust in my house because dust is primarily comprised of human skin cells, which means I can rest assured there will always be a naked man behind my couch.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Giving Thanks for Thanksgiving

     I looked at my calendar yesterday and realized that Thanksgiving is next week.  I nearly choked and determined two things: One, I really need to put away the Capri pants and accept that summer has forsaken me; and two, I have some menu planning to do.  Mom, my brothers’ wives Red and Midge, and myself split the cooking duties for each holiday so one woman is never solely responsible for an entire feast.  I made a mental note to contact them in a mass e-mail and went back to the task of feeding Buttercup and The Yankee.  As we sat down to our supper, I casually mentioned to The Yankee that the Thanksgiving holiday was approaching rapidly.  He gasped, shook his head, and informed me that I must be mistaken.

     One wall calendar plopped in his lap was all it took. 

     As we talked about the fact that, once again, I was right, our conversation drifted to our traditions.  “Are we having turkey this year?” he asked with a worried look in his eye.  (One Thanksgiving chicken dinner and he’s scarred for life.)  “Because it’s just not Thanksgiving without turkey.”  That one phrase stuck in my mind all night.  “It’s just not Thanksgiving …” And (big surprise here), I started thinking: what exactly makes Thanksgiving?  I suppose the Pilgrims would have said it was a joyous celebration for those who survived unthinkable conditions and the frigid temperatures of a hostile winter.  For Europeans, I suppose it would seem a strange American ritual to eat a huge meal surrounded by people we ordinarily wouldn’t want to share an elevator with.  For The Yankee, I suppose it’s a turkey. 

     Everyone has a different view on what “makes” Thanksgiving, but it all seems to come down to rituals and traditions.  For my best friend, Pocahontas, it’s a trip to her husband’s home town of “Y’all Come” and being welcomed by a deep-fried turkey and a giant, military-sized pan of her mother-in-law’s sage and sausage dressing.  For my crazy Aunt Gladiola who moved to the desert to live in an RV park, Thanksgiving is a time to gather with her fellow RV enthusiasts for communal fish tacos and karaoke.  For The Yankee, it’s a turkey. 

     The running theme always seems to center around the food.  Turkey or no turkey.  Mashed potatoes or sweet potatoes.  Pumpkin pie or pecan pie.  Dressing or stuffing.  I know I should care about this, but truth be told, the menu makes no difference to me.  Thanksgiving is not the food, or the company, or the free day off from work.  To me, Thanksgiving is an attitude.  A moment in time.  A day set aside to pause, reflect, and realize how spoiled rotten we are compared to those who celebrated the first Thanksgiving so long ago.  Those Pilgrims had nothing but their faith and each other and maybe something wild they shot and ate.  We pitch a fit if we got the white meat instead of the dark or the dark meat instead of the white.  Pilgrims and their neighbors of a completely different culture and language put aside their differences to celebrate another year of life.  We complain if we have to sit next to Uncle Hegbert and endure his annoying habit of dousing everything in mayonnaise.  Our forefathers and mothers warmed their tiny little homes with a wood fire, pooped in an outhouse, and ate what they killed or grew.  We throw a screaming temper tantrum if the power goes out or the game on TV is interrupted or the traffic on the highway is too congested. 

     We’re brats. 

     This year, I don’t care what we eat.  I don’t care if it’s turkey or chicken or pork chops or popcorn.  If I have to sit next to the most annoying relative in the entire family tree or if I hold the hand of a complete stranger while we say a prayer of thankfulness for the year behind us, the day around us, and the time to come.  Whatever happens, I fully intend to make Thanksgiving a personal event.  Whatever happens, I’m going to be thankful for it.  For me, Thanksgiving is about bringing the compass of my life back to where it belongs. 

     For The Yankee, it’s a turkey.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

How Do You Plead?

     I had fun.  I took the egg without the busted yolk.  I took the un-mangled fork.  I took the non-charred, golden buttery toast.  I said no because I hate screaming kids.  I threw away the annoying fast food toy with the flashing lights and whining buzzer.  I left a dirty pan in the sink.  I cut the tags off my pillow.  I didn’t answer the phone when that number popped up on the Caller ID.  I ate the frosting flower, I spent part of my Christmas bonus on a new bra, I ordered pepperoni on my pizza even though he hates it, and now I feel bad. 

      I feel guilty.    

      If guilt trips required luggage, I could be my own travel agent.  Why do I do this to myself?  Am I less worthy of the un-mangled fork than Buttercup or The Yankee?  And for that matter, why do I still have the mangled fork?  Everyone is at risk for feeling guilty, but I think women are more likely to go through with it.  Have you ever seen a man eating the last piece of pie with the un-mangled fork and he’s got the chagrined look of a knotted stomach on his face?  Me neither.  From my experience, men look guilty when they’ve been caught doing something to actually feel guilty about.  Can you imagine a pro-athlete sulking about the practice field because he used the last of the “good” hand crème?  Absolutely not!  He might manage a slightly guilty expression when he’s caught paying off prostitutes not to tell how many crack rocks he hid in his duffel bag.  He may conjure a guilty sigh when he presents his jilted wife with a diamond ring and a yacht named after her.  But you will never see him looking ashamed that he parked in the good lot at church. 

      Do women have a guilt gene?  Is it a part of our DNA that we must take every action, every slight, every perceived misstep as a personal responsibility?  I can’t answer that.  All I know is that I have felt guilty for the last time.  I am tired of this feeling.  I am tired of worrying what other people think, how other people feel about me, what other people will believe if I eat another slice, buy the name brand perfume, chug the last of the milk, find something better to do that attend a birthday party for a dozen shrieking 2-year-olds.  I am sick of the gnawing feeling in my gut when I am torn between the decision to take a bubble bath for my aching shoulders or vacuum the carpet one more time. 

      I am striking a vote for freedom!  “No More” is the ensuing battle cry!

No more will I feel sick when I skip the generic peanut butter and go straight for the good stuff.

No More!

No more will I order greasy, loathsome sausage on my pizza just because he likes it.

No More!

No more will I say, “Oh, that chair wobbles? Here, I’ll sit in it.”

No More!

No more will I say, “I’ll be OK with no haircut for 6 months. You really need another tool in your tool box.

No More!

No more will I sit through military shows and tool exhibitions just because he likes them.

No More!

      I have struck a chord on the resounding harp of my inner woman’s soul and I loudly, proudly proclaim that from this day forward, I am no longer giving in to feelings of guilt!  Guilty or Not Guilty … how do you plead?  Not Guilty, thank you!  I am not heeding the muffled sighs of people who must write their own papers, wrap their own gifts, and cook their own snacks!  It is a fabulous feeling.  I’m free!  I am unfettered, unchained, unencumbered by these shackles and … what?  Buttercup can’t sleep because her blankets are crooked?  The Yankee needs me to help him cook popcorn?  Where did that cobweb come from?  Great.

     Now I feel guilty.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Virtual Fish Stories

     I’ll come right out and say it: I love Facebook.  It has given me the opportunity to reclaim old friendships, the pleasure of sharing pictures with friends living a thousand miles away, and the ability to catch up with relatives who would otherwise not care if I lived or died.  I enjoy hearing what my friends are doing and seeing their children grow up.  That is, until I start running across what I call “virtual fish stories”. 

      Every person knows someone who isn’t satisfied with saying something like, “Busy day, but accomplished a lot.  Time to relax with a beer!”  No, that wouldn’t do it for Ol’ Fish Tale.  Nope.  This person has to put a dramatic spin on everything: “Got up early. Went to the track and ran 2 miles. Came home, mowed the lawn, cleaned the gutters, planted flowers, repotted Christmas cactus, painted the kitchen, replaced the wax ring under the guest toilet, cooked a week’s worth of dinners so we can eat reheated leftovers for the next 5 days, patched the driveway, brought homemade bread to the old lady next door, helped her sand her feet and worm her cat, cut and stacked 3 cords of firewood, and now I’m going to enjoy a nice glass of wine … but only a tiny one!  No overindulging in this house!” 

      Puh-leez.

      Am I the only one who finds these posts more annoying than creeping underwear?  It’s not enough that the job list they have decided to share with you involves enough work to kill the average high-school jock, it just reeks of exaggeration.  Did you really paint the kitchen?  Or did you just run a dab of paint over an old nail hole?  Did you really plant flowers?  Or did you just fling an envelope of poppy seeds over a section of dirt and hope a few come up?  And if you want to relax with wine, I don’t care if you drink the whole box, so stop trying to justify what you're doing.

      I’ve sat and pondered this phenomenon on many occasion, mainly because I’m smart about how I use my time.  What drives someone to put on such a display?  Are they afraid of their lives being so boring that they have to make a big deal out of chores?  Are they so desperate for approval of a job well done that they have to chronicle their entire lives on the Internet for a few precious, “Wow, you’re amazing!” comments?  The possibilities are endless, but the comments are endlessly irritating. 

      And the same goes for the overly-sappy posts as well.  I’ve had some on my newsfeed that read more like a love letter, and are enough to embarrass a hard wit like me: “Oh, Baby.  You were so wonderful.  I can’t believe you would fall for someone like me.  I swear I must be the luckiest person on earth to have your love.  It makes my heart pound to think of how you look at me …” HOLD IT RIGHT THERE.  If you want to get all mushy-gushy, send a private message.  Still others sound like an entry in a prayer journal from 1644: “O Lord, I thank Thee for the sun that riseth outsideth my windoweth, for its light shineth on my sin and showeth me how truly despicableth I am-eth.”  Really?  A simple, “The sunrise is particularly pretty this morning.  Thanks, God, for sharing it with me” will suffice.  

      I know what some of you are thinking: don’t read it.  Block Ol’ Fish Tale.  Skip over Romantic Rendezvous and Pilgrim Prudence.  Stop being a glutton for punishment.  I get what you are saying and you have a valid point, my friend.  But like the curdled milk we can’t stop ourselves from sniffing before it slithers down the drain, these particular posts are a powerful magnet.  I can’t stop myself.  I can’t help skimming over it, and at the rate I read, I’ve already absorbed the boring details of your bombastic fish story before I can finish scrolling down the page.

      I understand people have different ways of expressing themselves.  Some need reassurance, some are overcome by the depth of their love, some are still trying to talk like King James.  I happen to be a grouch, and I’m sure there are plenty of people who skim over my posts.  “Oh, goody.  Bertha saw another moron at the grocery store.  There goes my Saturday.”    

      At least I warned you first.

 © Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

There's a Clothes Line Between Love and Hate

     I nearly froze on my way to the car this morning.  The Yankee scratched his name in the frost on my windshield.  The leaves are changing to a pasty, homely brown before they finally give up and fall to my driveway.  The tomatoes in the stores are a lovely flamingo pink and taste like a rubber ball filled with oatmeal. 

     I think that means summer is officially over. 

      I have a love/hate relationship with the weather.  I like the summer heat, the juicy tang of a perfectly ripened strawberry, tomatoes as red as … well … a tomato.  As long as there is the promise of an air-conditioned reprieve, I could live in a tropical weather pattern for the rest of my life.  Who needs the cold!  And snow … oh my gosh, don’t get me started on how much I hate snow.  If I had to choose snow or leftover liver, I think I would have to answer with, “Surprise me”.  The shocking blue spark that shoots from my fingers every time I touch something metal; the naked trees that let me see Farmer Gibbons’ house six miles away; the instantaneous runny nose from daring to venture out beyond my front door … these are the things I can live without forever.  On the other hand, I love the crisp scent of apples at the orchard, the homey comfort of a roast beef after coming in from a cold outdoor walk, and the ensuing holiday festivities. But I think my favorite part about cold weather has to be the clothes. 

      Winter clothes are a fat chick’s delight.  All summer long, skinny girls prance around in bathing suits that amount to little more than hankies and dental floss while the rest of us are searching for something to wear that both covers and reduces the threat of a heat stroke.  I remember walking into a store last summer and searching in vain for a swimsuit that was larger than Barbie’s dream handbag.  I walked up to a sales associate (whose center of gravity could have been easily relocated if I’d sneezed on her) and said, “Hi.  Do you have swimsuits in larger sizes that actually cover more flesh than a postage stamp?”  She said, “Like, yeah, we have one on that clearance rack that’s kinda big.”  I tried to keep my smile from appearing forced, “Oh, you mean the size 8 two-piece in the lovely poop brown?  Thanks, but I was hoping for something more likely to fit Barbie’s fat cousin, Pork-Barbie-Q.”  I kept walking through the mall.  Store after store, disappointment after disappointment.  The suits that were long enough to fit tall chick like me were available in a convenient XXXL size 8.  The suits that were big enough to fit a fat chick like me were available in a length known as “Munchkin-Land”.  I tried it on and laughed when the bra cups hit below my rib cage.  More walking, more searching, and I found a 2-piece that claimed to “cover like a 1-piece with the fun mix-n-match of a 2-piece!”  As I tried it on, my eyes squinted in fear of what I would see in the mirror, I knew instantly it was a failure.  Through the shadow of my eyelashes, I saw a 4-inch gap between the bottom of the top and the top of the bottom.  (Say that 10 times fast.)  I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry, so I did a little of both.  I finally broke down and ordered a swimsuit off the internet.  Search after search revealed little but I managed to find a website that offered exactly 1 suit in my size/length.  It was still too short, but I stretched the dickens out of it. 

      These are the trials that make me glad to see autumn rear it’s cold little head.  Boots, pashminas, layers … forget diamonds, these are a girl’s best friend!  How can you feel self-conscious in boots?!  It’s awesome, and it’s almost enough to make me stop hating the cold weather.  Almost. 

      Once again, I shuffle my frozen joints to the car and see The Yankee has actually scraped the frost off my windshield this morning instead of writing a clever note.  My skin burns from the wind and my nose runs.  I am tempted to hate the feeling, but then I turn my thoughts to baked apples, Christmas cheer, and swimsuit shopping for Pork-Barbie-Q.  Suddenly, I feel alive again.

 © Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Reflection

     Every year since I was 10, I have written a reflection on my birthday.  What I’ve learned throughout the year, what I hope to accomplish in the coming year, what I hope to improve about myself.  (To answer what you are thinking: Yes, I was a nerdy bookworm.  No, I didn’t have many friends.)  It’s a tradition I have kept up for many years, and this year is no different … except that I’m going to let you read it.

      Today is my birthday.  As I look around me, I realize the world looks no different than it did yesterday.  The leaves are changing colors, the construction guys are still patching that same stretch of road, Local Grocery still has chickens on sale.  Nothing is really any different, except for me.  I am a year older and, Lord willing, a year wiser.  This past year has been a learning experience.  After waking up one morning and realizing that I am the only one who can make me a writer, I finally took these thoughts I have been writing down and posted them on a blog.  I have built up a few loyal readers who faithfully sign in every Tuesday and Friday to see what odd take I have on the trite, the mundane, and the just plain stupid.  I have married couples, parents of autistic children, and fellow curmudgeons finding solace that they are not alone.  Funny how strangers on the Internet can feel more like a community than the people living next door to you, fighting the same weather, and paying the same taxes.  I don’t know their names, most of them, and I don’t know what they look like, but they connect with me.  They tell me their stories, encourage me in my writing, and send messages to my e-mail box that would otherwise be a haven for spammers.

      My international friends are from various parts of the world.  The United States, Russia, Netherlands, Iraq, Germany, the United Kingdom … the list goes on.  I find it interesting that someone in a country thousands of miles from my own would find the observations of a grouchy writer worthy of their time.  I have found myself thinking more and more about the people around me.  What are their stories, their takes on the trite, the mundane, the stupid?  It’s a fun mental exercise and a constant reminder that we are all connected in one way or another. 

      Throughout this year, I have solidified my belief that sometimes the best way to end a fight is with a shocking, unexpected bear hug.  It has become more real in my mind that some things are worth fighting for no matter how long it takes, while some things are best to let go.  I have learned that no one is going to take care of me but me and there’s no time like the present.  I have realized how deeply connected I am to my family, how unwaveringly loyal my friends are, and how very intensely I hate liver and leftovers.  I am becoming more sure of who I am and more sure of who I want to be.

      For this new year in my life, I will continue to carry myself as a writer.  I have been described as “Erma Bombeck having a drink with Archie Bunker and R. Lee Ermey”, and I realize what an awesome compliment that is.  I will continue to view the world through the “Bertha lenses” of my variety show brain.  I will give sincere, heartfelt compliments and encouragement to those around me and work on this seething intolerance for idiots that causes my heart to race and my teeth to itch.  I will stop worrying what other people think of me and start worrying about what mark I will leave on society.  I will take every opportunity to make someone laugh when they feel like crying and think when they are certain they have all the answers.  I will take the admiring eyes of my daughter as a challenge to do better every day of my life; the wisdom of my girlfriends as a reminder that sisterhood transcends age and genetics; and the teasing of my male friends as proof that God gave me awesomely insane brothers for preparatory reasons.

      I will no longer wish to be something I am not, but will strive for health and strength.  I will relish my curves and stop wishing for straight lines.  I will bask in the light of my friends’ accomplishments and thank them for allowing me to share in their joy.  I will give with gentle generosity and receive with humble thanksgiving.  I will think more deeply, laugh more freely, and love when it pains me.  And I will never, never give up.  

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.