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.

Pocahontas

     My best friend in the entire world is Pocahontas.  She and I met under unlikely circumstances but ours is a bond that has lasted over a decade and will continue on forever.  I’ll keep it short and sweet, but I have to start with a little background.

     I like the outdoors as long as there is something to actually DO and the promise of a hot shower and air conditioning is not far behind.  I hate eating outside at "cook outs" because of the bugs, the stickiness, the wind, the constant sweating, and the inevitable nausea that comes from being overheated.  Also, I've never understood the logic behind, "HEY!!! It's a thousand degrees in the shade and the grass is so dry we could use it for meat skewers let's light a fire and eat with the flies and wasps!!!!"  It was at one such festive, nauseating, bug-infested “cook out” that I met Pocahontas.  A mutual friend of ours was having an engagement party at a park in the middle of August on an afternoon where the air outside was so hot and humid, it was like trying to breathe through a wet dog.  The nausea was already setting in and I hadn’t even made it to the picnic shelter yet.  I could faintly smell the aroma of sunscreen, lighter fluid, and a dirty diaper and was already on the verge of dragging myself back to the car.  I managed to make it to the shelter and find a sweaty bottle of water that used to be cold until the ice melted into a helpless lukewarm pool.  The Yankee was having a great time talking with the other guys and asking who was winning in the volleyball game being played in the sand pit next to the shelter.  Those players were so dehydrated they looked like zombies and I haven’t seen faces that red since Preacher Swanson read the youth bathroom wall out loud at my cousin’s church one Sunday.  I found a semi-shaded spot between a wall and the table of hot dog buns so when I fainted, I would have somewhere soft and vitamin-enriched to land.  Next to me was a moderately pregnant, blonde beauty queen who looked as miserable as I was.  I chugged my lukewarm water and said, “Don’t you love cook outs?”  She cut her blue eyes at me and, with a Southern drawl even worse than my own, said, “’Bout as much as I love Yankee cornbread.” 

     That did it.  We had the best time comparing stories about growing up in the South, how nauseous we were, could it get any hotter, and how we came to meet our mutual friends.  Neither one of us ate but stayed in our soft, vitamin enriched corner, willing each other to stay conscious.  It was awesome.  I found out that she had two college degrees, but was just as snarky and down to earth as I am.  We understood each other, we made each other laugh, and found out our husbands had similarities.  And when she looked over at me with her own sweaty bottle of lukewarm water and said, “Y’all come go with us” and I answered with the requisite, “Wish we could”, our friendship was cemented.  It was the greatest nauseated hour I have ever spent and to this day, we laugh every time someone mentions a cook out.  Her husband, Sarge, turned out to be as delightful company as Pocahontas and our families have somehow become intertwined.  I cried when her mother died and she cried when I struggled with secondary infertility.  She rejoices when Buttercup learns some new way of coping with her autism, and I rejoice when her genius daughter, Blondie, wins another award for writing Newberry-worthy stories at 8 years old.  

    I learned something that day.  Sometimes when you suffer through an experience you hate for the sake of loved ones, you are rewarded with something even greater.  Had I not trudged up that hill, suffered through the bugs and sticky misery of that horrible cook out, I would never have met Pocahontas and Sarge.  The Yankee wouldn’t have someone to swap military stories with and I would have missed out on the greatest friendship and support system ever known.  We will be friends forever; we know far too much about each other and it would behoove us both to maintain a peaceful coexistence.  I also learned something else that overheated afternoon: laughter really is the best medicine, no matter how worn out that phrase sounds.  If I had not had the hilarious conversation with Pocahontas, I would most certainly have needed that soft, vitamin-enriched landing pad.  Because I know the nausea would have gotten the best of me and I would have fainted.  And then I wouldn’t have a friend, but a weird, hot dog bun shaped scar on my head to remember that miserable cook out.  

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

Why I Wear Big Earrings

     I never thought any deeper about my accessory choices than the age old question, “Does it match?”  Beyond matching, the whys and wherefores, the deep-seated reasons behind why I wear what I wear never really headlined in the variety show of my mind.  I just continued choosing big earrings and wearing whatever matched until the day I wore simple pearl earrings with an elegant outfit and someone said, “I thought you only wore big earrings.  What changed?”  Changed?  Nothing changed.  This elegant outfit called for elegant accessories and nothing fit the bill better than my wedding pearls The Yankee nervously handed to me as a wedding gift.  That bizarre-o question bugged me for the rest of the night.  Why do I wear big earrings all the time?  Is it the mere fact that I’m just drawn to them like babies are drawn to car keys and ponytails, or is it something more deeply philosophical?  After much soul searching and an internal interview, I have surmised the following hypothesis. 

     I've always been body-conscious for a number of reasons.  I've always felt "on the outside", so to speak.  Like the world had this big club in a shopping mall somewhere that I wasn't allowed to join.  I was this huge, tall kid who started wearing women's shoes in the 3^rd grade, so it was like, "Well, here's this fun ride, but you're too big for it."  Then I can't find any clothes to fit me because, while I was the height and size of a grown woman, I still had the figure of an 8 year old.  Nothing fit me and I looked ridiculous ... not to mention the 80's was the era that style forgot.  Thank goodness I never got into the whole leg warmers thing ... they probably wouldn't have fit me either.  Then, when I got older, it was like, “You've finally reached womanhood!  Here are the cute clothes for people your age ... oooh, so sorry, you're too big.  What?  You don't want to wear a 2 piece?  Well, the great-great-granny section is down the hall, left turn at the hearing aids.”  Then it was, “Wow you sure are tall!  We have tall pants in sizes 2,4,6,and our XXXL is an 8.  What?  You can't squeeze one butt cheek in our XXXL size 8?  Somebody tax this girl's carbon dioxide emissions!!!”  So, down the hall I go to the fat chicks department.  “Wow!  You're a buxom gal!  We have sizes 16, 18, 20 and up.  This 18 fits really, really, really TALL girls all the way up to 5 feet 4 inches in height!!!  What?  You're 6-feet-in-heels?  Security!!!”

     So I thought, “Well, I guess I'll stick to the few pieces of clothes I can find at Buxom Broads, Inc. that aren't $100 each.  With my high-water pants, I’ll start a Capri pants trend.  I'll just get colored contacts to make my green eyes greener.  That, along with my eye makeup and huge earrings, will take the emphasis off of my granny outfits and high-water pants.”  What?  You're legally blind?  Well, our colored lenses are for special people who are only sorta-blind, but we have these clear lenses that are almost comfortable!!  So, with my clear, almost comfortable lenses I think, "That's OK, I'll get a new hairdo".  And the hairdresser says, "You want your hair to look like Oprah's?  Well, I suggest you get hair donations from 20 of your closest friends because you're bald, darlin'!!  Only special people with tons and gobs of hair can look like her!!!"  So, I perm my 9 strands of hair, thus bringing the spiral perm fad back into haute couture,  and take my clear lenses, high-water pants, and short-people, granny-gauze bathing suit with the bra cups under my ribcage and think, "Well, I'll just use my sense of humor to make people not notice the baldness, clear lenses, high-water pants, and granny gauze bathing suit".  And the world says, "You want to make us laugh?  Ooooooh, sorry, that only works if you're thin with tons of hair, pants that fit, bright green eyes, and a bikini.  OR, you can use tons of profanity and scream the F-word every other breath.  What?  You don't cuss like that?  Well, the retired librarians are meeting down the hall, right turn at the orthopedic school marm shoes ..."

     So, there you have it.  My armchair psychiatric self-evaluation into the deep reasons why I wear big earrings.  Was my momentary lapse into the ladylike grace of demure pearls indicative of anything other than a one-time jewelry choice for a dress-up affair?  “Well, Bertha, only you can answer that.” 

OK, I’m getting on my own nerves now.  

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