March 30
Holbrook, AZ
Dear Courtney & Timmy,
Uncle John is laughing at me. I just sent you a package and he says, “You sent our niece and nephew cotton, and now you’re sending rocks? What kind of a weird aunt are you?”
I guess pretty weird. But I get excited about things I have never seen before, and want to share them with you.
First, one of the rocks is a polished piece of petrified wood from the Petrified Forest in Arizona. Here’s the story: During the dinosaur age, that desert area of Arizona was a lush and humid jungle. Trees grew and died and with the change of weather they were eventually buried under three major layers of dirt and silica (and something else) that preserved them from rotting. The silica seeped into the xylem and phloem of the wood and turned it into rock – quartz, mica, hematite, even amethyst, which are all semiprecious stones.
Millions of years later, upheavals in the earth cause these stone trees to come up through the layers of rock that had preserved them. I took some pictures, and the land is covered with what looks like uncut wood from a woodpile, except when you get close up and see that they are petrified. The bigger specimens actually still look like whole trees. Amazing.
I also got you a couple of bracelets made of polished bits of petrified wood so you could see all the colors.
Later, we went through the Painted Desert where you could easily see all the layers of sediment that piled up over time.
When we arrived at our campground in Holbrook, Arizona, it was surrounded by all these really strange, really black boulders. When I asked about them, the camp host told me they were lava. Mt. Taylor, nearby, erupted 225,000 years ago, blew off its peak, and spewed lava in the area. It hasn’t blown since. That lava I sent you is 225,000 years old. Doesn’t look like much, but still …
Look, I know you guys are sophisticated teens and almost teens, about the coolest people I know in this world. But I hope these rocks will mean something to you, even if it’s just that your weird aunt and crazy uncle are thinking of you as we bop around this country. We would have wrapped up the horses and sent them, but I wasn’t sure your parents would appreciate two more mouths to feed.
See you soon, I promise.
Love
Aunt Betty
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Pity Me Please
Mesa, AZ
Mesa Spirit RV Campground
Pity me, world, for I have lost so much. I’m retired, you see, and things just aren’t the same.
First, I lost my job writing ads for cranky clients, with recent college graduates opining such profundities as, “Women don’t bathe with rubber ducks.” Instead, I have discovered writing for myself, and while I am my own worst critic, I don’t make myself angry when I criticize me.
I lost my partner and employees in the deal too. Then again, we’re still emailing, so I guess we’re friends. That’s nice.
Then I lost two acres of land and a house. Actually two acres and a skosh, if you count the condo. And my beautiful BMW. Now my house is on wheels, and we’re towing a little Jeep. It’s not a BMW, but it gets me there.
Somewhere along the way, I lost my alarm clock. Now I have to depend on the sun and the birds and the warm air drifting in my window to wake me up. It’s a sacrifice, I know, but we’re on a budget, so I’m not replacing that clock.
I lost my dishwasher, but it’s amazing how clean your nails get when you dunk them in sudsy water for five minutes once a day. I haven’t lost my dishes, though. They’re still in the cabinet, right behind the paper plates, if memory serves.
I’ve lost my schedule. Sometimes I do the laundry on Monday, sometimes not. (Sometimes not at all.) The same with cleaning. In fact, I downsized my vacuum for a Swiffer and damn if it isn’t the quietest thing in the world. I have all the cleaning products I ever had at home, but they’re happier in the closet these days and I hate to disturb them.
If all this gives you the impression that I retired to become a housekeeper in a bus, let me assure you that this was a bargain I struck when I discovered that the other jobs available were dump and water hookup, engine maintenance and heavy lifting.
I didn’t lose my dog and he still sheds a lot. And your point is?
Interestingly, I’ve also lost my wallet. I do carry a couple of credit cards around, but I let the old guy take care of all the cash transactions. I hear the Queen of England never carries cash either. It’s just so … plebian.
Which leads me to another financial loss: my money worries. For some reason, being on a budget, spending less and beating the challenge of having a fabulous life anyway are incredibly gratifying. If you had told me this three years ago, I would have laughed out loud, waved my seven credit cards in your face and driven away in my BMW to my huge house and huge bills.
I’ve lost other stresses too, but honestly, stress has a way of sneaking up on me. That’s just the way I am. However, OMG we’re out of coffee is a small one compared to OMG we’re out of clients.
I’ve lost my bicycle. It was hanging on the back of the motor coach, slipped off its moorings and one wheel got stuck on the exhaust pipe. The bike melted. I’m serious; not just the tire, but the metal parts too. I’ll get a new one. One of these days.
Retirement is all about loss. You lose a lot of things you never wanted in the first place, some things you hadn’t even known you didn’t want, and a couple of things you probably should replace.
I lost nights alone without my husband’s back to rest my icy feet on. I lost working around the clock – and I was in advertising, so you can believe that one. I lost my three-hour commute on a jammed-up highway. I lost my high heels. I think they’re in a box somewhere. In losing those three-inchers, I lost my ability to walk in them, but I also lost two throbbing corns. I’m ahead of the game.
What else have I lost? I can’t even remember. But there’s another side to this coin, as you may have guessed.
Wait until the next chapter. I haven’t even begun to tell you what I’ve gained.
Betty
Mesa Spirit RV Campground
Pity me, world, for I have lost so much. I’m retired, you see, and things just aren’t the same.
First, I lost my job writing ads for cranky clients, with recent college graduates opining such profundities as, “Women don’t bathe with rubber ducks.” Instead, I have discovered writing for myself, and while I am my own worst critic, I don’t make myself angry when I criticize me.
I lost my partner and employees in the deal too. Then again, we’re still emailing, so I guess we’re friends. That’s nice.
Then I lost two acres of land and a house. Actually two acres and a skosh, if you count the condo. And my beautiful BMW. Now my house is on wheels, and we’re towing a little Jeep. It’s not a BMW, but it gets me there.
Somewhere along the way, I lost my alarm clock. Now I have to depend on the sun and the birds and the warm air drifting in my window to wake me up. It’s a sacrifice, I know, but we’re on a budget, so I’m not replacing that clock.
I lost my dishwasher, but it’s amazing how clean your nails get when you dunk them in sudsy water for five minutes once a day. I haven’t lost my dishes, though. They’re still in the cabinet, right behind the paper plates, if memory serves.
I’ve lost my schedule. Sometimes I do the laundry on Monday, sometimes not. (Sometimes not at all.) The same with cleaning. In fact, I downsized my vacuum for a Swiffer and damn if it isn’t the quietest thing in the world. I have all the cleaning products I ever had at home, but they’re happier in the closet these days and I hate to disturb them.
If all this gives you the impression that I retired to become a housekeeper in a bus, let me assure you that this was a bargain I struck when I discovered that the other jobs available were dump and water hookup, engine maintenance and heavy lifting.
I didn’t lose my dog and he still sheds a lot. And your point is?
Interestingly, I’ve also lost my wallet. I do carry a couple of credit cards around, but I let the old guy take care of all the cash transactions. I hear the Queen of England never carries cash either. It’s just so … plebian.
Which leads me to another financial loss: my money worries. For some reason, being on a budget, spending less and beating the challenge of having a fabulous life anyway are incredibly gratifying. If you had told me this three years ago, I would have laughed out loud, waved my seven credit cards in your face and driven away in my BMW to my huge house and huge bills.
I’ve lost other stresses too, but honestly, stress has a way of sneaking up on me. That’s just the way I am. However, OMG we’re out of coffee is a small one compared to OMG we’re out of clients.
I’ve lost my bicycle. It was hanging on the back of the motor coach, slipped off its moorings and one wheel got stuck on the exhaust pipe. The bike melted. I’m serious; not just the tire, but the metal parts too. I’ll get a new one. One of these days.
Retirement is all about loss. You lose a lot of things you never wanted in the first place, some things you hadn’t even known you didn’t want, and a couple of things you probably should replace.
I lost nights alone without my husband’s back to rest my icy feet on. I lost working around the clock – and I was in advertising, so you can believe that one. I lost my three-hour commute on a jammed-up highway. I lost my high heels. I think they’re in a box somewhere. In losing those three-inchers, I lost my ability to walk in them, but I also lost two throbbing corns. I’m ahead of the game.
What else have I lost? I can’t even remember. But there’s another side to this coin, as you may have guessed.
Wait until the next chapter. I haven’t even begun to tell you what I’ve gained.
Betty
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Challenge of Change
Sedona AZ
Dear Mrs. Cast,
Thank you for your comments on my blog. They are very much appreciated. And you came to the right girl for advice. So here’s my take on retiring to an RV full time.
I feel your pain.
But like all change, it’s really the anticipation that is scary. I should know. When I went into labor with my second child, I decided I just wasn't having this baby. I'd changed my mind. Guess what.
Once you commit to any life, whether it’s retirement, period, with all its adjustments, or moving to another part of the country, or downsizing, or god forbid moving in with the kids, it’s unnerving. Especially that kids thing, oy.
But the reality of this turtle living, moving around with your home on your figurative backs, is that it doesn’t have to be permanent. You can always change your mind. Encourage your reluctant spouse to think of it as a nice long, protracted vacation adventure, with lots of time for visiting with friends and family, lots of fun exploring new sights, foods, people and places, lots of learning that will undoubtedly keep your mind agile even if your back is growing achy, your knees are giving out and your hearing’s getting more selective by the day.
And you can stop doing it the minute you get bored, or begin to long for dirt. That’s the only thing I’ve missed in two years on the road, dirt. A nice little plot to put seeds in, nurture and watch grow into beautiful flowers. I missed the decorating thing for a while, but buying a couple of pillows for the couch seemed to staunch that fire. They’re on the floor as I write this, making a nice resting place for our smelly little dog. So much for living in style.
Seriously, I’m not going to be 95 and hauling ass all over America. I’m going to be rocking and knitting. Then again, I could well move that rocker into the bus and haul my bony old self up to Alaska for just one more look. I have every option in the world, you see.
That’s the beautiful part of the rest of our lives. We still have all the choices in the world, and all the world to discover.
But the pain, oh the pain, of giving up your stuff. Your house, your furniture, your washing machine, your rake, your trash compacter, your closet with those clothes you haven’t worn in years, those knick knacks you’ve forgotten to dust for three months.
You get my drift. What I discovered was that I was holding onto a concept of hearth and home that had little, if any, basis in reality. Things don’t make a home. You do. And you will turn wherever you are into your home and love it as much as that house with its dust bunnies under the bed, air conditioner that dies on the hottest day, and washing machine that burps if you put clothes in it.
It took my husband three years to get me to sell my thriving business, abandon my partner and employees, my brothers and sisters, friends and acquaintances, sell my beautiful house, pretty condo and BMW and trade it all for – let’s get real here – the future of my marriage and the safety of our nest egg. We were simply living too high on the hog, accent on the hog.
Once I finally committed to this big change, I surprised myself. I got jazzed about it. And I began to see what really mattered to me in my life. For example, where I had been in love with the antique demilune chest with the marble top that graced our entrance and made it elegant, special and unique, I now saw it as a gorgeous box for candles I’d never light, tassels I’d bought and never used, vases I couldn’t throw away and keys to things I couldn’t remember. Plus, it was a catchall for purses, gloves and stuff that wasn’t even decorative. So when someone at the garage sale offered me the same price I’d paid for it two years earlier, I happily sold it, even though I’d had every intention of keeping it in storage.
But I kept every picture I’d ever taken of my kids, my Betty Boop collection because it has sentimental value, my brand new mattress, but not the bed, and a couple of bureaus that were so expensive I’d never get what they were worth. We have three rooms full of stored things, and I have been thinking lately of how much it costs to store stuff, and which of those things I couldn’t bear to part with, things that are now just a monkey on my back money-wise, and how I’m going to put most of them on Craig’s List when I get back to New York. So much for what I couldn’t live without. You’ll be amazed. And the money will be really nice if I ever buy a place. All new stuff, how exciting.
I thought I’d miss my friends and family, and while I certainly do miss our regular dinners together, card games visits and the like, I’m actually seeing much more of them than I expected. Wheels can take you anywhere, remember. And I’ve reconnected with old friends who’ve moved away, which is one of the happiest of all my happy experiences. Hanging out with somebody you’ve not seen for twenty years, who is just as great to be with as you remember – that’s a gift.
And thank God for phone and Internet and Facebook and computers with cameras and Skype and all the ways we can stay close no matter where we are.
So you see, dear Mrs. C, home is where you make it. And things are less important than you think. And if you don’t have a patch of dirt to plant, then you buy a portable flower box and throw some seeds in it. And if your friends are far away, you will make more of an effort to stay in touch. Adapting is the name of the game, and change really does shake the tree and help the dead fruit to fall to the ground. The good peaches will stay with you and taste riper and juicier than you ever imagined.
I think I just made the longest metaphor ever attempted by a writer. See? When I lived on my dirt, I could never have done that. The dryer would have dinged and I’d have to fold clothes. It just wouldn’t have happened.
Oh, and by the way, before you leave, tell your husband he’s now in charge of his own laundry. You’re not retiring to become a housekeeper. It’s bad enough you’ll have to toss those paper plates in the garbage. That’s enough housework for any woman.
Love Betty
Dear Mrs. Cast,
Thank you for your comments on my blog. They are very much appreciated. And you came to the right girl for advice. So here’s my take on retiring to an RV full time.
I feel your pain.
But like all change, it’s really the anticipation that is scary. I should know. When I went into labor with my second child, I decided I just wasn't having this baby. I'd changed my mind. Guess what.
Once you commit to any life, whether it’s retirement, period, with all its adjustments, or moving to another part of the country, or downsizing, or god forbid moving in with the kids, it’s unnerving. Especially that kids thing, oy.
But the reality of this turtle living, moving around with your home on your figurative backs, is that it doesn’t have to be permanent. You can always change your mind. Encourage your reluctant spouse to think of it as a nice long, protracted vacation adventure, with lots of time for visiting with friends and family, lots of fun exploring new sights, foods, people and places, lots of learning that will undoubtedly keep your mind agile even if your back is growing achy, your knees are giving out and your hearing’s getting more selective by the day.
And you can stop doing it the minute you get bored, or begin to long for dirt. That’s the only thing I’ve missed in two years on the road, dirt. A nice little plot to put seeds in, nurture and watch grow into beautiful flowers. I missed the decorating thing for a while, but buying a couple of pillows for the couch seemed to staunch that fire. They’re on the floor as I write this, making a nice resting place for our smelly little dog. So much for living in style.
Seriously, I’m not going to be 95 and hauling ass all over America. I’m going to be rocking and knitting. Then again, I could well move that rocker into the bus and haul my bony old self up to Alaska for just one more look. I have every option in the world, you see.
That’s the beautiful part of the rest of our lives. We still have all the choices in the world, and all the world to discover.
But the pain, oh the pain, of giving up your stuff. Your house, your furniture, your washing machine, your rake, your trash compacter, your closet with those clothes you haven’t worn in years, those knick knacks you’ve forgotten to dust for three months.
You get my drift. What I discovered was that I was holding onto a concept of hearth and home that had little, if any, basis in reality. Things don’t make a home. You do. And you will turn wherever you are into your home and love it as much as that house with its dust bunnies under the bed, air conditioner that dies on the hottest day, and washing machine that burps if you put clothes in it.
It took my husband three years to get me to sell my thriving business, abandon my partner and employees, my brothers and sisters, friends and acquaintances, sell my beautiful house, pretty condo and BMW and trade it all for – let’s get real here – the future of my marriage and the safety of our nest egg. We were simply living too high on the hog, accent on the hog.
Once I finally committed to this big change, I surprised myself. I got jazzed about it. And I began to see what really mattered to me in my life. For example, where I had been in love with the antique demilune chest with the marble top that graced our entrance and made it elegant, special and unique, I now saw it as a gorgeous box for candles I’d never light, tassels I’d bought and never used, vases I couldn’t throw away and keys to things I couldn’t remember. Plus, it was a catchall for purses, gloves and stuff that wasn’t even decorative. So when someone at the garage sale offered me the same price I’d paid for it two years earlier, I happily sold it, even though I’d had every intention of keeping it in storage.
But I kept every picture I’d ever taken of my kids, my Betty Boop collection because it has sentimental value, my brand new mattress, but not the bed, and a couple of bureaus that were so expensive I’d never get what they were worth. We have three rooms full of stored things, and I have been thinking lately of how much it costs to store stuff, and which of those things I couldn’t bear to part with, things that are now just a monkey on my back money-wise, and how I’m going to put most of them on Craig’s List when I get back to New York. So much for what I couldn’t live without. You’ll be amazed. And the money will be really nice if I ever buy a place. All new stuff, how exciting.
I thought I’d miss my friends and family, and while I certainly do miss our regular dinners together, card games visits and the like, I’m actually seeing much more of them than I expected. Wheels can take you anywhere, remember. And I’ve reconnected with old friends who’ve moved away, which is one of the happiest of all my happy experiences. Hanging out with somebody you’ve not seen for twenty years, who is just as great to be with as you remember – that’s a gift.
And thank God for phone and Internet and Facebook and computers with cameras and Skype and all the ways we can stay close no matter where we are.
So you see, dear Mrs. C, home is where you make it. And things are less important than you think. And if you don’t have a patch of dirt to plant, then you buy a portable flower box and throw some seeds in it. And if your friends are far away, you will make more of an effort to stay in touch. Adapting is the name of the game, and change really does shake the tree and help the dead fruit to fall to the ground. The good peaches will stay with you and taste riper and juicier than you ever imagined.
I think I just made the longest metaphor ever attempted by a writer. See? When I lived on my dirt, I could never have done that. The dryer would have dinged and I’d have to fold clothes. It just wouldn’t have happened.
Oh, and by the way, before you leave, tell your husband he’s now in charge of his own laundry. You’re not retiring to become a housekeeper. It’s bad enough you’ll have to toss those paper plates in the garbage. That’s enough housework for any woman.
Love Betty
Monday, March 15, 2010
Time for Reflection
Verde Valley AZ
Outside of Sedona
We learned a day late that it was now Daylight Davings Time, so late Sunday night we made a couple of our key clocks Spring Ahead.Good thing, because we had to get up really early this morning to get to the RV dealer for a new pump that would correct a water pressure problem. We had a 9 a.m. appointment so we could get the job done and get on the road asap. Except we arrived at 7:45.
They don't have daylight savings in Arizona. It and Indiana are the only two states that don't change the clocks. Who knew.
Now I can't figure out what time it is anywhere, including here and wherever you are. I know that some of the clocks are right, and some are wrong. But which ones are which- watch, microwave, computer, alarm clock, kitchen clock, second watch in the drawer, car radio???? I give up. I think it's 5, but that's only because I'm on the computer. If I were making coffee, it'd be 4. Unless I were using the microwave, which, for some reason, insists it's just 2:30.
Maybe it was made in Indiana.
Betty
Outside of Sedona
We learned a day late that it was now Daylight Davings Time, so late Sunday night we made a couple of our key clocks Spring Ahead.Good thing, because we had to get up really early this morning to get to the RV dealer for a new pump that would correct a water pressure problem. We had a 9 a.m. appointment so we could get the job done and get on the road asap. Except we arrived at 7:45.
They don't have daylight savings in Arizona. It and Indiana are the only two states that don't change the clocks. Who knew.
Now I can't figure out what time it is anywhere, including here and wherever you are. I know that some of the clocks are right, and some are wrong. But which ones are which- watch, microwave, computer, alarm clock, kitchen clock, second watch in the drawer, car radio???? I give up. I think it's 5, but that's only because I'm on the computer. If I were making coffee, it'd be 4. Unless I were using the microwave, which, for some reason, insists it's just 2:30.
Maybe it was made in Indiana.
Betty
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Happy Birthday to Me
Just Outside of Phoenix
Today is my birthday, and damn if it doesn’t feel a lot different from what I imagined it would when I was 35. It feels wonderful. I woke up feeling super energized, came out to find all my beautiful pink roses with their heads bowed in supplication to my advanced age, made a pot of perfect coffee and opened my computer and went to Facebook in my pj’s.
There, thanks to modern technology, hundreds of friends I haven’t seen in 20 years were wishing many happy returns and letting me know that they were thinking of me. How great for the ego is that.
The people I love most in my life all called, all except my brother Pat, who is not a caller but is a wonderful writer, so I’m sure I’ll hear from him before the day is out. My son Jeff called me twice, emailed me once, sent me a gift online and put a fabulous tribute to my mothering abilities on Facebook for all to see. He is a perfect son, and I shall justly take all the credit, with a small bow to my husband, who did participate.
John gave me a Nook, which is not what you think, but is the Barnes and Noble version of Kindl, the e-book. It was partly because I wanted it, and partly a move in his own self-defense, since I made him to carry all the books I took to Mexico because my luggage was full. Now I can take 12 books with me and it will weigh no more than my hair dryer, which I should have left home but also dragged along.
We took off and went from California to Arizona, and Mr. Gotta Get There made the ultimate sacrifice for my birthday and stopped for over an hour in Quartzsite, AZ, where I bought a ton of jewelry making supplies. I loaded my basket with every wonderful rock, gem or mineral I could imagine in a piece of jewelry, then took them up to the little lady at the register.
“You may remember me,” I said. “I was the woman that old guy with the no teeth and hair in his ears insulted about a month ago.”
“Oh!” she said, recognition dawning and fresh anger lighting up her face. “Do me a favor. Tell that story to George. He needs to know that that guy is insulting people. It’s not the first time.”
So I called the young Chinese-American guapo (good looking guy) aside and told him my story. Basically the old guy had made a bad a pun on the concept of picking on a person – a lot of you to pick on or something like that -- and I had really forgotten the lame attempt at humor at my expense. But Barbara hadn’t, and she embellished the insult so artistically that I barely recognized myself. According to her, I was “shakin’ and almost cryin’.”
Not true, but it sounded so compelling, I was tearing up just thinking about myself being royally strafed in public, humiliated beyond anything I’d ever experienced, and put down lower than a slug in the Garden of Good and Evil. By the end of her tale, I almost handed myself a spa weekend to recover.
The bottom line was, not only did George give me a 10% dealer discount, he cut the total in HALF, and if that weren’t enough, little Barbara, who said her birthday was next week so we were soul sisters, began putting two and three strands of stones into the bag and charging me for one. “This,” she whispered, “is $32 a strand, reduced to $16 less 10%, so you can have both of these for $3.”
My kind of shopping.
Later, as I exited, three guys working on the roof of the Flying J across the street, stopped to watch me cross the street with my haul – so big I had to buy a basket for it all($15, but you can have it for $5).
I was wearing my go-to birthday outfit – nice jeans, my white Easy Spirit slip-on sneaks, the new ones, not the old dirty ones, and a white tank top that I probably should have worn a jacket over but didn’t. I wasn’t exactly Dolly Parton, but neither was I Totie Fields. I still had it. I felt great.
They hooted, whistled and yelled at me. I waved back. After all, they were only being kind. And it was my birthday, so what the heck. Just then, a big section of roof hit the ground. One of them yelled, “Hope you weren’t startled.”
Now you can take what you will from that tale. Were they appreciating my total togetherness at such an advanced age, or were they just convinced I was about to walk under the falling roof.
You already know what I think. Please don’t tell me any different. Unless, of course, you’re planning on giving me at least 50% off.
Happy Birthday to Me.
Betty
Today is my birthday, and damn if it doesn’t feel a lot different from what I imagined it would when I was 35. It feels wonderful. I woke up feeling super energized, came out to find all my beautiful pink roses with their heads bowed in supplication to my advanced age, made a pot of perfect coffee and opened my computer and went to Facebook in my pj’s.
There, thanks to modern technology, hundreds of friends I haven’t seen in 20 years were wishing many happy returns and letting me know that they were thinking of me. How great for the ego is that.
The people I love most in my life all called, all except my brother Pat, who is not a caller but is a wonderful writer, so I’m sure I’ll hear from him before the day is out. My son Jeff called me twice, emailed me once, sent me a gift online and put a fabulous tribute to my mothering abilities on Facebook for all to see. He is a perfect son, and I shall justly take all the credit, with a small bow to my husband, who did participate.
John gave me a Nook, which is not what you think, but is the Barnes and Noble version of Kindl, the e-book. It was partly because I wanted it, and partly a move in his own self-defense, since I made him to carry all the books I took to Mexico because my luggage was full. Now I can take 12 books with me and it will weigh no more than my hair dryer, which I should have left home but also dragged along.
We took off and went from California to Arizona, and Mr. Gotta Get There made the ultimate sacrifice for my birthday and stopped for over an hour in Quartzsite, AZ, where I bought a ton of jewelry making supplies. I loaded my basket with every wonderful rock, gem or mineral I could imagine in a piece of jewelry, then took them up to the little lady at the register.
“You may remember me,” I said. “I was the woman that old guy with the no teeth and hair in his ears insulted about a month ago.”
“Oh!” she said, recognition dawning and fresh anger lighting up her face. “Do me a favor. Tell that story to George. He needs to know that that guy is insulting people. It’s not the first time.”
So I called the young Chinese-American guapo (good looking guy) aside and told him my story. Basically the old guy had made a bad a pun on the concept of picking on a person – a lot of you to pick on or something like that -- and I had really forgotten the lame attempt at humor at my expense. But Barbara hadn’t, and she embellished the insult so artistically that I barely recognized myself. According to her, I was “shakin’ and almost cryin’.”
Not true, but it sounded so compelling, I was tearing up just thinking about myself being royally strafed in public, humiliated beyond anything I’d ever experienced, and put down lower than a slug in the Garden of Good and Evil. By the end of her tale, I almost handed myself a spa weekend to recover.
The bottom line was, not only did George give me a 10% dealer discount, he cut the total in HALF, and if that weren’t enough, little Barbara, who said her birthday was next week so we were soul sisters, began putting two and three strands of stones into the bag and charging me for one. “This,” she whispered, “is $32 a strand, reduced to $16 less 10%, so you can have both of these for $3.”
My kind of shopping.
Later, as I exited, three guys working on the roof of the Flying J across the street, stopped to watch me cross the street with my haul – so big I had to buy a basket for it all($15, but you can have it for $5).
I was wearing my go-to birthday outfit – nice jeans, my white Easy Spirit slip-on sneaks, the new ones, not the old dirty ones, and a white tank top that I probably should have worn a jacket over but didn’t. I wasn’t exactly Dolly Parton, but neither was I Totie Fields. I still had it. I felt great.
They hooted, whistled and yelled at me. I waved back. After all, they were only being kind. And it was my birthday, so what the heck. Just then, a big section of roof hit the ground. One of them yelled, “Hope you weren’t startled.”
Now you can take what you will from that tale. Were they appreciating my total togetherness at such an advanced age, or were they just convinced I was about to walk under the falling roof.
You already know what I think. Please don’t tell me any different. Unless, of course, you’re planning on giving me at least 50% off.
Happy Birthday to Me.
Betty
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