So, I am wandering the aisles of Target today after forcing the Allied moving van to back up and let me out of the driveway, and figuring that it would be rude not to actually leave the neighborhood, and something unusual happens.
Not the part about aimlessly spending money because that was all I could think of to do to waste an hour or so away from the house. (I had planned to grocery shop with the ten dollars off fifty Target coupon, but the store was out of circulars, and the text failed on my "smart" phone.) Instead, I was trying to still spend money in a somewhat valuable way by going for items like dog food and vast quantities of toilet paper, and not being sucked in by free gift cards for products that are overpriced in the first place.
Anyway, I had made it to the aisle with the mattress covers to find something for Zachary's dorm room in the Fall, (hopefully this will head off a case of scabies) when I run into this woman who I assume is also shopping for dorm bedding. A Target attendant is assisting her and I overhear the words, "girl's bedding," "younger people," and "dorms." The attendant leaves and there stands a black woman with flowing pants, twisted braids tied back in a long pony tail, and a really snazzy pair of frameless glasses.....but she is obviously conflicted.
In her cart is a grey and white striped set of cotton sheets which she seems to be pondering.
"Getting stuff for the dorms?" I ask casually, about to mention that I am here to do the same thing.
She scrunches up her face, "no, for me," she says, "but I'm trying to go cheap, ya know?"
We start on the "how expensive everything is" small talk, and we both seem to share the opinion that sheet sets in general are over priced, that flat sheets are not entirely functional, but that it just sort of sneaks in with the essential pillow cases.
"Hey," she asks, "do you think the grey set is kind of....dull?"
It is obvious that the grey set is just not doing it for her and the sheet set on the shelf behind her that she had just been told was made for dorms, not Moms, is what she is smitten with.
"Grey and white is pretty, but which one do you like better...honestly?" I ask.
She grins. "The Zebra. But what should I do?
"Easy. I ALWAYS get the one which FEELS best, the one which jumps out at me and just says it is my style," I tell her. "I don't care if someone tells me I'm in the wrong aisle, hey, we're young!"
I think crows flew off her shoulders and rocks fell to the floor.
"I'm SO glad you said that. I'm getting the Zebra!"
The decision made, we launch into a long conversation about wrinkles, (me) lack of wrinkles (her), yogurt and lemon facials which make your face immovably tight for about ten minutes. We wonder aloud if this would work as a breast lift? Butt lift? We talk about our daughters accepting us as free spirits and young at heart. We talk about aches and pains, physical therapy, joint medication, wearing what we want, feeling young but the body not cooperating, and she tells me that i will live forever with the spirit that I have. She tells me that she expects to see me dancing on my soon to be installed bedroom pole when I am eighty, even if I fall and can't get up.
We leave with a hug. Two total strangers.
Some people are so worth talking to. They pass by, a moment in your life, and the smile is a memory worth keeping.
And then I had to go and ruin it. As I left the store the thought invaded my mind as reality came sinking back into my life. How sad it is that this woman felt I have so much spirit and that this spirit will make me live forever. My smiles were fake. They were a facade that I am good at showing people in public when I know I will never have the responsibility of seeing that person again. It is sad that I smiled and nodded. I meant it when I believed in her own fire and determination, but as I left the store, I knew how disappointed she would be in me if she knew that I will end my own life. I will not live even close to forever. My spirit is not strong enough to keep me alive when my children are gone.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Sunday, May 18, 2014
House Hunter Horrors
It really bothers me when a couple on House Hunters walks through some absolutely fabulous, turnkey
3500 square foot property with a fully fenced yard, pool, and wrap around deck, and uses the word "monstrosity" as they sneer their way through 12 + rooms, a fully finished basement, and a three car garage.
As in, "that back splash is a monstrosity."
Somehow, amid the gleaming stainless steel appliances, double ovens, giant island, butcher block, and double wide refrigerator, the wife is able to turn her nose up at a mosaic glass back splash, because "it doesn't suit her taste."
Meanwhile, the husband is busy questioning why the Brazilian hardwood floors have different colored pieces of wood in them.
Sir, Brazilian hardwood naturally comes this way and the variations are part of its rare beauty. Most people would give their first born child to step on Brazilian hardwood. You, found the plank which does not match.
That really bothers me.
It also really bothers me when the same couple takes offense at the choice of granite in the master bathroom, the fact that the tub is not jetted, the choice of tile, that they complain about the two story house having stairs which require "hiking," that they object to earth tones as a color palette, that they find only three full baths to be "an issue", and that the pool might be too hard to clean. They want outdoor space, but not this type of grass or this much of it, they can hear a train forty five blocks away, there is not a dedicated sun room to house their twin turtles, and the deck is brown. Nobody likes brown!
Listen. This house has every upgrade imaginable, besides the jetted tub, and to make up for that, a hot tub is installed next to the pool. It positively gleams with spotless new home luster. Forty acres of conservation land, never to be built on, back your 1.5 acre, fenced and landscaped yard, and the whole beast is located on a Cul de sac, under your massive budget. Yet one of you just doesn't get a good vibe from the previous owner's choice of curtains, and the other feels that a red front door just isn't for her.
My advice? Land, with both feet in reality. You are both in your mid twenties, when most couples are still living in apartments without a any kind of tub, eating dinner on the couch while they watch T.V because they don't have a dining area, selecting their clothes from hampers on the floor, and dragging those clothes to a shared washer and dryer down the hall.
It really bothers me that you two spoiled brats, are not!!!!
3500 square foot property with a fully fenced yard, pool, and wrap around deck, and uses the word "monstrosity" as they sneer their way through 12 + rooms, a fully finished basement, and a three car garage.
As in, "that back splash is a monstrosity."
Somehow, amid the gleaming stainless steel appliances, double ovens, giant island, butcher block, and double wide refrigerator, the wife is able to turn her nose up at a mosaic glass back splash, because "it doesn't suit her taste."
Meanwhile, the husband is busy questioning why the Brazilian hardwood floors have different colored pieces of wood in them.
Sir, Brazilian hardwood naturally comes this way and the variations are part of its rare beauty. Most people would give their first born child to step on Brazilian hardwood. You, found the plank which does not match.
That really bothers me.
It also really bothers me when the same couple takes offense at the choice of granite in the master bathroom, the fact that the tub is not jetted, the choice of tile, that they complain about the two story house having stairs which require "hiking," that they object to earth tones as a color palette, that they find only three full baths to be "an issue", and that the pool might be too hard to clean. They want outdoor space, but not this type of grass or this much of it, they can hear a train forty five blocks away, there is not a dedicated sun room to house their twin turtles, and the deck is brown. Nobody likes brown!
Listen. This house has every upgrade imaginable, besides the jetted tub, and to make up for that, a hot tub is installed next to the pool. It positively gleams with spotless new home luster. Forty acres of conservation land, never to be built on, back your 1.5 acre, fenced and landscaped yard, and the whole beast is located on a Cul de sac, under your massive budget. Yet one of you just doesn't get a good vibe from the previous owner's choice of curtains, and the other feels that a red front door just isn't for her.
My advice? Land, with both feet in reality. You are both in your mid twenties, when most couples are still living in apartments without a any kind of tub, eating dinner on the couch while they watch T.V because they don't have a dining area, selecting their clothes from hampers on the floor, and dragging those clothes to a shared washer and dryer down the hall.
It really bothers me that you two spoiled brats, are not!!!!
Biker Basic manners..or lack thereof
It really bothers me when I am surrounded by motorcyclists who place my vehicle in a cocoon of bikes amid their hundred fifty plus swarm.
Hey, share the road jack offs!
It bothers me more when said motorcyclists decide, for no other reason than to assert their power over the other vehicles on the road, to all switch lanes and force cars (myself) to a standstill because they insist on making the lane switch (with no signal) like a kid cutting the lunch line.
This takes a while with one hundred fifty plus riders, straggling out over a couple of miles.
So, our polite, lone group of cars, finally begins to move forward toward the next stop light after many of the bikers have decided to switch right back into the lane they just left, causing us to strike a pose on the shoulder for a good eight minutes or so. As thanks, they surround us at the light, doubled between cars, right up on our bumpers, staring into windows, closing in flanks on all sides so there is no chance of even the slightest movement without hitting a tire, boot, piece of expensive, gaudy metal, or possibly dislodging a biker from his or her seat.
Perhaps this is the plan? To force an accident?
This goal not achieved, several of the bikers then jump off their bikes, leaving them stranded in front of cars at the stop light, and some in the middle of the intersection, so that when the light changes, traffic cannot move. They proceed to wander, seemingly aimlessly, around their ranks, talking to dreadlock man, mohawk helmet man (he appears to be all over the place), skull face man, and wheelie man. Nobody knows the point of this interaction. If it is to formulate a plan as to how to split the group and head their separate ways (I am trying to assume the best of them), they are surely doing it in the worst of all possible areas, and I have a feeling that they are fully aware of this juicy fact.
After much chat, strolling, general arm waving, hopping on and off bikes, a few light changes, and absolutely no communication with a single driver of an automobile of any kind, I see movement on the right shoulder as car owners begin to get frustrated and slowly plow their way past the standing bikers and their prized bikes which are closest to the shoulder. We creep past amid cranky stares, raised voices, and a couple of lude guestures. I am listening to my music and explaining to my daughter that at this point, eye contact or any gesture on our part which could be misconstrued as offensive is not a good idea.
Eyes lowered, we finally clear ourselves or the impatient gang of bikers and continue on in our quest to purchase gas for my car and dark chocolate. As we make the turn toward Target, I am struck by the sheer number of Bikers now entering the freeway and bringing traffic there to a standstill also.
No chance I am following them. Ask me if I want to ride with this kind of motorcycle gang?
No thanks.
A silly question enters my mind. "where are the good Police officers of Killeen to assist with this cluster fuck?
Ask me if I respect respectful riding. ???? Well sure thing!!! Group riding can be enjoyable for all.
But it really bothers me when it isn't. Yes?
Hey, share the road jack offs!
It bothers me more when said motorcyclists decide, for no other reason than to assert their power over the other vehicles on the road, to all switch lanes and force cars (myself) to a standstill because they insist on making the lane switch (with no signal) like a kid cutting the lunch line.
So, our polite, lone group of cars, finally begins to move forward toward the next stop light after many of the bikers have decided to switch right back into the lane they just left, causing us to strike a pose on the shoulder for a good eight minutes or so. As thanks, they surround us at the light, doubled between cars, right up on our bumpers, staring into windows, closing in flanks on all sides so there is no chance of even the slightest movement without hitting a tire, boot, piece of expensive, gaudy metal, or possibly dislodging a biker from his or her seat.
Perhaps this is the plan? To force an accident?
This goal not achieved, several of the bikers then jump off their bikes, leaving them stranded in front of cars at the stop light, and some in the middle of the intersection, so that when the light changes, traffic cannot move. They proceed to wander, seemingly aimlessly, around their ranks, talking to dreadlock man, mohawk helmet man (he appears to be all over the place), skull face man, and wheelie man. Nobody knows the point of this interaction. If it is to formulate a plan as to how to split the group and head their separate ways (I am trying to assume the best of them), they are surely doing it in the worst of all possible areas, and I have a feeling that they are fully aware of this juicy fact.
After much chat, strolling, general arm waving, hopping on and off bikes, a few light changes, and absolutely no communication with a single driver of an automobile of any kind, I see movement on the right shoulder as car owners begin to get frustrated and slowly plow their way past the standing bikers and their prized bikes which are closest to the shoulder. We creep past amid cranky stares, raised voices, and a couple of lude guestures. I am listening to my music and explaining to my daughter that at this point, eye contact or any gesture on our part which could be misconstrued as offensive is not a good idea.
Eyes lowered, we finally clear ourselves or the impatient gang of bikers and continue on in our quest to purchase gas for my car and dark chocolate. As we make the turn toward Target, I am struck by the sheer number of Bikers now entering the freeway and bringing traffic there to a standstill also.
No chance I am following them. Ask me if I want to ride with this kind of motorcycle gang?
No thanks.
A silly question enters my mind. "where are the good Police officers of Killeen to assist with this cluster fuck?
Ask me if I respect respectful riding. ???? Well sure thing!!! Group riding can be enjoyable for all.
But it really bothers me when it isn't. Yes?
My Slate is not Blue
I went with slate grey, which was supposed to have a lot more variation and blue in it than the roof I actually see on my house, but a roof is a roof, and I am not that picky. It is a vast improvement over the weather stained brown roof which someone sadly decided to match with "Hawkeye grey" siding. I guess a large section of the population is either colorblind (David, so I can completely forgive him), or simply has bad taste, so I can blame them forever.
The day of the roofing, no Amish farmers came over. Instead, a truck load of Mexican workers loaded with coke cans, shade hats, high waisted jeans, and plenty of Katy Perry music on a dust encrusted boom box arrived just before six a.m. I was awakened to frenzied hammering, yelling in Spanish, and boots stomping past my bedroom window on a sixty foot ladder. I hazily drifted in and out of sleep, assuming that this was indeed the roofers and not an armed attack from Ft. Hood.
They had arrived unannounced. No ring of the doorbell. No heavy knocking on the door. No phone call. The night before, there had been an almighty hail storm, so my dusty Dodge Caliber was steaming away in the garage and our driveway was clear for the first time since the last almighty hail storm, about six weeks prior. That makes a car in my garage all of twice in six years or so!
Anyway, the next time I drifted out of the haze of hammering and yammering, I peeped out the front window to see one of the Mexican roofer ushering an enormous rusty truck with an enormous rusty trailer attached, backwards up my ninety degree ski slope driveway. Immediately, a barrage of reject roofing material began to cascade from above. Old tiles, nails, tar-paper, and a peppering of empty coke cans and water bottles. within minutes, the trailer was practically half filled with lethal looking, sharp material which weighed it down to a dangerously chassy crushing level.
My car was trapped. Abbegayle's appointment, two hours away was a problem I would face one and a half hours from now after I had thrown the covers over my head and hidden.
My exit from the garage after hailing my Mexican foreman from the roof and grudgingly getting him to move the three thousand ton truck/trailer combo from my driveway into the cul de sac after much muttering, a five minute (twenty minute) smoke break, and some somber looks, was touch and go. I almost lost the mirror on the passenger side. A repeat of my trick with the late PT Cruiser. But I squeaked out and vowed never to park in the garage again....until the next almighty hail storm.
The roof, achieved in entirety in one day, an impressive feat, looks great. Not much blue, but then again, who ever said that slate grey SHOULD have blue in it? (Except the sample)
The day of the roofing, no Amish farmers came over. Instead, a truck load of Mexican workers loaded with coke cans, shade hats, high waisted jeans, and plenty of Katy Perry music on a dust encrusted boom box arrived just before six a.m. I was awakened to frenzied hammering, yelling in Spanish, and boots stomping past my bedroom window on a sixty foot ladder. I hazily drifted in and out of sleep, assuming that this was indeed the roofers and not an armed attack from Ft. Hood.
Anyway, the next time I drifted out of the haze of hammering and yammering, I peeped out the front window to see one of the Mexican roofer ushering an enormous rusty truck with an enormous rusty trailer attached, backwards up my ninety degree ski slope driveway. Immediately, a barrage of reject roofing material began to cascade from above. Old tiles, nails, tar-paper, and a peppering of empty coke cans and water bottles. within minutes, the trailer was practically half filled with lethal looking, sharp material which weighed it down to a dangerously chassy crushing level.
My car was trapped. Abbegayle's appointment, two hours away was a problem I would face one and a half hours from now after I had thrown the covers over my head and hidden.
My exit from the garage after hailing my Mexican foreman from the roof and grudgingly getting him to move the three thousand ton truck/trailer combo from my driveway into the cul de sac after much muttering, a five minute (twenty minute) smoke break, and some somber looks, was touch and go. I almost lost the mirror on the passenger side. A repeat of my trick with the late PT Cruiser. But I squeaked out and vowed never to park in the garage again....until the next almighty hail storm.
The roof, achieved in entirety in one day, an impressive feat, looks great. Not much blue, but then again, who ever said that slate grey SHOULD have blue in it? (Except the sample)
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