Obviously, I'm Oblivious

I’ve been a little out of it in the last week.  Don’t ask me why.  Let’s blame it on being sleep deprived. Or blame it on my lengthy To-Do list. Heck, let’s blame it on my hair color.  Whatever.  I can’t even get huffy about that last thing because there have been some definite blonde moments lately.

Take last Thursday evening, for instance.  I had to run to two different stores to prepare for the surprise party we were having that weekend and it was getting perilously close to closing time.

But first I had to stop at the gas station.  It had been a couple weeks since I’d fueled up and the car was gasping so I didn’t think I’d even make it to the two different stores unless I stopped.

Knowing that time was of the essence, I had already flipped the switch to open the door to the tank and had credit card in hand. I got out of the car and was all ready to swipe my card with one hand while twisting the gas cap open with the other…except there was no partially opened door to the gas tank.  Instead, I was looking at a smooth, unbroken expanse of white paint.

Huh?  I was completely and utterly baffled. If someone were drawing me as a cartoon, there would've been a big question mark over my head.  But…all I could think was, where did the opening for the gas tank go?? 

And then I realized.

The last several times I had filled up a gas tank, it was on my Dad’s car when I drove them back from Cape Cod– and the tank is on the driver’s side. MY gas tank, on the other hand, is on the passenger side.

Yeesh.  Even though nobody was paying a bit of attention to me, I got totally embarrassed and felt my face flush beet red.

And then I hopped back in the car and drove around the station so my passenger side was closest to the pump and I could actually reach the gas tank.

As I filled up, I kept shaking my head and rolling my eyes at my dopey move. But at least I hadn’t already swiped my credit card.  Had I done that, I would have had to try to change directions at the same pump – and I guarantee you that either (a) I would’ve had to perform car maneuvers far beyond my capabilities, or (b) another car would’ve sneaked into my spot.  Confusion would have ensued. And then I would’ve gotten into an argument with a total stranger.  Hey, what can I say?  Gasoline is just too expensive for me to be filling up the gas tank for someone I don’t know.

Despite my misstep, I managed to fuel up and get to my two stores to order party food. And all before closing time.  Happy endings I can live with.

There have been other blonde moments recently, too.  (Wow. Who knew I’d prefer calling them blonde moments, over, say, early senility!)  But I don’t really want to tell you about swiping my Kroger’s frequent shopper’s card instead of my credit card at Costco (and getting frustrated when it wouldn’t accept it as payment), or wearing my shirt inside out for an entire day. The thing that concerned me most about that last thing is that nobody said a word.  Did THEY not notice? Or were they shaking their heads in sorrow for my formerly (somewhat) sharp mind and on my behalf mourning its loss?

Who knows. I am just hoping that I can catch up on my sleep a little this weekend and can brush away some of those cobwebs.  And, heck we have that whole “Fall Back” thing to look forward to.  I will be glad to gain an hour this weekend.  Let’s just hope I remember to change all our clocks so that I don’t show up for work an hour early on Monday morning.  I do that and for SURE they’ll admit me somewhere for testing.

So Happy October, everyone! Enjoy your weeke... Excuse me? What's did you say? 

Heh, heh.  Why, yes, I do realize it's November. I was, um, just testing you to see if you read all the way to the end...! 

Halloween Memories

Today is Halloween and we’re supposed to get thunderstorms or high winds or something in Central Ohio. Does this mean that Trick-or-Treating is cancelled tonight?  Dunno. 

I probably won’t turn on our porch light either way.  Last year was the first year in our new house and I didn’t know what the Trick-or-Treat situation was in the neighborhood.  Nevertheless, I bought a ginormous bag of candy in preparation.  And, mind you, it was the good stuff.  Kit Kats and Snickers and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups – none of that Dollar Store no-name stuff. 

But it turned out to be pretty dismal.  We got nary a single little ghoul or goblin.  Turns out there are very few kids in our neighborhood and the neighboring areas probably don’t want to bother with cul-de-sacs.  It’s either thru-streets or nothin’. 

I can understand that. I mean, the goal when you’re a kid is maximum candy collection because, frankly, you know there will be shrinkage.  You have to immediately discard the boxes of raisins and dental floss that some houses insist on handing out.  And you have to throw out any candy that has escaped its wrapper.  Probably your parents are going to filch some of your candy after you go to bed.  

But, most importantly, you know there will be candy in your bucket that you don’t like.

For me it was candy corn.  Yuck.  I couldn’t even give that stuff away. Try as I might, I couldn’t broker a trade with my younger siblings.  Even when they were barely old enough to string a complete sentence together, they were still too savvy to trade their Hershey’s bar for a couple pieces of plastic-tasting candy corn. 

I don’t know how much they focus on candy at my sister’s house nowadays, but my niece has spent the past couple years putting a lot of thought into choosing her Halloween costume.  Last year the kid went as “the body inside out” and she wore her “organs” on the outside of her clothes.  Her intestines were made out of panty hose and, well, I’m not sure what the other body parts were made out of. The pancreas and the liver looked particularly yucky.  But I had to give my niece a lot of credit for originality  – and my sister kudos for her creativity in crafting such an ambitious costume.

 

Rich Uncle Pennybags?

This year, my niece went as the little tuxedoed Monopoly Guy or Rich Uncle Pennybags from the Monopoly game. She looked adorable.  I don’t know this for sure, but I’m guessing that my sister was relieved that she only had to come up with a top hat, cane and spats for the dear child. Guts and brain matter not required.

But back when my sister and I were kids, we had to make our own costumes. Mom might have let us use a little black eyeliner, if need be, but that was about the extent of her involvement. Thus, our costumes were pretty amateurish, as I recall, and I don’t think we have a single photo of us as kids dressed up for Halloween.

Or is THIS the real Rich Uncle Pennybags?

I remember only one time getting a store-bought Halloween mask. I vaguely recall it being some sort of happy clown face, but don't quote me on that.  What I do remember for sure is that it had a flimsy piece of elastic stapled to either side of the mask, which was supposed to hold it onto my head. 

Yeah, like that worked.  My eyes were mashed into my glasses, which were mashed up against the eye holes that didn’t line up with my face so that it hurt every time I blinked. 

And it was hot.  With every breath I took, my glasses got steamed up and I had to stop and clear them so I could see. This definitely slowed down the candy collection process.

But I knew I couldn’t utter a single complaint because, well, I had begged my parents to buy me that mask and they had done so only reluctantly.

The mashed eyeballs-steamed eyeglasses problem wasn’t the worst of it, either. We’d gone to only a few houses before the elastic holding that hard plastic mask snapped and broke. Trying to fix it by sliding the now shorter piece of elastic into the space between the mask and the staple while rubbing the welt on my cheek AND holding on to my plastic Halloween bucket so that the candy didn’t spill out was a major undertaking.  Yeah, maybe that explains the “trick” part of Trick-or-Treat.

Thus, that was the first and last time I ever asked my parents to get me a store-bought Halloween mask. They were pretty savvy themselves, no?

While I don’t remember any Beggar's Nights getting cancelled due to inclement weather, I do recall many a Halloween costume ruined by having to wear our winter jackets over our costumes.  I mean, it’s not like we could fit whatever costume we’d devised from the rag bin over a bulky winter jacket. But the integrity of our costume was not of concern to our mother and her word was law, so we wore our winter jackets.  In retrospect, I can’t blame the woman.  She certainly did not want to deal with four simultaneous cases of sore throats, fevers and stuffy noses.

Ah well. Halloween is one of those “holidays” that bring back fun memories, whether you’re the kid ringing the doorbell or the person answering the door.

Hmmm. Maybe I will turn the porch light on tonight – just in case we get any brave cul-de-sac traveling ghouls or goblins. Wonder if I have any extra dental floss or little boxes of raisins lying around the house? Just kidding. At the very least, I think I can scrounge up a few Kit Kats.

So, whether you're escorting your kids as they Trick-or-Treat or you're the one answering the door, I wish you a Happy Halloween! Oh, and stay warm. (Maybe you wanna ruin your kids' costumes and put that winter jacket on over it -  just to be safe? Trust me - they'll thank you for it.  Someday.)

SURPRISE!!

We had a surprise 50^th birthday party for my brother-in-law and sister-in-law over the weekend and, let me tell you, some people are VERY hard to surprise.  

Oh, not because they’re crack detectives and weaseled the information out of the weakest link in the family who spilled the beans at the first suspicious glance. 

No, some people are simply hard to surprise.  In this case, it was because we ambitiously decided to hold a joint surprise party since their birthdays are only four days apart. 

Now, if the guests of honor had arrived at the party together, that might have eliminated some of the angst from the person who was expected to escort them down to the party room (namely, me) where everyone was hiding and waiting to jump out and yell, “Surprise!”

Instead, my brother-in-law was coming from work. At a car dealership. Where start and stop times are completely ambiguous.  Thus, we had no earthly idea what time he’d show up.

My sister-in-law, on the other hand, arrived promptly at the agreed-upon time.  The ruse was that she and her husband were coming over for an early birthday dinner with just my husband and me.  And we were going to watch Ohio State annihilate Penn State. (Which they did and which we did, but which is beside the point.)

Most of the guests were already secreted downstairs in the balloon-infested party room where all manner of party food and drink abounded.  Fortunately, the acoustics in our house are such that no party-like sounds drifted upstairs.  But, just to be safe, I cranked the music in the living room as a cover up.

Our plan of attack was to be if she showed up and he was still working, we would be forced to hold two separate surprises.  Not ideal, but short of driving to the car dealership and dragging my brother-in-law out of there, what could we do? 

We had a plant inside his dealership who attempted to get my brother-in-law out of work on time, but try as he might, my brother-in-law simply would not leave until the last customer drove away.  Makes for a great employee, but a lousy guest of honor at his own surprise party.

Nevertheless, our plant sent me a text to let me know that our guest of honor had finally left.  And when his wife showed up at our house, she, too, announced that her husband was on his way.  So I made a quick decision to go for the joint surprise. 

I sent a text to my co-conspirator downstairs to hold steady…and nervously chatted with my sister-in-law in the living room, while staring at my watch and silently begging my brother-in-law to hurry.

And then the doorbell rang.  Was it our other guest of honor?

Nooo.  It was some latecomers – a niece with her five (no, not a typo) small children.

So I walked outside and quickly explained that they’d have to wait until my brother-in-law arrived.  They turned tail just as I spied my sister-in-law walking into the hallway to see what was taking me so long. She evidently saw the backs of the little ones scurrying away and asked, “Neighborhood kids?” And I replied, “Yes, they’re always trying to get me to support one fundraiser or another!”

Pretty good seat-of-the-pants response, eh?  Yeah, I have to admit, I was pretty proud of myself.

Of course, the guests downstairs were confused by the latest doorbell. They were getting restless wondering what was happening upstairs and I was receiving constant texts from them.

Ack!  I was trying to keep it all together, but I’m good at subterfuge for only so long.  So I started sweating and getting nervous – so much so that to explain it away, I blamed a hot flash.  And I’m not so sure that was a lie.

Thankfully, just then my brother-in-law showed up.  But did they immediately head for the lower level? 

Nooo.   

First, my brother-in-law – ever the gentleman – insisted that I precede him and follow his wife down the stairs. Well, I knew that I would completely ruin the photos everyone downstairs was poised to take. But, before I could figure out a tactful way to go last, my sister-in-law took a detour to the bathroom.

By this point inside my head I’m screaming, Oh. My. Gawd. You. Guys. Are. Killing. Me!” 

She reminded her husband to get the crockpot from the kitchen to bring downstairs. (Let this be a warning – if you are ever a guest of honor at a party at my house, you’ll be expected to bring food.)

So I stalled him in the kitchen by asking inane questions while she was in the bathroom.

FINALLY, they were both ready to head downstairs and I somehow managed to lag behind.  I even managed to send my niece the prearranged text message to let them know her mom and stepdad were on their way down.  And when I finally heard “SURPRISE!” I all but collapsed in a big puddle on the floor.

In the end, it was truly a surprise. And even if someone had let the cat out of the bag and ruined the surprise, we still would have had a wonderful time. And I think our guests of honor were touched that we would go to such lengths for them.

But next time?  Well, next time I’M going to let the cat out of the bag and ruin the surprise. Hot flashes notwithstanding, I can’t take the heat. 

Happy Birthday to My Mom!

A couple weeks ago I spent several days making like the Morgan Freeman character in Driving Miss Daisy as I drove my elderly parents from their cottage on Cape Cod back to Ohio. Well, except that I didn’t have that spiffy chauffeur cap.


Uh oh. I just re-read that sentence and I see a big, glaring problem with it. What – you don’t? Ah, allow me to explain, grasshopper.


Were my mother to read this blog (which she doesn’t), she would take exception to the word “elderly.” She doesn’t like to be referred to as “elderly.” Even though she is. I mean, once a person turns the corner on eighty, they are smack-dab in the middle of “elderly.” Am I right? And, as of today, my mother is eighty-eight-years old, so there’s no turning back.


Personally, I think it’s a badge of honor to be eighty-eight and still kickin’. If I were eighty-eight, I’d probably be as irksome as a three-year-old digging into his Barney birthday cake and poking people with purple frosting-covered fingers crowing about the fact that he was three. I’d be poking people in line in front of me at the grocery store with my cane, and, when they turned around, I’d crow, “I’m eighty-eight!”


Not that my mother (a) carries a cane, (b) pokes people in line at the grocery store, or (c) has ever been as irksome as a three-year-old. Probably not even when she was three. But I can’t prove that.


Nevertheless, I can’t really blame my mother for taking offense at being called “elderly.” Heck, she’d be mortified to learn that I was outing her in the age department right now. Guess it’s a good thing she doesn’t read my blogs, isn’t it?


Of course, all bets are off when you’re somewhat lower on the age spectrum. Like me. During our long drive across the state of Pennsylvania, mom was talking about something or other and she stopped me completely in my tracks when she referred to me as “middle-aged.”


Well, not literally. I mean, I kept the pedal to the metal, as it were, and didn’t cause a chain reaction pile-up on I-80 or anything. But, me? Middle-aged? No wa-…Oh. Yeah, okay, I guess I AM “middle-aged.”


When the heck did that happen?


Probably around the same time mom moved from Middle-Aged to Elderly.


It happens to the best of us, I guess.


Mom hasn't come up with an alternative to the word elderly, however, so I'm not sure what she'd prefer. Eighty-eight and effervescent? Eighty-eight and elegant? Maybe. Just as long as we don't ever refer to her as feeble, doddering or decrepit. If those words ever crossed our lips, she'd find a cane and would start poking us with it. And there'd be nothin' “feeble” about it.


So, mom? I'd like to wish you an elegant and effervescent eighty-eighth birthday today. I hope dad bought you a purple Barney cake and you're enjoying it like a three-year-old. Purple frosting-covered fingers and all.


But if anyone who reads this happens to see my mother in church or at the grocery store anytime in the near future, please do NOT wish her a happy 88^th birthday. Eliminate the year altogether. I might even suggest you tell her she's wearing “Middle Age” well. She won't believe you, but a little white lie couldn't hurt. After all, you never know when she might start carrying a cane...

The Case of the Cub Scout and the Missing Tin of Caramel Corn

Last Monday I was accosted in my driveway by a Cub Scout.  Well, perhaps “accosted” isn’t the proper term as the kid didn’t kick me in the shin or pull my hair or trip me as I walked to my mailbox.  Instead, he about killed me with cuteness.

I figured he was maybe seven years old and he was wearing his official Cub Scout uniform with the little neckerchief and everything.  Peering up at me with big blue eyes behind his thick eyeglasses, he asked me if I would consider buying some popcorn to help support the Scouts.  He even had a lisp.  Aw man.  It was the kid from Jerry Maguire reincarnated in a Cub Scout uniform.  I was doomed!

His father was standing back on the sidewalk keeping an eye on our interaction and trying to let his son handle the negotiations.  Probably he was ready to step in and give me more details to convince me to buy were I to initially refuse.

Like he needed to.  I mean, I’m a sucker for this kind of thing.  I have a whole box of breadsticks in our freezer from a coworker’s kid’s football team sales drive that will probably develop frostbite before we even think of eating them.  I always add a dollar to my bill for whatever cause the local grocery store is promoting.  And I have some tacky Christmas ornaments from another school fundraiser that will never be hung on our Christmas tree because they are so, well, tacky. 

So I reluctantly held out my hand for the order form.

Do we need popcorn?  Yeah, not so much. 

We were gifted with a cool popcorn machine last Christmas and Vince spent big bucks on some gourmet kernels. And we enjoy an evening snack of popcorn from time to time. But gourmet popcorn is not something I see the need to spend big bucks on. I mean, it’s popcorn, for cryin’ out loud.  It’s not the same thing as, say, spending big bucks on a nice bottle of Barolo.

So the next time I went to Sam’s Club, I stocked up on a ten pound container of popcorn kernels.  And we haven’t even cracked that sucker open yet.

So, no, we don’t really need – or want – any popcorn.

Nevertheless, I perused the list.  Cheese popcorn?  Ick. Chocolate covered popcorn?  Eh, maybe…but I’m not spending $25 on it.  Ooh, there we go – caramel corn for ten bucks?  Sold!

As I was mentally kicking myself for being such a pushover, I considered who in my life might like a tin of caramel popcorn.  And then it hit me that my parents would soon be visiting and they might enjoy it. So I started to feel a little better about spending my hard-earned money.

Once the father realized the hook was in and I was buying, he came up to handle the financial portion of the transaction.  I filled out the order form with my name and address and checked the little box for caramel corn. I asked him if they needed the money up front and he said yes.  So I fished a $10 bill out of my pocket and handed it to him.

The father said they already had the products and would be back in the next day or two to deliver the tin.  I told him they could leave it on our front porch if we weren’t home.

They thanked me and walked away to locate their next victim, er, customer and I walked to the mailbox to retrieve our mail, which was where I was headed in the first place. 

I had mixed feelings about this little encounter.  I mean, I felt bad because I sometimes feel like I have the word "sucker" stamped across my forehead. On the other hand, I also know my few dollars help organizations or school programs that don’t get a lot of funding and I know some of these families’ budgets are stretched a little tight.  So in that sense, I felt good about helping out.

Eventually, I decided to just feel good about it.  Hey, I helped out the Cub Scouts.  Good for me.

Later that night I told Vince what had happened.  He just looked at me and shook his head.  "Did you get their name," he asked. "Do you know where they live? How do you know they didn’t just take your money and you’ll never see them again?"

Egad – I thought as I mentally slapped myself upside the head.  That thought NEVER entered my mind!  I might have been scammed by a Cub Scout.  Or a kid who found a Cub Scout uniform at Goodwill and he and his scam artist father figured out a way to scam people.  Notably, me.

On Tuesday I arrived home from work and immediately checked the front porch to see if the tin of caramel corn had been delivered. It had not.

On Wednesday I repeated the move even walking outside to check behind the boxwood to see if perhaps they’d carefully hidden the treasure.  No such luck.

By Thursday, I was feeling a little dejected because I didn’t want to believe that the cute kid in the Cub Scout uniform could’ve been a scam-artist-in-training.

And by Saturday?  Well, by Saturday, all my faith in humanity was lost.  I moped around the house all day and even kicked the cat once or twice.

Okay, so not really.  I mean, it was ten bucks, not our entire life savings.  Lesson learned. And I would never kick a cat.  Besides, I didn’t figure I could ignore the laundry and other Saturday chores just because I fell victim to a cute kid in a neckerchief.

On Sunday as Vince and I were busy handling one Sunday task or another, we heard the doorbell ring.  And, lo and behold, it was the cute kid in the thick eyeglasses and neckerchief to deliver the caramel corn!

His father, standing a few paces back on the sidewalk, explained that they hadn’t been able to catch me earlier in the week and had wanted to deliver the tin personally.  I thanked them profusely, closed the door and, turning around holding the tin aloft, I announced, “…And my faith in humanity is once again restored!”

Vince just rolled his eyes.  But I think he was happy for me. I think he is glad I’m not completely cynical. 

And then he promptly opened the tin of caramel corn and he and his son commenced to eat about half of it in one sitting.  It wasn’t a very big tin. 

So much for gifting it to my parents when they visit.  But, hey. Wonder if they’d like a 10 pound container of popcorn kernels from Sam’s Club? 

Am I Past My Expiration Date?

So today is my mumble-something birthday.  Happy birthday to me – right?  Yeah, whatever. 

I’m not feeling really jazzed about my birthday this year.  Not sure why.  Maybe it’s because I’m one year closer to death? 

Ooh, I’m feeling maudlin.  That’s not good.  I need to snap out of it.  (But whenever I tell myself to snap out of it, I hear Cher in my head from the movie, Moonstruck. And then that sort of makes me laugh.)

What’s that?  You’ve never seen Moonstruck because it came out when you were five?  Oh, you… just…hush. (You thought I was going to say something else?  Nah, I’m too old to be mean and in-your-face. Besides, I was never allowed to say “Shut up!” when I was young.  Back in the Stone Age. And those rules are still a little hard to break all these many decades later.)

Vince thinks we should act like we’re not grown up.  Be silly.  Behave crazy sometimes.  And, okay, so there is some wisdom in that. If we act like we’re old and “over the hill,” we’ll truly start to believe it – and to behave like it.

So on the drive to work, I listened to the Jamie Foxx show on Sirius XM. For the most part, it’s a comedy station, but in between bits or interviews, they’ll play music.  Usually, it’s music I don’t normally listen to – so I decided to stick with it to today see whether or not I could stand it. 

Coincidentally, the song that played next was by Rihanna – and the name of the tune was “Birthday Cake.”  Apropos, no? 

Um.  Not so much.  If you’re anywhere near my age, you would probably be shocked by the lyrics.  They are definitely NOT the sort of lyrics that would be sung by the servers at Applebee’s when your friends embarrass you by having servers at Applebee’s sing Happy Birthday to you.

So I had to laugh.  Here I am trying to not act like my age.  Be silly.  Behave crazy sometimes.  And it’s not working.  Instead of being entertained and singing along, I was like a prudish old lady holding my hand over my open mouth and saying, “Oh, my!” in a shocked whisper.

Yikes.  If I’d been wearing a pair of white lace gloves with granny spectacles perched on my nose and my hair up in a bun, I could complete that mental picture for you.

When did this happen?  I swear, I was young and cool about a minute and a half ago. 

Vince and I started watching a new series on Netflix, Orange is the New Black.  It’s by the same creators as Weeds, which we just finished watching.  There are definitely scenes in these shows that I have been a little shocked to see on TV.  Even if it IS Netflix. Seeing people with their drawers pooled around their ankles as they sit on the toilet is perhaps a little too graphic for my old-ish sensibilities. And, yeah, so it’s merely depicting what people do in real-life – but do I really need to see it on TV? 

Whatever happened to leaving things to the imagination?

I’m not sure, but I really do think that ship has sailed. And I blame reality television. (I blame reality television for a lot of things, including my sore left elbow. I don’t know why my left elbow is sore, so blaming reality television is as good a reason as any.) 

It’s not like I want things to go back to unreality TV.  Back to the early days of television when married couples were shown sleeping in separate twin beds so as not to offend public sensibilities.  Back to the days of early television when women wore pearls and stockings and pumps and aprons over their dresses while they vacuumed the living room. 

I mean, who did that? I don’t remember my mom ever wearing pearls. Or even vacuuming the living room, for that matter, although I know she surely must have done it a time or two.  I clearly recall, however, inheriting that little chore when I was old enough and tall enough to push the Hoover around without the handle smacking me in the forehead.

So it’s not like I’m completely yearning for the good ol’ days.  But – I admit – I really would like to wake up in the morning without some new mysterious ache or pain.  Like my sore left elbow.   

Maybe I should follow Vince’s advice. I should go out today and buy myself a helium-filled balloon and tie it around my wrist and look up at it in wonderment and awe. I should buy myself a birthday cake and gleefully plant my face in the middle of it and get frosting up my nose and in my ears and on my eyebrows. 

And maybe I should tell myself that age is just mind over matter. And if I don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.

Yeah, right.  Besides, do you know how difficult it is to get frosting out of your nose and ears?

So instead, I think I’ll be a grown-up and look at this birthday as one more year to experience life. One more year to learn something new. And one more year to love my family and friends.

Hmmm. Now that sounds like a grown-up solution to combat my maudlin thoughts. 

But still. I may just have to stop on my way home from work and pick up a  helium-filled balloon.

Wonderment and awe should never have an expiration date.

Things that Shock and Horrify Me

So earlier in the week, Miley Cyrus shocked the free world with her lewd and crude performance at the VMA awards.

I don’t regularly watch awards shows, but the photo published ‘round the world of a horrified Will Smith and his children as they watched the Miley wreck made me want to satisfy my curiosity.  Once I did, I was actually more sad than horrified. 

But, believe it or not, this is not a blog about Miley. Or not entirely, anyway.  I’ve read plenty about her in the past few days and my two cents isn’t really going to change anything. 

Let’s just say that I hope Miley grows up sometime soon and learns that there are better ways to keep the fame train running than by her feeble attempt at titillation.  Like by working on her craft. I never saw Hannah Montana and don’t really know if Miley Cyrus has talent or not, but if she does, she should continually strive for improvement. And if she doesn’t, she should thank her lucky stars for the run she’s had and she should move on. 

Garnering publicity - especially if it's it's in a negative context - really shouldn’t be a goal.  Yet I'm still shocked when it is.

I don’t know why. I mean, it’s not like I’m young and naïve anymore. But I guess I’m not yet completely old and jaded either.  Because people still have the ability to shock and horrify me.

Take last week, for example. There I was, walking from the parking lot toward the entrance to Sam’s Club. I was happy that I hadn’t waited until the weekend when the wholesale club is beyond packed. And I was mentally going over the list of purchases I needed to make so I could get in and out quickly.

Sometimes Vince and I see someone who has just finished stowing their purchases in their car – and we’ll offer to take their empty cart. We figure we’re performing a minor act of kindness by saving the shopper the minute or two it would take them to wheel the cart to the designated cart return. 

Now before you think I'm trying to place shiny halos over our heads, let me also confess that it's convenient for us as well. We can unload my purse and the reusable shopping bags into the cart so we aren't trying to juggle them while digging for our membership card.     

Nevertheless, on this day I saw an older woman who had just finished putting the last of her purchases in her trunk and I was thinking I’d ask her if she’d like me to take the empty cart off her hands.  But she did something so completely repulsive, I got the shivers.  First, she hocked up a big loogie and spit it on the ground in front of her.

Yeah, I know.  Pretty disgusting, right?  I apologize for putting that mental image in your head, but no other phrase could possibly work in this instance.

I was so shocked I stopped completely in my tracks and, with my mouth hanging open, had to reboot my brain.  I went from preparing to get the words, “Would you like me to take that cart…” out of my mouth, to keeping the words, “Oh, GROSS!” from escaping my lips.

But that wasn’t all. Right in front of me, she held her finger over one nostril and blew out the other.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I could not imagine doing that in the privacy of my own home – let alone standing in a public parking lot surrounded by people.  All I could think was thank goodness I hadn’t gotten close enough to get any overspray on my shoes.

But my mouth was still hanging open and I was shaking my head back and forth in denial of what I’d just seen as I rushed past her and hurried into the store. And, of course, I immediately revised my list of purchases to include a big bottle of antibacterial hand sanitizer.

Perhaps she is an elderly “Nell”-type character who earlier in life raised herself in some remote woodland cabin and still isn’t familiar with etiquette or the rules of common courtesy. Or maybe grew up right here in Columbus, Ohio, and she simply doesn’t care.  Either way, it was just plain disgusting – and I still haven’t gotten that image out of my head.

Yeah, I’m probably scarred for life.

I was going to come up with a third example of something that shocked and horrified me, but, frankly, after describing that last thing, I lost my appetite and don’t think I can come up with anything else today. But, never fear, I’m sure my arsenal of things that shock and horrify me will be replenished soon enough. 

I’ll bet you can’t wait ‘til I share, eh?!