My New Motto: Plan for the Unexpected. (And Always Carry a Tube of Mascara in Your Purse.)

Do you ever have one of those days where you wake up planning to accomplish certain things…but your day ends up nothing like you planned? 

Well, that was my day on Saturday.

My friend Karen and I planned to go to a garden center to pick out some perennials to add to my flowerbeds and then I planned to come home, do some work around the house and then take the dog for a long walk.  And then I was even planning to make an actual meal from scratch for my husband for dinner.  It was one of those “Tasty” recipes I saw on Facebook that not only looked tasty, but actually looked do-able.

The plan was to meet Karen at a centrally located Bob Evans parking lot so we could carpool to a garden center about 10 miles farther north. I thought we were to meet at 11:00; Karen, on the other hand, distinctly heard me agree to meet at 10:00.

Oops. My bad.

Now, there are moments when I’d absolutely believe that I was right, but in this case I acquiesced immediately.  Why?  Because when we finalized our plans, I was swirling in chaos.  I had my phone in one hand and Maggie pulling on the leash that was tethered to my other hand – and a neighbor was standing outside next to me waiting to talk.  It’s a wonder I managed to remember the day and location we were to meet, never mind the exact time. 

So on Saturday morning as I started applying mascara, I had this niggling little concern that I didn’t have my facts straight, so I sent Karen a text confirming the time.  She replied that she was already there waiting on me. 

Ack.  This is the precise moment when you realize you can move much faster than you think you can.  I immediately dropped the mascara, pulled my freshly washed hair in a wet ponytail, grabbed my purse, tossed the dog in her crate with an air kiss and flew out the door.

It was only much, much later when I looked in a mirror and realized I never actually managed to apply mascara to my left eye, so I spent the day walking around looking slightly deranged.

And this is the not the worst I would look all day either – but more on that in a moment.

Fortunately, Karen is a good friend and she didn’t take one look at me and ask, “WHAT is WRONG with your face?”  She may have thought it – but didn’t say it.  Probably because she knows me well enough to know I didn’t have a spare tube of mascara in my purse with which to correct the error. Plus, she probably didn’t want me taking a detour to the nearest CVS to pick up an emergency tube of mascara. I was already late.

Anyway, we agreed to meet at the plant store so she didn’t have to hang around the Bob Evans parking lot, and I broke every speed limit getting there so I wouldn’t be far behind…er, I mean, I drove precisely the speed limit and yet still managed to arrive only a few minutes behind Karen.

We then wandered around the grounds oohing and aahing over pretty flowers, many of which I knew not to even try to plant in my flower beds as they would immediately shrivel up and die under my care.  If the label said either “Hardy” or “Jane-Resistant” in my cart it went.

I ended up buying a selection of perennials that Karen recommended. While I may purchase a few annuals, I have never really understood how people can spend so much time planting flowers in the dirt only to dig them out again 3-4 months later after they die. And then repeat the process all over again the following year.

If I could get away with it, I’d be the crazy lady on the block who sticks plastic flowers in her garden. Fortunately, I have Vince to stop me from taking that drastic step.  Well, it’s either Vince – or the threat of receiving a letter from our Homeowner’s Association rescinding my membership.

And, yeah, yeah – I hear ya. Digging in the dirt is “therapy” – right?  It relaxes you – right?  Not me. Whenever I dig in the dirt, I feel sweaty, sunburned and am desperately seeking a bubble bath after a mere 10 minutes. And then I’ll see bugs and worms and maybe even snakes. When that happens, the trowel goes flying one way, the gardening gloves go flying another and I immediately retreat to the indoors where the worst thing I have to deal with is breaking up a squabble between the dog and the cats.

But, anyway, back to my story.

Despite my misgivings, I also bought a beautiful pink hibiscus tree. And, yeah, it didn’t say “Jane-Resistant” so I’ll probably need to hire a horticulturist to keep it looking beautiful – and alive.  

At any rate, we paid for our purchases and a kindly gentleman helped me load everything into my car.

Because Karen and I planned to drive down the street for lunch, I cracked open the car windows as well as the sunroof so my plants wouldn’t wither up and perish before I even made it out of the parking lot of the garden center.

We took her car to the restaurant since the hibiscus took up pretty much the entire passenger side of my car and I figured Karen would prefer not having to straddle a tree.

So we enjoyed a leisurely lunch and chatted about many things and, after the check was paid, she looked outside and said, “Oh, look at the rain,” which was coming down in veritable sheets.

We sat there for about 10 seconds listening to the soothing sounds of running water.  And then just as suddenly looked at each other and cried out simultaneously, “THE CAR WINDOWS!”

Despite our mad dash to her car, we were completely soaked.  My hair was dripping wet and my glasses had so much rainwater on them, I couldn’t see. It felt as though I’d just gotten out of the shower completely clothed. Ick.

We arrived back at the garden center and I made another mad dash to my car, which was just plain silly as I couldn’t have gotten any more drenched. Besides, there was a little lake forming on the inside of my car by that point and it would have been futile to wipe off my car seat before I slid in. 

Fortunately, I had some napkins in my purse as well as a single towel, so I wiped as much of the rainwater off my glasses first (so I could see to drive) and then the dashboard and seats. 

(Cuter than an actual drowned rat!)

When I looked in the rear view mirror, it was then I realized I not only looked like a drowned rat, but a deranged drowned rat with one mascaraed eye and the other, well, not mascaraed.

Yeesh.

This is when I should’ve made the decision to go straight home.  But did I? Noooo.

My other friend Sue called just then to tell me she was at the car dealership and was at that very moment waiting for my husband in the finance office to finalize her deal. She said she would have to wait a while as it was a busy Saturday – but she was so excited about her new vehicle.  Her excitement caught on and I told her I was one exit away and would drive there and keep her company.

You should always look like a deranged drowned rat when you visit your husband’s place of employment – right?

Nevertheless, I did. By this point, the sun was shining and it was, once again, a beautiful, sunny day.  Go figure.

But I met some of Vince’s new coworkers (who probably looked at me and then at the photo he has of me on his desk from a wedding we went to and thought, Photoshopped. Has to be.

Not me - but you get the idea...

I wanted to say, “But…but…both eyes that day had mascara. And…I wasn’t caught in a downpour. And…

Well, it didn’t matter. First impressions and all.

I hugged Vince and then my friend Sue and wished them both well as they needed to get down to business – and then I asked if I could get my car washed.  I know – it had just been through a downpour, right?  But it was still dirty.

So Sue’s salesperson took me over to the car wash bay and the car-washer-guy said he’d work on it and I should wait in the comfy chairs in the waiting room. 

When he came and got me about 20 minutes later, he didn’t comment on why I had a hibiscus tree strapped to my passenger seat. Nor did he comment on my still damp clothes and ratty-looking hair or on my half-mascaraed eyes. 

After I explained the plant store/open windows/flooded car story, he DID, however, admit that he took a selfie inside my car with his new best friend, the pink flowered tree. And he DID tell me he thought he must have left one of my windows down when he ran the car through the carwash, which is why there was so much water in the backseat and which he then frantically wiped out lest he get in trouble.

So I had to laugh. And later I realized he did a far better job of wiping down the backseat of my car than I would have.

My car looked perfect as I rolled away from the dealership – but then I looked up – and the sky was darkening again.  Uh oh, I thought, I wonder if I can get home before it starts raining again?

The answer would be no.

Well, perhaps I could have made it home before the rain once again started – if only I hadn’t taken the wrong exit.

Sigh.  When I finally arrived home, I unloaded the plants and the tree in the pouring rain and then trudged inside once again dripping more water from my clothes. I was totally worn out from my unexpected day and too tired to take off the mascara on my right eye.

And don’t even ask me how the “Tasty” recipe was for dinner that night.

It’s a story for another day.

My Old Friend

I had dinner recently with a very dear and long-time friend. We’re talking a decades-long friendship here. And even though she was married with two children and I was fresh out of Ohio State when we first met at Ross Labs, we both considered ourselves young and “happenin’.”

Incidentally, if you live in the central Ohio area, you’ll recognize that it was indeed a very long time ago seeing as how the place hasn’t been called “Ross Labs” in years. 

Plus, no one has used the term happenin’ to refer to themselves as being young and with it in, well, forever.  So clearly I’m dating myself.

Anyway. Karen and I used to be the unofficial party planners in our department at work and would find any and every excuse to gather a gang of coworkers together and go out.  Dancing was frequently involved, particularly if I held the decision-making reins.  We’re talkin’ back in the 80s – the big hair, lots of makeup, pointy-toed pumps and linebacker-worthy padded shoulder days. 

And, yes, I dare say…the good ol’ days.

Karen and I have maintained our friendship through many job changes over the years (both) and city moves (me). Through one divorce (hers) and many boyfriend break-ups (mine).  I helped her with preparations for her second wedding and she returned the favor much more recently and helped me with my first.   

So ours has been a friendship that has weathered the test of time and it’s one I cherish. There aren’t too many secrets we keep from one another, although we do seem to have lost touch a bit in recent years. We don’t call one another as often anymore, although I’m not sure we ever really did communicate much that way. But we do keep up through emails.

Once we realize it has been far too many months since our last get-together, we pin down a date and meet. This time it was at her house. I hadn’t seen their new kitchen remodel (started in 2014), or that they only have one Italian Greyhound these days and not two since they lost sweet Lulu last fall.

So we spent over three hours talking and laughing and catching up with one another. Heck, I talked so much I was surprised I didn‘t lose my voice.

But toward the end of our conversation we realized that a significant portion of our chat-fest was spent talking about health issues. Family health issues, our own health issues. 

We talked symptoms. We talked medications. We talked doctor visits. We talked supplements and vitamins and prescriptions. Oh my!

Yikes. When did we stop being The Young and the Restless and instead we turned into On Golden Pond? 

When did we become so freakin’ old??

I guess Father Time is funny like that.  Or sadistic. Yeah, I think I’ll go with the latter. Because instead of talking about the latest Gucci handbags or the newest movie releases, we suddenly found ourselves talking more about aging, elderly parent concerns and our own health issues.

Not once did we talk about books we’re reading, or the cute shoes she had on, or the gel nail polish I was wearing that doesn’t have to be cured with a light and comes off with regular nail polish remover. You know – “girl stuff.” 

On the other hand, there is something comforting in being able to talk so intimately with someone you’ve known a long time and whom you have trusted from the get-go. You know she won’t judge; she knows you won’t either. And it’s a relief to know you’re not the only one going through whatever it is you’re going through.

So I guess I need to acknowledge that a friendship that has managed to persevere through several decades is going to be a different one than when it first started.

But, like a cherished heirloom becomes more valuable once it’s considered an antique, so too does a cherished friendship like ours.

And, yes, I used the term “old friend” in the title on purpose. We finished our conversation feeling a bit old. But we promised ourselves that the next time we get together, we are going to table the health talk. 

So I’m thinking maybe we shouldn’t even ask each other the question, “How are you?” Yeah, that might be a good start.  Instead, I’m going to make a point of commenting on her cute shoes. 

And the word “orthopedic” will not be mentioned in that query.

Just kidding. She doesn’t wear orthopedic shoes. But she also doesn’t wear the sky high pointy-toed pumps anymore, either!

My orthopedic shoes, on the other hand… Oh, never mind. Didn’t I say we were tabling the health talk?!