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.

Workin' At The Car Wash...

We made it to March. Yeehaw! Now we have just one more month of winter to get through.

Yeah…I know, I know…spring officially arrives on March 20th. On the other hand, I can easily recall some nasty snowstorms we have endured in late March, so I’m just gonna stick with the one more month of winter theory. That way, if we don’t see another snowflake until next winter I can be happy. And if we do get dumped on again, I can just roll my eyes, shrug my shoulders and say, “Well, it’s still winter and this is still the Midwest – whatryagonna do?!”

Sheesh. The mental hoops I make myself jump through…

Today, however, is a spectacular day. While it may not be t-shirts and flip flop weather, it’s an almost-balmy 42 degrees and with the sun shining down, I didn’t even wear my winter coat this afternoon.

I was almost tempted to wash my car, but you know as soon as I do that we’d get hit with a rogue blizzard or something. So I think I’ll leave the ol’ Mazda dirty and salt-encrusted for a couple more days.

Besides, I can’t match the car wash deal Vince got the other day.

See, we went to Newark and had dinner with his dad who told Vince that he found a cheap, er, inexpensive do-it-yourself car wash and cleaned his car for a mere quarter. Not that we didn’t believe him, but here in Columbus, the do-it-yourself car washes won’t even dribble a little water from the hose until you plug in at least a buck and a quarter in change. And you’d better be prepared to give up several more dollars worth of quarters before you’re finished.

Personally, I’m not a big fan of the do-it-yourself car washes. I used to be when I was fanatical about keeping my new car sparkling clean. But since my vehicle is older (and so am I), I’ve become, well, lazy. And I no longer carry around a bagful of quarters. Instead, I bring my car to the automatic car wash place that costs at least $8 a pop.

But I get to sit inside my car in comfort and watch other people scrub the wheels and windows and then my car is magically transported into the dark interior (“put your vehicle in Neutral”) and then foamy soap sprays out and envelopes me in a big pink cloud and then the red felt monster does its shimmy-shake thing over my car and then I arrive at the air dryer that is so powerful it practically sucks the whole vehicle up into its gaping maw before it spits it out and stops and then two towel boys frenetically start toweling off the excess water droplets.

I then get to drive away happy with a clean car (once I put my vehicle in Drive, of course) and the towel boys get to deal with soggy towels.

Now I don’t indulge in car washes very often and by the time I do take my car in, it’s so crusty that it’s hard to tell what color it’s supposed to be, so I figure it’s well worth the eight bucks.

Vince, on the other hand, doesn’t like to pay that much for a car wash. Neither does his dad. This would truly be an example of “like father, like son.”

So his dad directed us to the cheap, er, inexpensive car wash. Now, it was dark out. And it was definitely not a balmy 42 degrees. And I forgot to wear my winter gloves. So I elected to stay inside the car while father and son bonded over the scrubber brush.

Now, I’d love to report that the car was sparkling clean without a speck of dirt after the twenty-five cent car wash. It wasn’t. I’d also love to report that it only cost twenty-five cents. But it didn’t. They were forced to feed another quarter into the machine. Vince’s dad maintains that it was because Vince’s car was especially dirty.

And then we had to drive across the street to the gas station so they could clean the windows with a squeegee and paper towels. For free. (Otherwise, it would’ve cost a lot more at the car wash.)

I’m not certain that the squeegee and paper towels actually helped the situation because there were a lot of streaks and dirt left when they were finished, but (a) it wasn’t my car, and (b) I didn’t have to help. So it was all good.

And the upshot is that Vince has a semi-clean car and it didn’t break the bank. Even more wondrous is that he didn’t incite Mother Nature into sending a rogue blizzard our way. So I’m pretty grateful about that.

Let’s hope I have the same luck when I next wash my car. Or else you can blame the rogue blizzard on me.

Happy March!