So, like I was saying, save your medical co-pays and buy a personal hair trimmer. Despite the frustrations of being told so, much of what occurs during midlife is attributable to hormone fluctuations. But then, overnight, this hair will grow faster than the US deficit. The next thing you know, all sorts of fuzz and freak whiskers will erupt.
A few months later, when my hairdresser began fretting over something on my forehead, I feared the worst. While cutting my bangs, she paused and stared at me. With one hand she scooped my hair straight back and peered more closely. Glancing up, I saw her pulling on a single strand of white hair that must have been four inches long. Briefly I considered leaving the sprout intact and saving it as a conversation piece. Imagine all the laughs such an oddity might generate.
But then I reconsidered and asked her to pluck the hormonally haywire hair. To whom would I have shown it, anyway? None of my friends see well enough to notice their own strays. Filed under books , humor , Kindle , life , publishing , Random thoughts , Thoughts , Uncategorized , women , writing. But it gets better! Filed under books , Chrimstas gifts , entertainment , humor , Kindle , life , opinion , publishing , Uncategorized , women , writing.
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Seems like it was right after I married. I lift the bowl and examine it. How many foods have been made and served inside this cobalt blue and white heirloom? Probably thousands. My fingers trace the rim. Still chipped in two places—just like the day she gave it to me. Otherwise, I see no cracks. Not any unplanned ones, at least. Love birds. Now, where is my banana nut bread recipe?
Actually, I got that from Grandma too—indirectly. For Christmas, one year not long before she died, she gave me a cookbook published by her church. So she accidentally left out the flour from the list of ingredients. I stir together the flour, sugar, eggs, and lard. Yes, lard. It hits me. I am here, stirring the banana bread that I will serve my family tomorrow, and I am mixing the same batter in the same dish that my grandmother used to blend her baked goods decades before this.
Filed under Chrimstas gifts , cooking , life , opinion , Random thoughts , recipes , reflections , Thoughts , Uncategorized , women , writing. Tagged as authors , baking , Blue Willow , Diana Estill , dishes , essays , family heirlooms , family memories , family stories , holiday , nostalgia , recipes , Thanksgiving. Having never before worked as a grocery clerk, I couldn't be sure. So I scanned it once. This caused The Evil One to go, "Beep!
The water coasted along until it hit the pizza box. And then Satan yelled, "Remove unwanted items from the belt. But I want all of the items on the belt. There aren't any unwanted items on the belt! I lifted the pizza box so the monster would shut up. But now I was standing there holding a pizza and wondering what to do next. Bewildered, I looked around for anyone wearing a name tag. A girl ducked behind a register two aisles away. I swear. She pretended to reload something underneath a counter. A few moments later, I saw her monitoring me as though she might be witnessing a robbery in progress.
She seemed to enjoy every second of my frustration.
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Just to fake her out, I grabbed a bottle of moisturizer and pretended like I was about to slip it into my purse. Already, Lucifer had lured me over to the Dark Side. At the last second, I scanned the object and shot her a smirk. Through the store windows, I noticed the sun had crept low on the horizon.
This Can't Be Normal
The shoppers that had previously lined the two staffed register lanes were all gone. Probably they were home, their dinners cooked and eaten, their feet propped before their television sets. Clearly, I am not a good cashier because I am too slow. Feeling inept, I reminded myself that I didn't go to college to become a proficient grocery checker; yet, there I was.
The Evil One said, "Fifty-nine dollars and sixty-seven cents is your total. Please select your payment method. There should have been another option I've since decided-one that said "Lost Time, Hypertension, and Humiliation. The Rebate Factor. He hadn't bothered to consider the consequences of "the rebate factor. I shuddered, realizing what this meant. Later, I followed my man into the electronics mega-center like a calf being led to slaughter. The trip reminded me of my childhood excursions to the hardware store with my dad-only there were no nails.
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If I wanted to injure myself, I'd have to venture into the combat zone over by the high definition TVs. After an hour-long debate over the pros and cons of extended warranties, modems, cables, mouses mice?
He rolled his eyes. Once he'd unpacked all the boxes, my fellow lamented, "Good grief. There's, like, sixteen rebates here!
I hid inside my office and pretended to be writing. But eventually I mumbled, "Uh-uh. A few seconds later he yelled, "How in the heck am I supposed to send the original UPC code to two different places? Where are my glasses?
I can't find the flashlight, and I can't read a darn thing on these forms! By the time I joined hubby in the hallway, I was feeling pretty smug. The sight of him sitting there, straddle-legged, hovering over nine receipts with a magnifying glass cracked me up. This was quite possibly the worst rebate challenge either of us had ever encountered. Each rebate required submittal of a copy of the sales receipt, original UPC code, and the serial and ESN numbers cut from the box. Months passed, and I forgot all about those rebates.
While sorting through our mail one day, I noticed what looked like an advertisement from my guy's favorite electronics store.
I'm not getting suckered into any more of their deals. I stuck the ad in together with some empty envelopes to be discarded. Then for no reason, I decided to open it.