September 4, 2022--A Continuation of a Situation
by Karen Schwabenland And Ferdinand also went up from Texas, from the town of Houston, to North Carolina, to the city of Ashville, which is called The South, because he was of the house and lineage of these United States of America, to vacation with Karen, his wife, who was great with hunger. And while they were there, the time came for her to eat. After much prodding, he pulled their minivan into the brand new Waffle House that was right across the street from their hotel (which also offered waffles every morning). However, we should all understand that Belgian hotel waffles are not Waffle House waffles, and therefore not Southern. Or not Southern enough. Upon choosing from all of the open parking places, Ferdinand stated, "No one's here." "The lights are on," spoke Karen. "The lights may be on, but nobody's home," said Ferdinand. "Let me just go check," she replied. And upon that statement, she exited the vehicle and walked to the door of the establishment. It was open. She spied a woman siting at the counter looking at her phone. When she heard the door open, the aproned, toothless woman put down her phone and bounded over to the door and stood in the threshold. "Are ya'll open?" asked Karen. "Nah, I had to close. I ain't got no cook," replied the woman. "He had to go home and get his inhaler." "Oh. O.K.," said Karen. She could picture the woman behind the counter making waffles for only them in the empty restaurant, but she could also tell that she wasn't going to get past the doorway as the woman firmly occupied the indoor Welcome! mat. Karen turned back and reported this news to Ferdinand who waited in the idling car. He tapped on his phone looking for alternative places to eat. "She turned us away," said Karen indignantly as she got back inside and began buckling up. Just then, she saw a man ambling up to the door of the Waffle House. He had prowled out from around the back of the garbage dumpster--which was in their view as the parking lot was empty. "Look there," said Karen. "I'll bet he's the cook!" The both watched as the man stumbled closer to the door of the Waffle House. "That's a strange place to use an inhaler though." "I don't think he was using any inhaler," stated Ferdinand. "Let's wait a minute. Maybe they'll open back up." "I'm not eating anything that a man who resides in a garbage dumpster cooks." Ferdinand started the car and began backing it out. Karen watched as the woman in the Waffle House allowed the man to enter. "You don't know that he lives in there," she said. "He doesn't have to live in there. All he has to do for me not to want to eat here is to look like he lives there. And in this case, it's not a stretch to believe it." Karen was left unsatisfied with this ending. "I'll bet they're having a tryst," she said. Ferdinand laughed. "A tryst in Waffle House?" "Tis passing strange," she mused. "Where would they tryst?" asked Ferdinand. "Right there on the counter for God and all to see?" "Oh, no," said Karen. "It would definitely be behind the counter, near the waffle machine. "You have a completely unholy fascination with this place." "Maybe I do, but I still want my waffles." "Our hotel serves breakfast starting at six a.m." And thus endeth the adventures with Waffle House and The South. Book of Common Waffles Monday, August 8, 2022
by Karen Schwabenland Any car ride through the deep south will take you past numerous Waffle Houses. I have Waffle Houses right here in my own home town, but I seldom visit them. Actually I never visit them. I have never been inside a Waffle House in my home city. The closest I have ever come to eating there in Houston, Texas is taking a short cut through their parking lot to avoid a traffic jam. I seldom crave waffles, other than those times I am stuck inside a car rolling down the interstate with nothing to look at except sign after sign advertising them. And such was the happening a few weeks ago on vacation with my family. As we were touring through the state of Louisiana by car. And I use the term 'touring' quite loosely. Husband was at the wheel, I sat shotgun, and our adult son manned the cooler and snack bag in the backseat. We had so much food and drink on board that we didn't really need to stop anywhere to eat. But man cannot live in the car for eight hours straight. We hit the need to feed in Louisiana around noon on a Sunday. My choice of Waffle House was outvoted two to one. We entered the Cracker Barrel restaurant tired and beleaguered. We each needed a restroom, a good leg stretch or walkabout, and some substantial food. I made my way to the hostess station and gave them our name. Told it would be a 45 minute wait, we looked around the gift shop which is part and parcel of any Cracker Barrel restaurant situation. The place was packed with little old ladies in their best church attire. In my traveling rags, no make-up, and recently slept on hair, I felt grossly out of place. The gift shop held interest to me, but to no one else in our small party. After taking turns in the restroom, tripping over Mass attending elderly with canes and walkers blocking the aisles, nearing the point of no return in hunger, and stealing one key lime soda pop (only ever available in the deep south) and which I had fully intended to pay for, we left that place running. I think I put my empty pop bottle on a shelf near the door, but I am still not quite sure. We ended up at a Waffle House that was jam packed as well, but thankfully by then some folks were leaving, so we managed a table right away. Although cleared of dishes, the table top was dirty and the menus worse. The floor was sticky with debris left from what I suppose was the regular Sunday morning rush, or the Saturday late night rush, or possibly the rush the day before that. And, like everywhere else, they were poorly staffed. None of that stopped us however. We seated ourselves, placed our order, and in short time busied ourselves stuffing down waffles, eggs and bacon. In a situation like that, I suggest to just take what they bring you and don't ask questions. I asked for a second cup of coffee. Never came. Son had wanted iced tea. It came but sans the ice. We left a tip because we figured the waitress could use the money, but the service wasn't stellar. And the food barely tolerable. The entire restaurant, including the slippery floor in the bathroom, had a greasy feel that permeated the very plates and cups. After that we largely forgot about that meal. Until we happened to stay in Asheville, N.C. in a very nice hotel right across the street from another, newer Waffle House. "Look at that," I said the first time I noticed it. "That is a brand spanking new Waffle House in walking distance of our hotel." "What are you saying?" asked Husband. "I'm saying we should visit it, that's all. It's brand new. And there's hardly anyone there right now," I spoke up. "No cars around a restaurant usually is a bad sign," said husband. "Well, if you ask me, I think it means it's not the right time of day for waffles. And since it's new and all, I'm guessing it will be cleaner." "Our hotel has waffles every morning for breakfast," said husband. "Those are Belgium waffles. Waffle House only has United States waffles," I persisted. "So by revisiting the scene of a disaster, you mean to improve it." "It's not the scene of the disaster," I said. "It's a new and improved disaster." "I don't see how the food could be any better," said husband. "Keep hope alive!" I said. "We may be in the deep South, but we are no where near Montgomery." "Nearer than we've ever eaten been by far," I said. (To be continued...) June 25, 2022--National Protest Day
Listen up, gurls. Your body has never been your own. Maybe it was for the first ten years or so, but there came a time when your best friend whispered in your ear about the ways of the world and things that men could do. So one day when you were safe back in your own bed, you may have reached down and tried it. And it was good. That is the only time your body may have been your own. Soon after that, you were probably at school when you first noticed the blood dripping out of you when you went to the restroom. If you hadn't previously been told differently, you may have thought your were dying. In fact you were dying--just in a different, albeit slower way than you would have thought. If you are of a certain age, you had been allowed to watch a dark and ominous film in your p.e. class about how natural it all was, but it has never seemed natural to you. In fact when you noticed it, that first time at school, your hands were shaking as you applied the pad with safety pins to your underpants, and then went to class and tried to carry on as if nothing was different. You felt certain that everyone could tell, that they could see the outline of what was happening underneath your clothing. Your body was not your own. Later, maybe you are twenty one years old and at university. The boy you are seeing wants you to sign up for swimming for a college credit. Not only do you kind of suck at swimming in general, but you have still not mastered the tampon. You just can't see yourself using one on a regular basis, but you have no skill to navigate a conversation regarding the reason why you will not sign up for the course. And that creates the first crack in a relationship that went no where fast. The opportunity was lost because your body was not your own. And then, later, maybe once, maybe twice, you found yourself in a compromising position. Both figuratively and literally. You may have had to extricate yourself from the car or the apartment by any means necessary as the boy you were with (and with whom you had no intention to marry) once again made you remember that your body was not your own. And so after a while, you did find the boy you were going to marry. And you find yourself with him in your doctor's office holding a dead and aborted fetus in the palm of your still shaking hand. You cannot understand why the child did not live past ten weeks, just like his two brothers before him. Your body is not your own. Never has been apparently. Not since you were twelve years old. Or thereabouts. Father's Day--June 19th, 2022
by Karen Schwabenland Father's Day is Sunday. My own dad has been dead now for two years, so I thought I would honor him by writing today's post. I am my father's daughter. I am often so busy thinking of how I am not like my dad, that I fail to see how we are the same. We are similar in ways that go beyond the surface. It's as if his ways of being have been ground into me, like grass clippings and plant prunings have been dumped into a compost bin. His habits are in my DNA. My dad was most likely on the spectrum. We all knew it, but no one spoke of it while he was still living. He never quite excelled at any of his jobs in his career, but he worked hard and got the tasks assigned to him done. He attended two years of Blinn College and received a degree in accounting, although he never worked in accounting in his life. I don't know how he managed to get through a program like accounting except that he probably liked the way that accounting numbers are finite. He didn't see the grey in life, only black and white. He could grow plants like crazy. He always had a vegetable garden at every house we ever lived in. Once, I bought a pumpkin to carve for Halloween. He thought that it was wasteful to only use a perfectly edible item as decoration. He got into an epic battle with my mom over it. She would not bake him a homemade pumpkin pie from scratch using the innards of that pumpkin. Who could blame her? Pumpkin pie filling was all over the supermarkets at that time of year. So finally, in exasperation over losing another argument to Mom, Dad took the pumpkin's guts and threw them into the flower bed that lined our patio. There they stayed. He wasn't planting them, just using them for some kind of compost. Mom did not clean them up either. The seeds and stringy inside of that pumpkin just sat in the flower bed for weeks, mocking both of them. Maybe there was a rainfall soon after. I don't know. All I know is that the next autumn, we had a vine of baby pumpkins. I was thrilled, thinking that from there on out I would have a Halloween pumpkin every year. Perhaps more than one. However, Dad didn't like the idea of growing food in a flower bed. I guess he also knew the pumpkins would not be appreciated to the fullest extent by anyone in the house. He tore out the pumpkin vine and planted something else in its place. How I am not like my dad in this story is that I don't grow plants very well. I have just simply given up altogether. Fake plants are my way to go, even in the hanging baskets on my back porch. They are cheap enough to replace each season. I would spend as much replacing real plants that failed to thrive under my watch. But here is how I am like my dad. He hated throwing out something that seemed perfectly useful to him. Or not using every single part of it. I am like that, even though it is hard for me to admit. Right now, in my secret garage freezer, there are frozen berries that are at least six years old. I should throw them out, but they are not taking up too much room. And the only person who is aware of them is me. I cannot bring myself to do it. I wonder how long frozen berries take to show signs of freezer burn or rot? When that happens I will reluctantly toss them I'm sure. Until then, you can't say I am keeping my dad out there in that freezer, but in some sense, I think I am. I really wish my dad could have found a job working in greenhouse or becoming the head gardener for some rich lady in River Oaks. He would have been completely in his element at it. Like some other people I know on the spectrum though, he never completely realized that his own God given talents were the thing he should have pursued for work. I chalk this way of thinking up to the whole idea of square pegs trying to fit into round holes. People with autism spend so much time and energy trying to blend into society's common ideals that they often fail to see and appreciate their own talents for the proverbial trees in the forest. Ironically, Dad would have been a great tree grower, too. ?May 5, 2022--National Small Business Week
by Karen Schwabenland About a week ago, I opened the doors to my Etsy Shop for the first time. Well, not literal doors, because it's all on line. I have a ton of inventory still to post, and I have found myself inexplicably purchasing more supplies as if I have a million dollar business. I do not. In one week I have made one single, solitary sale--and it was really exciting! I believe my clothing is its own art form. The market is out there, it just needs to find me. Last Saturday, after my shop was posted on every social media platform that I know about, I kept checking and rechecking to see how many likes I got for it. I got the usual amount. Exactly what I expected. But I could not stop myself from obsessively checking and rechecking. To the point that the Mister finally said, "Would stop checking your phone, already?" "I'm trying to see if I had any sales." "Karen, it's only been three hours. You've got to let it marinate a while." I stopped. But every time Mister got up to go into the kitchen, I surreptitiously checked again. And again and again. We were supposed to be having a date night, but it was only sitting in front of the television watching something benign. I didn't want break our unspoken rule about texting during TV time, but I found myself a social media whore, trolling every platform to see if there were any takers. The next day, I went to every related Facebook group I belong to, and posted my Etsy shop on them. Only three of them kicked me out for not following the rules. Who reads rules? I prefer to test the rules in these situations and then suffer the consequences if there are any. The good news? Six of the groups kept my post and complete strangers starting liking my shop. By Sunday night, I sank into a complete depression. Maybe this whole idea was foolhardy. I should have named the shop, Karen's Folly. Or maybe Fool's Folly. Because I am a writer, my mind went there. Karen has a negative connotation these days, and there is no alliteration in Karen's Folly. Even better, Foolhardy Folly. That is the best name I could have used. Not something limiting like, I don't know, Up Mixed Designs, I suppose? I slept fretfully, dreaming that I cut up all my inventory, sewed it into a raft, and floated out to sea on it. Then, the next day, I was scrolling through my phone, and low a behold...an email message from Etsy. I had made my first sale! What? Well, did you ever? No. I didn't. Well, shut my mouth. The rest of that day was spent in a complete scramble. I didn't even have packaging supplies. Only some vague notion of what the perfect package should look like. I had to shop, print out a mailing label, wrap it all up, pray over it, and then get to the post office before they closed for the day. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, God. Thank you, loyal shopper. Now I really am an entrepreneur. I have made one sale. It should be arriving by mail to the customer in a day or two. Oh, boy, I hope the buyer likes it. As of today, my shop has been open for five days. I am waiting for that elusive second sale. I haven't even posted some of my favorite items in the shop yet though. But, I am not hedging any bets. Better to have tried and failed than to never have loved "a tall," I always say. And if you can understand what I just wrote, then you will understand the name of my shop. Anyway, I've got a few more things up my sleeve. And speaking of sleeves, I need to go set some right about now. April 22, 2022--Day of Suggestive Programming
by Karen Schwabenland If you are watching television and they show a bunch of commercials about hamburgers, you can't help yourself. You are going to start craving hamburgers. And if you listen to a podcast and they say the word 'burger,' like fifteen times in a conversation, you will find yourself driving inexplicably to your local fast food joint. We used to call it having a Mac Attack. So today, I did it. But my methods were more than a sensory response. It is a clear springtime day around here, and if you go into any store, you will see workers scrambling to get the summer stock into display as quickly as possible. I wonder, would we notice the changing of the seasons if it weren't for the merchandising all around us? Walking past a display of grilling supplies and still craving a burger, I began to wax nostalgic. Soon I found myself sitting in a booth at my local Burger King. I like to do this once a year. I order a whopper and then sit down to enjoy it and my memories. In all of my life, I have never found a better burger that so closely resembles the ones my grandpa used to make on his grill. Oh, I have ordered burgers in the finest of restaurants, and you can have them all. I like me a Five Guys Burger and Fries just fine, but you can take your Smash Burger, your Burger Shack, and your Fuddruckers and all the other joints that try to raise the common hamburger to dine in restaurant status. None of those places really know what a burger should be. A hamburger should drip. That is how my grandpa's burgers always came out. Grandpa loved to grill. And this is the time of year that he would start his process. Burgers every other weekend at his place and on all the major holidays. Mother's Day--he was on the grill. Memorial Day--on the grill. Father's Day--it didn't matter that it was his day, he was on the grill. Fourth of July--grill. Labor Day--grill for the final wrap up of the burgering season. Grandpa was a serious burger meister, meister burger. Standing in his backyard, unnoticeable somewhat due to the smoke emitting from the pit, he was king of all he surveyed. That would be his complete backyard including the above ground swimming pool with a complimentary deck built by his own hands. If I were to admit it, I would say that above ground pool was largely put in place for my benefit. Nothing could beat a day splashing around in the pool, and then--just when you thought you would go crazy from hunger--getting called to come and load up your plate with burgers, pickles, chips, beans (always the beans), and potato salad. When you finally sat down and picked up your overstuffed burger for the first bite, it was already dripping out the sides. Burger King never gives you quite enough napkins to down a whopper without making a mess, but maybe that's just me. Most of Burger King's mess is caused by the the sauce and tomato that makes the moisture of the entire sandwich verge on the edge of uneatable. Grandpa's burgers were like that. If you eat a hamburger outside on a sunny day, you should run out of bun before you run out of meat. Today I scarfed down a whole whopper meal and honored my grandpa in the process. I like to think he was there with me. And on that note, I should go a sit a spell on my porch swing and honor my granny. Lemonade, anyone? April 9th, 2022--Slow Art Day
by Karen Schwabenland When I was teaching in the classroom one year, I had a student who reminded me of Arnold Horshack, a character on the old television series, "Welcome Back, Kotter." Arnold and my kid both shared the same enthusiasm for answering any and all questions. Like Arnold on the show, my student sat right in front of me (the teacher) in my classroom because he wanted to, not because I placed him there. If I had my way, I would have seated him in the back of the room. This year, the Khanenko Museum in Kyiv, Ukraine will host a Slow Art Day on line for obvious reasons. The above painting, a rarely exhibited piece of Chinese art, is the piece that is up for contemplation this year via the internet. Like the child in the art piece, my Arnold/student would answer correctly so frequently that he annoyed his classmates. They often would say, "Give someone else a turn." I would like to think that guy's enthusiasm for raising his hand had something to do with my teaching. But in truth I know it didn't. What is Slow Art Day? It is a day when museums around the world host an event for their patrons that encourages them to look deeply and thoughtfully at a piece of art. Sometimes, there is even lunch provided. But back to the art... The old man in the picture above could be a teacher. Because he is older, he gives off the vibe of wisdom. I was a young teacher when I taught my Arnold character. I had no wisdom. There was a time or two or--ten-- when I got annoyed with my student's enthusiasm, myself. Many years after I taught this student, I ran into him again. By then, he had grown into a middle aged man. We found each other at an event held at a nearby university. It was my retirement year of teaching, and much to my hesitation, I had grudgingly taken a group of students to an academic contest. We were between rounds of competition when another coach (that is what we instructors were called--even those of us who took the title a bit unwillingly) approached me and introduced himself. He asked if I was the same Karen Schwabenland who had taught sixth grade at such and such a school, and when we discovered that we knew each other, he reached out to hug me. He had become a teacher at a prestigious private school. Kudos for him. I wish I could say I had some influence in his career choice, but I don't think I did. He was cut out for the profession from the word go. Nothing ever got by that kid. Back in the classroom, if I was unprepared in the least, he could, and did, advise me on what we should do next. "Don't forget to ask for our homework," was something he frequently stage-whispered to me." He would then giggle to himself at his classmate's groans. At that event, you might say I got even with him for all of his over-the-top enthusiasm. You see, that weekend, the weekend of the academic tournament, I had come down with the flu. I should not have attended, but I had no one to replace me. None of my colleagues responded to a request to sub for me. I bundled up, got high on Tylenol, and told myself I would keep a safe distance from everyone. I had no way to know that an ex-student would seek me out and the give me a hug. When it happened we were in the hallway surrounded by rooms where the competition was going on. Others nearby had just been hushed by a sponsor of the event. Signs were posted to remain silent while standing near these rooms. What was I to do? I am dreadfully sorry that I may have passed the flu on to my ex-student, turned teacher. You could say we are now even. Speaking of which and related to the art piece, was I the yin to his yang? Well, back in the day, he certainly "yanged" my strings, so to speak. But maybe the above painting reminds me of something darker. On the surface I appeared all yin to my student, but deeper inside, I harbored resentment. Indignation at a child's eagerness is pretty dark and plenty petty. Rightfully, I carried displeasure at attending an event while also experiencing the flu that weekend. If you look at the old teacher fellow in the art piece long enough, his bemused smile turns into hatred and revenge. He could be thinking, "By God, I'll get you one day. I will get you, you irritating, spoiled, know-it-all, little kid." And so, eventually and likewise, that is what I did. April 2nd, 2022--World Autism Awareness Day
by Karen Schwabenland I remember the screaming. Every time they jabbed our baby with a needle, he screamed. Who could blame him? It was terrible. We followed the required immunization schedule for American infants and toddlers in the early 90s. Once, I made Mister take our son to the pediatrician for the check-up. They both returned like two battered soldiers from war--tired, worn, and fragmented. All Mister could manage to say was, "It's like a zoo in there." By my second child I began to grow accustomed to the screaming in the pediatrician's office. There was a long hallway with thin doors from which one could enter the examination rooms. As you were escorted to your tiny private cubicle, you could catch a glimpse inside other rooms where sick or healthy children waited for a verdict. A closed door meant the doctor was "in." If there wasn't screaming from within the walls of a closed door, there soon would be. As my children grew older, we managed to keep the same pediatrician with the same office space. As they aged, the space shrank in kind. I was a hold out for the doctor, keeping my son there as a patient until he was twenty-five years old. The doctor was oldish when we arrived at the beginning of our health journey, and he stayed the same for twenty-five years. I hadn't found this doctor or practice until my daughter arrived, however. Before her arrival, my son had another pediatrician, but I believe that the care and protocol would have been the same. Our fate was sealed after Baby Malone (our son) had his first Measles, Mumps, and Rubella (MMR) vaccine. I had been told that it was important for him to not have a cold when he was given that shot. He was in daycare, and it seemed that he was perpetually either at the beginning or the end of a cold or ear infection. We had postponed the vaccine three times. In the early spring of his second year, I took him to his then pediatrician for the shot. I had already cancelled three times. He had just had a cold, but was not running fever and his ears were clear. He got the shot. Of course he screamed. I was accustomed to it by then, but clearly he was not. I took him home in the afternoon, fed him, and put him down for a nap. And then he slept and slept. And slept some more. After four hours, Mister was home and we decided to wake up Baby Malone. He awoke and let us hold him, but he would go right back to sleep in our arms. It was excessive sleep for his young age. The longest nap he took at that time was two hours, but usually, an hour to and hour and a half was the amount of time he spent day sleeping. He was two years old. I called the pediatrician after six hours of sleeping. Of course I got the answering service, as it was after dinner time by then. A colleague of our regular doctor eventually called us back. "I'm worried about my baby," I said into the phone. "He got his MMR vaccine today, and he's been sleeping for six hours." "Does he awaken when you try to wake him up," asked the doctor. "Well, yes, he wakes up, but he goes right back to sleep," I replied. "As long has you can wake him up, it's perfectly normal," said the doctor. "If you can't wake him up, then call us back. Good-night." Perfectly normal. It didn't seem right. That night our son slept for sixteen hours, counting the afternoon nap. He awoke the next day hungry and seemed normal for the wear and tear his brain must have gone through. After that, there were milestones that he reached late. We went to through three kindergarten classrooms in a six week period. I am not anti-vax, at least not politically, anyway. But there had to be something. There had to be something that happened during that fateful day and night after he received his first MMR vaccine. Our lives were certainly never the same. Richer for the trouble, probably. But not the same. And not neurotypical. I broke up with our long time pediatrician in a sad and negative way. My children had outgrown his office. As much as I respected the man, he asked me to explain my hesitancy to vaccines when the question of the HPV vaccine was posed for my daughter. Don't worry, eventually I let her decide and she got it, all three doses. That day, in our pediatrician's office, I tried to articulate the story I have written here, but my words were muddled. I sounded defensive. Then again, the doctor did too. Surprisingly, this old trusted soul was not on my side. Baby Malone had not been vaccinated on his watch. I wish he had been, though, even it the result would be the same. March 24, 2022--Day the Exxon-Valdez Ran Aground
by Karen Schwabenland My bicycle crashes have been epic and one sided. One sided in that when mounted on top of a bike, physics dictates that you will fall to one side or the other. There is no objectivity involved. I ride my bike the same way I drive a car--like a bat out of hell, on two wheels. I recently sacrificed myself to our newest automobile. What I mean by that is that instead of letting my bicycle fall into it, I purposefully leaned away and hit the ground. Hard. Maybe I should say the ground came up to meet me because that is what it felt like. You see what happened was...I rolled my Schwinn out of the garage in order to take a cruise around the 'hood. It was one of the most recent beautiful days. Sky clear, sun shining, and a slight breeze in the air. I carefully rolled past my patio furniture to the driveway gate, and then in an inability to hold back the joy of stretching my legs--much like a dog on a leash before a walk--I did something that I will never do again. Do you remember riding your bike when you were a kid? I think I lived on mine--fully furnished with high handlebars, a banana seat, and only single feet brakes. This tripped out machine got me everywhere I needed to be (and few places I had no business to be) throughout my elementary school years. Often left in the front yard, it would beckon to me. I would hop on like a cowboy leaving a successful gun fight. The incline of the driveway gave me just the boost I needed to sail off down the street. It was always enticing to see how far I could make it before I needed to pump the pedal. It could be a good quarter mile or so before I needed to add any power to my ride. Our steeply inclined driveway was the kind some kids only dreamed of. My bike and the screen credits in my head both rolled along playing, "Happy Trails to You." That memory must have been in my frontal cortex because I made the dim-witted decision to repeat it. Only fifty years later. And on a driveway that has barely any incline. The thing about our driveway though is that the lawn mower has left its mark in the guise of ruts all along the edge. At ten years old, a small rut along a driveway is something that is not even noticed. At sixty years old, a lawnmower rut becomes a geographic land formation. I had already mounted my metal steed and was perched to launch down the mountain like a snowboarder, minus the tricks. I probably rotated my pedals around one time when the rut caught me. I wobbled. As I continued to wobble, I had a choice to make. To my left was our newish, recently washed, undinged up Mazda. To my right was the cold, hard ground. What to do? Mister has admonished me many times to watch what I was doing when rolling my bike past our cars. The passage from the garage and down the driveway is narrow, cars on one side and fence on the other. The lane is just big enough for a human or a bicycle. Both of them together herald havoc. I had just cleared the lane with the fence on one side when the lawnmower rut caught my front tire. I felt the bicycle leaning toward the Mazda. It would block my fall, but before I fell into the car, the bicycle handlebars would fall first and meet me there. It was Mister's voice I heard in my head when I made my bull-headed choice. The bike continued to lean precariously toward the car. It was a game I would lose. "Not so fast," the voice in my head cried. "There is more than one way out of this crisis." I leaned right. It was just enough to correct the list to the left, but it caused a new and separate list to the right. I quickly lost control. "Oh, calamity," I thought. And that is when the ground met my head. It happened so fast, I lay there stunned for a long minute. I gradually sat up. Already sore, I stayed in place for a bit, taking internal inventory. My neighbor from across the street rounded the corner of his house and waved at me. I waved back. He obviously thought I was just sitting at the edge of my driveway, with my pink bicycle in bits all around me. After a time, I gathered myself up and managed to return to the house. Mister was in the kitchen. He looked at my torn jeans and the leaves collected in my hair. "What happened?" he asked. "I crashed," I said. "What? Again? Where were you?" "On the driveway. I didn't even make it to the street." In the time that has passed since that crash, my second bicycle crash in one year, I have had a different song playing in head when I think of riding again. That song is, "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" by the Clash. They should more aptly be called the Crash though. One line from the song is, "You've got me on my knees..." Oh, yes. I know what they mean. Not saying I want to land on my knees if it happens again, but it might keep a second bruise on my tuchus from happening. Not to mention another one to my ego. March 16, 2022--Wear Out Your Pants Day by Karen Schwabenland Last night, I worked backstage at the community theatre production. I helped actors prepare for the show by carefully laying out all of the parts of the many quick change costumes involved in the show. I had my phone in my hand to use as a flashlight in case I needed it when the lights went out. Someone needed me to help them get into a costume. With nowhere to put my phone, I reached down to put it my front pants pocket. "Hmmm. That's funny," I thought. "I don't have a pocket....wait a minute! These are my favorite pair of cargo pants with the deep pockets that I wore specifically for the very reason of needing a useful place for putting things tonight." I reached around behind me. I found my front pocket. Right on my ass. It was already filled in a curvy sort of way. Somewhat amazed at my discovery, I said aloud, "Hey, I'm wearing my pants backwards." That got a few laughs, but I hadn't planned it. I helped the actors by zipping up dresses and straightening collars all the while conscious of every person I asked to hold my phone while doing so. I was afraid I would lose it in the hubbub. Then, since it was my night to sit in the audience and watch the show, I went to find the Mister, who was already sitting in the house. I found him seated next to a few friends, relaxed and waiting for the production to begin. After hellos and greetings, Mister said to me, "Why don't you put your phone in your pocket before you lose it?" "Well, I can't because I am wearing my pants backwards. .... By accident," I added. People were coming in quickly by then. The theatre was filling up. "I can't believe you just said that out loud for the whole world to hear," said Mister. I shrugged. "I'm just stating a fact. I am wearing my trousers wrong." After another laugh, a friend next to Mister said, "Why don't you go change them? You still have time." I checked the time on my phone. I had five minutes. I left my phone with Mister and headed to the ladies room. I could have used the women's dressing room backstage, but I had just witnessed that scene. I knew it was chaotic. In the short time it would take me to fix my pants, there was a distinct possibility of completely losing them in there. Those quarters were tight. A bathroom stall seemed preferable. I found the restroom and set about my business. I was wearing sneakers, so those had to be untied and removed first. I was glad it was quiet. I was the only one in there. I needed to concentrate. I don't know how I put my pants on backwards when I dressed at home. They had not even been uncomfortable while I wore them that way. The trousers were cargo style, but in a dark navy gabardine material. I had altered them myself as I do most of my clothing to fit me perfectly, like a glove. Except maybe my body was not so glovelike since I couldn't tell my ass from a hole in the wall. Apparently. As I stood next to the toilet bowl unlacing my shoes, I thought that I didn't really know shit from shinola. I made it back to my seat just in time. The show was about to begin. As I sat down next to Mister, I whispered, "Where's my phone?" "In my jacket pocket," he whispered back. Then the house went dark and the play began. We were so happy and entranced by the performance, I forgot about my phone. Mister handily gave it back to me after the show though, so I could snap photos with the actors. After all of the congratulations and, "Good Show(s)!" were exchanged, Mister went to get the car while I got costumes ready for the next day's performance. I reached down to put my phone--which I was still holding--in my pocket. Again. For the second time that night. My front pocket was not there. "What the @#$%?" I said aloud. I looked down. I still had my pants, the pants I had carefully removed and turned around to face the front, on backwards. "How?...What?...Why?" I thought. I reached around behind me just to make sure I was not in an episode of the twilight zone. I found my pocket. Filled up. With....oh, don't even ask. Maybe I was in an episode of the twilight zone. The one where your own ass keeps getting in the way of providing a safe place to put your phone. I located my purse in the ladies' dressing room where I had safely stored it underneath the counter before the show. Most of the actors had left by then, so it was uncrowded and quiet. I put my phone in my purse before I started my cleanup process. I debated telling Mister about my turn of events, but eventually decided to own up to it. As we left the theatre, I said, "And if you're wondering where my phone is, it's in my purse. On account of my pocket is still behind me. Filled up with... nothing but net." I sighed. "I thought you changed your pants," said Mister. "I did. But somebody must have come in there and changed 'em back around when I wasn't looking," I said. "Come in where?" he asked. "To the ladies' room?" "No, come into my pants." "I would hope that by now you would know when someone comes into your pants." "Theatre fairies. Or something." "Maybe it's not your pants that are on backwards. Maybe it's your head." I fell in beside him walking to the car. "Well, if that's the case," I said, "You better start only holding my left hand from now on." March 4, 2022--Personal Exercise Day
by Karen Schwabenland What keeps you from regular exercise? In other words, why are you still fat? Harsh words, I know. I am right there with you though. I have an image in my head of what shape I'm in. I only occasionally come face to face with the horrible reality. And that is what this post is about. Not why any of us are still fat, but horrible reality. My youngest child is twenty-three years old, and I still haven't lost the baby weight. Why has that happened? God gave women pain in childbirth because of Eve's shenanigan's with the apple, but who gave us the perpetual inability to lose weight? Speaking of my youngest baby, Daughter Dearest has taken on the dogma of the Nuevo Age-o movement--much to my dismay. Her newly found religion came as a surprise, by why should it have? She's twenty-three. She is just naturally testing the waters. So of course, I have started testing the waters myself. Just so I can keep up and have some kind of civil debate with Daughter Dearest. Not that we ever have had any bones to pick. One New Age guru that I have listened to lately is Teal Swan. She is someone whom I know Dearest has been interested in. Teal Swan has something to say about everything under the sun. I recently found her video about weight loss. She said that in order to lose weight, one must first deal with the emotional issues (ie-trauma) that is keeping that weight on you. What in the world? I couldn't believe what I heard. She had implied that a person is overweight because they had not fully dealt with what had traumatized them in the past. Well, I just... O.K., look Missy Mary Teal Swan, I have had as much emotional trauma as the next person. Well, maybe a bit more. How would I really know how much is much? I have even been to therapy--twice. And by twice, I mean a sum total of two visits. It was hard. So I quit. What I am, basically, is a quitter. I searched and searched my brain to think of what could be holding me back from exercising and losing weight. I could not connect any of my personal trauma to it. At all. Finally, I realized the answer though. It is as plain as the nose on my face. Anyway, why I cannot/will not exercise is because the act of exercise itself is traumatic to me. I dread/avoid the soreness and exhaustion that comes with any new exercise program. As I sit here today writing this blog, there is a cat clawing at my back. Someone is taking a ball peen hammer to the arches on my feet while simultaneously squeezing each knee into gigantic vice grips. (Hint--I do not own a cat.) All of these things are happening because already this morning, I have been on my feet for three hours--shopping and cleaning house. And yes, I wear the correct kind of shoes, the kind that Wendy Williams is now assigned to wearing. Oh, yes, I was also up and down a ladder today--twice. Honestly, the ladder was probably the item that did me in for the day. Oh, Miss Teal Swan, you are such a child. You have not walked around in a sixty year old body. You ain't got no babies yet. You have not had the weight of worries about them on your shoulders. You have not had to fight for every crumb of fair and appropriate education for them. You have not lain awake at night wondering what will become of them when you are gone. Yes, Miss Swan, I got two babies, and they are both high maintenance. But I digress. What I really mean to say is we (meaning all parents of special needs children) are the ones who must live forever because no one--I mean NO ONE--will be able to care for our children as well as we do. And if we are really serious about living forever (as in still walking around on this planet), seems like some new age philosophy would be the way to go. But I don't go there. Not really. It is too late in the game to change directions now, philosophically speaking. Anyways, I have experienced too many successful Hail Mary passes to not believe in the game I play. The only other way to keep walking around on this planet is exercise. So, I've been told. Damn. Exercise is hard. I hate hard. *No daughters were harmed in the writing of this post. *We are fully aware of the controversy surrounding Teal Swan and have worked our way through it. February, 25, 2002--Honor Your Spirit Day by Karen Schwabenland In my house are many search engines. I know this to be true because someone keeps changing my default engine. I don't want Duck, Duck, Go or Bing, or even Yahoo as my search engine. And by the way, what the hell is ecosia? I've never heard of it.
I can't think of one single reason to change search engines, but someone keeps doing it. Perhaps it is the family ghost. When we bought this old house, we were told a man had died in it. It was a disclosure that the seller was required to tell us. Frankly, I would have rather she had told us the name of the paint shades and the titles and makes of the wallpaper that she had decorated with. At the house closing, her realtor stated that there was one final thing that needed to be stated. "We need to let you know that Mr. Wallace died in the house. Will that change your mind about anything?" "Died?" "Yes, he died there." "Violently?" "No, no, not violently." "O.K., then I guess we're still in." Since that time, there have been many strange things that have happened here--lights left on in rooms where we were positive they had been turned out--for starters. A master bedroom that is always ten degrees hotter or colder than the den (although they share a wall) is another one. Another example of Mr. Wallace's repertoire of pranks are flickering light bulbs (even brand new, right out of the box) and a washing machine that will occasionally try to walk away from it all. I hear you washing machine. I hear and see you, and I understand. Sometimes the stairs creak when no one is on them. Our oven always bakes faster than the prescribed time allotted. And as previously mentioned, someone keeps changing my default search engine on my desktop computer. What's more, when standing at the kitchen window looking out at the street, one is overcome by the insistent urge to eat sausage. More on that later. While our ghost is not exactly friendly, he does seem benign enough. I like to think he watches over the house when we are away. He has occasionally sat around on the job, however. Where was he in last year's freeze when our laundry room pipes burst? And let us not forget the broken underground pipe of 2019 which caused a toilet to explode. Nasty sewage water from the overflowing commode spread like lice in a preschool classroom. It created a river down the hallway and puddled around the bottom of our Christmas tree causing the wrapped presents to look like battered houseboats and ruined fishing piers after a hurricane. It seems that our ghost, Mr. Wallace, has something against pipes. Maybe he is not able to access them very well. I once heard that to get rid of a ghost, you had to enclose them in a lead box. The fact that some of our pipes are still lead could explain his hesitancy to stop the clogs, leaks, and breakages. After we had lived here several years, my long time neighbor revealed how Mr. Wallace had died. He had a massive heart attack while taking a shower in the master bathroom. Funny, but it does not really bother me about that, though. I am seldom reminded of him while I am in there. I just feel sorry for whomever had to find him. I did not tell my neighbor about his hauntings. I falsely believed at the time that a house ghost should be a very private thing. My neighbor filled in many blanks about the family that used to live here, though. One story she often repeated was that she frequently spotted Mr. Wallace standing at the kitchen window chomping down on a giant piece of sausage, an act that that would always bring Mrs. Wallace's wrath if she knew about it. I have not been able to tell much about Mr. Wallace from an internet search, no matter which search engine I use. I do know that his first name was Joseph, though. Given everything that we've been through together in this house, I'd like to think I know him well enough by now to refer to him by his first name. From now on, our ghost will called Joseph, or just Joe. February 11, 2021--World News Day
by Karen Schwabenland Clogged toilets at the White House. A world wide pandemic. The Super Bowl Studium fortified against invaders. The Silent Olympics. Troops gathering in the gloom. Such are the tidings that greet us--should we choose to watch or read the news. I do watch and read. I do watch and read because I am a watcher and a reader. I watch my world. I notice the changes. For example, today in the Supermarket, I observed an ominous event. A man in front of me in the check out line tried to pay with his telephone. He looked rather idiotic in his Nike sweats and striped running shoes waving his phone over and over the check out kiosk. This was indeed something new. Is this what our world is coming to? Are we all to be condemned in Future World to wave our phones at small screens while wearing Nike sweats and striped running shoes? And in Future World, will we all have neglected to shave our faces for the past two days. Or weeks. Depending on our rate of beard growth? Nike Sweats Man was trying to pay for six rolls of toilet paper and twelve boxes of bread sticks. My better side kept me from trying to figure out what he was going to use those items for, and if their use could be related. The kiosk was not taking the phone transfer of funds. Not for love, nor money. No way. No how. There was a naive young girl running the cash register. All she could say was, "I don't know why it's not working," in a lilting voice. Her pony tail bounced each time she said it. Meanwhile, behind me there was a lady with a cart full of flowers. She and I began a quick friendship while we waited for help to arrive, or peace on earth. Whichever came first. She was miffed about the events in the check out line. I was not. Because I watch the news. I have come to expect catastrophes. As a matter of fact, if you can leave your house and return without a catastrophe occuring, you must be sporting some powerful magic. Nike Sweats was not sporting powerful magic today, even though he may have been magical in previous transactions with his phone. Ponytail asked him if he wanted to pay in cash. He said he would go get cash from his car and left everything, all twelve boxes of breadsticks and six rolls of toilet paper, on the counter. I turned and reported this turn of events to Flower Cart Lady. She became a mad hornet at this news. Right in front of my eyes. I half expected her to buzz around her flowers and was ready to swat her with the magazine I had been reading--but not expecting to pay for. She promptly decided to try another line. By then, there was a gentleman behind her who also determined to move along. I already had my pile of supplies on the belt and ready to be scanned. I thought that Ponytail would go ahead a check me out, in spite of the man before me leaving mid-transaction. I have been around. I know what's what. I know that transactions can be cancelled or put on hold. Ponytail had not been around. I doubt she has been anywhere at all because when the man left, she just looked at me and sighed. "The machine is broken," she said. "The lady who was here before him tried to put her credit card in it, and it wouldn't take it. She paid with cash." My mind began to work overtime. The lady before Nike Sweats may have been a spy or an overt operative from a foreign entity. She may have been from Khaszakistanislovsky or the Canary Islands or anywhere. She had a loaded computer chip on her card and whoever was the next person to put their computer chipped card in the machine would be the person who unraveled our entire world. That card's chip would then be compromised. Infected with a virus. Then I go home, try to purchase something with the same number on that card of off Amazon and, "Boom!" My home computer explodes causing the roof on my house to cave in which then hits me in the head and knocks me out. Possibly killing me. And then everyone who ever ordered anything from Amazon would meet a similar fate. Luckily, I had my capable assistant, by the name of Muscles Malone, with me. I told him to take my items off of the belt. We went to a less dangerous cash register. Crisis averted. All because I am a watcher and a reader. And I know that each and everyone one of us is only one keyboard tap, or magical transaction, away from total annihilation. February 6, 2022--You say Po-tah-to; I say tators!
by Karen Schwabenland This week, at my local green grocer, I found a bag of potatoes marked down to only ninety-nine cents. I don't actually have a green grocer, I just like the sound of saying it. I have a supermarket, like everyone else does. This potato find was most definitely going to be my bargain of the week. And they were not the usual potatoes that come in a plastic bag, either. They were the Yukon Gold variety, only three times the size of normal golden potatoes. I brought them home and sat them on the kitchen counter. What to do with these gigantic spuds? They were too big to boil all at once in my largest pot. I do know a thing or two about tubers, or maybe just one thing. I know that any potato can be baked. Or should be able to undergo a baking. So I decided to put them in my biggest crockpot and let them roast. I washed and dressed each one in an aluminum foil blanket, then tossed them in the slow cooker. Since it was early in the day, I set the temperature at low. They had a good seven hours to get all nice and fluffy on the inside. That night at dinner time, I sent the entire family to the kitchen with instructions to help themselves to the contents of the crock. I often take action like that. Every once in a while, I take even more drastic action than that though. At the end of a busy day, when the ship feels weighty and lists to one side or the other I will make a call, and not to the local pizza joint, either. Before I make that call, hungry people have often sought me out for solace. "What's for dinner? they ask. "Everyman for himself!" I reply. When their stricken faces stare back at me, I try for a bit of comfort. "Women and children first," I'll add. While I had not used the abandon ship command that evening, the situation in the house had indeed grown dire. People were starving, and I was quite busy not feeding them. "Thank God for my foresight in planning ahead with those potatoes," I thought. Much to my surprise, after my order for each one to help himself, I overheard a mutiny of impassioned voices in the kitchen before I stepped in there. "These potatoes are still hard!" came the cry. "They're not even cooked!" Wait....what? After checking the usual culprits of the device not plugged in or turned on, I quickly dove into the refrigerator and retrieved leftover lasagne from the night before. The mutineers quickly dispersed and ate their way past their trauma. I could not figure out what went wrong though. I supposed that the low setting was the cause of the potatoes not cooking thoroughly. The next day, I tried again with the slow cooker, except turning it to the highest setting. And since they were already partially baked, I baked them dang taters for three more hours. At the end of the baking time, I checked them myself. Still not done. At least not done enough for fine tastes. I'm sure they would be palatable for someone lost in the Yukon, hence the name, Yukon Gold potatoes. They were about three quarters cooked after twelve hours of slow cooking. That night for dinner, I inspected the refrigerator once again and produced leftover chili from three nights before. When I went to bed, I dreamed about potatoes. My nightmare was brought on by a double edged sword of anxiety from those un-bakable, possibly genetically enhanced Yukons. One edge of the sword was this: if those potatoes were a swim team, they would be from East Germany. I knew they were oversized when I purchased them, but why wouldn't they cook? The other edge of the the sword was a simple fact. I was out of leftovers. And if I had no replacement items for the uncookable potatoes, the mutineers could return. There was not a third side to the sword, but if there was it might have had something to do with the three day old chili we had eaten for dinner. Finally, on the third day, I rose again to bake those potatoes. They had begun to haunt me, and I would be glad to get rid of them. Into the oven, or crematorium, with them. After an hour and a half, the time it takes to bake normal potatoes, the kitchen began to smell like the warm essence of pomme du terre. I set out cheese, butter, and sour cream. "Tonight--we feast!" I shouted. The family assembled, and we set to attacking those long roasted vegetables at last. I can't say they were good, but they weren't bad. The lyrics to an old song by Lionel Richie floated around at the back of my head with only a slight change, "You're once, twice, three times a tator, and I nosh you. I nosh you." January 28, 2021--Privileged White Woman Day or The Tax Man Cometh
by Karen Schwabenland Astute readers may recall that in my last blog post, I wrote about how ridiculous I felt clothed in a hot pink fluffy sweater, some eighties retro leggings, and black and pink track shoes which I can assure you have never even seen the steps to the visitor's seating area of a track. Based on the feedback from that post, I need to clear a few things up. Yes, it's true that you are only as confident as you feel. I feel confident in that statement. So much so that I often have greater confidence in my own abilities than I have a hole in my head. Therefore, it is in the belief in clarity and transparency that I share this next bit of my tale. In my meeting with my lawyer this week, which I wrote about in my last post, not only was I dressed rather garishly, I failed at every opportunity to appear wise and worldly. I had arrived early. I arrived so early in fact, I had time to set myself up a small office at the conference table that I had been ushered to. I had wisely packed for the day. I set my binder of important documents to the right of me, as one would want to sit at the right hand of God. Next, I opened my notebook to a clean page and placed it in front of me. I was so proud of myself for remembering to bring a spiral notebook. I have been known to fish things from my purse on which to write. But not for this meeting. No-siree-bob. There would be no scribing on paper napkins, the backs of coupons or old gum wrappers today. I turned my phone volume to silence, then laid it next to my notebook. Finally, I opened my water bottle, took a sip, and set it at the top of the place setting. Feeling accomplished, I reclined a bit to the back in the leather chair I was in and surveyed my work. The effect was that of a woman who definitely knew where she was going and what she wanted. Then my lawyer walked in, sat down, and bit by bit, it all went to hell. As she began talking, I tilted my notebook towards me to write things down. That is when I noticed that I had no pencil. No pen. Not even a rock to scratch notes into the mahogany table where we were seated. As she continued talking, I frantically searched through my handbag. But as I did this, I already knew. There would be nothing there. Nothing in my hand bag or on my person with which to write. Not wanting to stop her as I knew I was helping her create billable hours, but still hoping to appear put together, I took a lipstick out of the make-up pouch I keep in my purse. "Gosh, an eyebrow pencil would have worked so much better," I thought. "Too bad I don't have one of those." I began to write with the lip stick. My lawyer stopped mid-sentence, and stared at me. "Would you like a pen?" she asked. I nodded yes like a guilty child. She briefly left the room and came back with a cup full of pens and pencils. Later, during our meeting, she brought up the topic of financial records. I proudly said I had my own separate bank account. I am an independent woman, after all. When she queried me further, I admitted that my husband balanced the account for me. I explained that as partners, we divided the chores of our life into the things that we are good at. Mister, who majored in accounting and could have been a tax auditor, is talented with the pocketbook. What more can I say? I tend to get my calculations a bit muddled, so I have allowed him, over the years, to tend to anything that has to do with finance--which, in a sense, is everything. The next thing that happened was my lawyer inquired as to the name of my bank. "The name of my bank?" I asked. She nodded. "Gee, I don't know. I mean it's been so long since I actually went there. We do everything online nowadays. I seldom even write checks. I just use my credit card for all my purchases." I shrugged, feeling inept. She gave me an all knowing look. I thought that the look said, "Uh-huh. Another kept woman." Only her lawyerly decorum kept her from rolling her eyes and shaking her head back and forth. Who doesn't know the name of the institution that houses all of their money? I was going to have listen to another Suze Orman Ted Talk on this. I frantically searched my mind. Nothing. I flat out didn't know. If my life depended on it at that moment, I could not recall it. She started naming banks. "Chase? Bank of America?" "Umm, it starts with a 'W'? I think?" I was Pinocchio. Soon, my lawyer would produce a dunce cap. I looked around at the corners of the room. There were no stools on which to sit there, so I would just have to stand. Hmmm. Good think I wore my track shoes, I guess. January 26, 2021-Last Week of January
by Karen Schwabenland To get out of the winter doldrums, I pulled out a hot pink sweater and matching retro eighties pants from my closet this morning. I was already dressed when I remembered it was my day to lawyer up, or that is--go meet with my lawyer in order to settle my own estate. By settle my own estate, I mean to, you know, take into account all of those things that come into play following the words, "upon my death..." Since I was already dressed in my hot pink sweater and retro eighties pants, I briefly considered changing clothes. I was going to a law firm, afterall, and I should look the part. The woman I would be chatting with was always well put together. I thought I should, "bring it," or you know, "come to play"--to use sports' terminology. Then I remembered that the woman I would be chatting with was my own lawyer and should be on my side. I changed my mind about changing clothes when I looked at my feet. I had already laced up my black and pink running shoes, and who wants to go through that again? And besides, if I changed outfits, I would have to make another decision about shoes. So I justified my casual attire by the following affirmations:
Since I spent a year of my life without any, I am kind of an expert on buying good hair. Back then, it was about the wigs, but now my hair is all my own. So to have good hair that is your own, you can buy products that create the illusion of great hair. The thing is though, you should actually use the expensive conditioner that you purchased. Or at the least, not go to bed with your hair wet. After all of these contemplations and affirmations, I was quickly running out of time. I pulled my hair back with my best and most expensive black headband, but it was still all pointy-outie with some rather sharp looking hair horns in the back and on the sides. By then it was too late to do anything else but leave the house. The meeting went better than expected, but upon leaving and glancing at myself in the ladies' bathroom mirror, I realized the error of my ways. Don't you just hate it when that happens? You just spent a few hours over drinks, or in your lawyer's office, thinking that you looked kind of put together and feeling confident, then boom! You catch yourself in a mirror, and one thing comes to mind, "Oh, Lordy. What was I thinking?" I'll tell you what I was thinking. I was thinking that hot pink is a color I look good in, even though I am somewhere between a blond and a light brunette with pale, ivory toned skinned. Also, that I am only twenty years old. Because only a twenty year old should wear retro eighties leggings with black running shoes and a hot pink sweater. That retreat to the ladies room after my meeting this morning was the winter doldrums landing with a thud upon my soul. January 19, 2021--Happy New Year! Time for a Review
by Karen Schwabenland Dear Ms. Fran Lebowitz, Is it alright if I call you Fran? I just finished your book, The Fran Lebowitz Reader (New York: Vintage Books, 1994). I feel like I know you now. I watched your series on Netflix and found it amusing. Then, much to my surprise, I stumbled upon your book one day in the library when I was doing my usual perusal through the newest books. One of the items that I took the most delight in was the chapter titled, "An Alphabet of New Year's Resolutions for Others," (pages 326-329). I am so taken with that chapter, that I will reproduce my own version, here on this blog (without your permission), but as I said, I feel like we are friends now. My List of New Year's Resolutions for Others
So Fran, or Ms. Lebowitz, thank you for the inspiration from your fine writing. I will catch you on Netflix or the next time I am in my local library. Your adoring fan, Karen Schwabenland (or just Karen) January 14, 2021--Feast of the Ass
by Karen Schwabenland What if Mary was not enamored with the donkey that Joseph provided her to ride on? Today is Feast of the Ass, a day in the fifteenth century that celebrated all of the donkeys in the Bible, but more specifically, the one that Mary and Baby Jesus rode on during the flight to Egypt. And what's more, a perfectly good reason for using the words 'feast, ass, and Baby Jesus,' in one piece of writing. During the Feast of the Ass, a girl holding a baby would ride through town on the back of a donkey while folks on the street sang songs. That doesn't sound so bad. Where those pesky Catholic Church honchos had concerns though may have something to do with the fact that the donkey was allowed to stand near the alter during services and was sometimes given food and drink. And where it gets even messier is that the congregation was allowed to bray or "heehaw" responses back to the priest, a behavior that cannot be seen as respectful even in this day and age. If we reach back to the actual Bible story of this event, we might see things in a different light. Getting transported around the countryside on the back of a donkey probably came with its own set of problems. Aren't donkeys known for their stubbornness? What if the only donkey Joseph could get was an old jack, a failing bag of bones who had long ago seen better days? What if Mary, young and immature, had imagined once that her spouse would be young and handsome, and not the older, mature Joseph? What if in her immaturity she considered him a "scrub?" What if when they were both still back at home, she found him unattractive? In the Broadway musical of this story, it would be a chance for Mary and her girlfriends to sing one of my favorite songs, "No Scrubs," by the girl group, TLC. Mary would start, and the girlfriends would back her up on the chorus, "I don't want no scrub. A scrub is guy who can't get no love from me, hanging on the passenger side of his best friend's ride, trying to holler at me." I mean, ladies, haven't we all been there? Walking to our own bucket of bolts in the high school parking lot, some young turk tries to garner our attention by yelling something out of the passenger side window. We are left in a daze of dust trying to decipher what just happened and who those clowns were. If we are walking with our girlfriends, it would be a perfect time to break into a round of "No Scrubs." Too bad that song was not written while I was in high school. The closest we could get to something appropriate to sing back then at a moment like that would be, "I Will Survive," by Gloria Gaynor, a song that doesn't capture the same idea as "No Scrubs." Eventually, what we gals all live to learn is that the ride is not as important as the intention. One donkey is as good as the next, I suppose. The donkey that Joseph provided got his burgeoning family where they needed to be. And that same logic is why I drive a mini-van. It gets my family where we need to be, and in comfort. The same cannot be said about the donkey. Donkeys in Biblical times were as ubiquitous as mini-vans are now, though. A mini-van is a thousand steps up from what I drove in high school. Truth be told though, every now and again I picture myself walking through my high school parking lot, wistful for some scrub to holler at me once more. Then, I bray like a donkey back at him. January 6, 2021-Feast of Epiphany
by Karen Schwabenland--so, so NOT a Biblical scholar Growing up, during this time of Epiphany, we always learned about the visit of the Three Wise Men. Consequently, our mothers had been told to not take down the Christmas decorations until today. I used to sit in the pew during services and memorize the seasons of the Church, or the liturgical calendar and its colors. Where I worshipped, Epiphany was an entire season, or a whole big thing that took some time. It started today and lasted all the way until Lent. You know those times and places when you were driving or flying for a long time? Maybe you had to change modes of transportation several times. You had to stand in line. Your feet hurt. Before you turned in your rental car, you and your party had to consume all of the beverages that had been opened because they could not be taken on the plane, and everyone knows we are not about wasting money. Said beverages may have consisted of a half quart of milk, eleven half finished water bottles, a Star Bucks chi latte, and three opened but aborted bottles of pop. Later, the toilet on the plane you were flying on had never seen so much business. But, before boarding that plane, your luggage got checked. If you were bringing gifts to someone, they probably got jostled about. Perhaps the wrapping got torn. If you were flying with an entire set of china to give your mother for Christmas, it would be an added stress for you and your companions to protect that package, even it you had wrapped each piece perfectly and separately. I like to call that scenario an added value-stress factor. I once watched a lady at the airport pack and unpack her suitcase over and over again to try to support three bottles of wine she was bringing home from her trip. Maybe that lady is me. Maybe not. I won't say, but traveling is never easy. We often arrive at our destination weary and worn. Even grumpy. What if one of the Wise Men was a bit grumpy upon arrival to the stable? When my family took a vacation to New York, I found myself singing that old Frank Sinatra song everywhere we went. "Start spreading the news...We're gonna make a brand new start of it. New York. New York." I sang it so much that my throat hurt. So I stopped. Just to rest the chords a bit, ya know? Much to my surprise, my kids requested the song. Of course I complied. That might be the only time they asked me for a song which is, in itself, nothing short of miraculous. That moment was a small epiphany for me. It is when I thought, "Aha! So they do like my sensationalistic, over enthusiastic singing, after all." Way back in Biblical times, the wise men knew what to do. But how? Why? How did they know? Did they have an epiphany when they initially observed the new star in the sky? How did they know to just trust and follow it? I find these three men so intriguing. Were they handsome, as well as smart? All I really know of them is that I once had a college professor who said she belonged to the same religion as them. So, wow. Wow, wow, wow. I guess that religion has been hanging around for all of these years. After their visit to the Babe in the manger, did the Three Wise Men turn from it? The only thing the Bible tells us is that they came. They saw. They left expensive bottles of perfume. After their visit, what else? Did they return to their homes to tell their tales? It seems like a hellava road to travel to just return home empty handed. I imagine that in those days, empty handed would be without a story to rehash. To spin for others. The latest and greatest story ever told. Were the Wise Men the world's first cheerleaders? Are we to emulate them? Did Old Blue Eyes have it right, after all? Should we all maybe, "Start spreading the news..?" Today would be the day to do it. A Strongly Worded Letter #1by Karen Schwabenland
Dear Mr. Man-in-Charge-of-the Hospital Man, Recently, I paid a visit to your tax-payer supported establishment. I am a long time frequent flyer there, to be sure. I have had two babies within those hallowed halls. And since the birth of my final child, twenty-two years ago, I have visited at least once a year to get the most benefit from my private health insurance. And by most benefit, I am talking about the one and only free item in my health care package. And that free thing is, as you may have guessed, my well-woman check-up. For nigh upon these past fortyish years, I have participated in this free check-up, yearly. For something given away free, I cannot say that it is a pleasant enterprise, but it has served me well. I would now like to discuss the costs involved in this free health care check-up. This check-up is supposed to be free to me, but is it really? I would argue that no, it is not. While I have always had to pay for parking, imagine my surprise upon my recent visit to your establishment when I learned that the parking price has increased. Yes, dear readers, for this free healthcare visit, one is required to pay for parking at this tax-supported hospital. I never minded paying for parking before. The price for parking has been steadily increasing over the course of my time as a patient, however. I believe when my first child was born, the most you had to pay for the entire day of parking was $4.00. Albeit, that was a long time ago. The last time I visited for my free check-up, I was out $7.00 for my parking bill which was the daily rate. Did I complain about that? No, I did not. Long ago, you replaced the in person parking attendant with an automated kiosk. I took that change in stride, however. Upon my recent visit though, I was greeting by a cheering squad of salespeople at the parking kiosk who then informed me that I would need to scan the bar code that they handed me--printed on a small, easily misplace-able business size card. Then, my information would be sent to a new data base held by a parking lot management company who will then hold my private information and possibly sell it for profit. And to make matters worse, I must use my credit card which they will also hold on file. Then to add icing to this cake of corporate indignities, the price of parking has increased to $8.00 an hour with maximum of $12.00 for the full day. That makes for a 71% increase in daily parking fees, or profit, for this parking management company. I probably will not see much loss in my own personal coffers for this increase. However, I do have an issue with the whole parking management company holding on to my information. They have my license tag number, my driver's license number, and my credit card number. And all for the pleasure of driving through the gates of the parking lot like a boss, or a physician who works there. There is no way around this either. When queried, the cheer squad told me I could walk to the the basement of the parking garage to the parking lot attendant's office to pay in cash. Parking lot attendant? What parking lot attendant? With an office? This whole idea seems dubious at best. I am not a fan of basements, especially in parking garages. Also, the parking attendant's office closes at five p.m., and should my appointment run past 5:00, then I would be unable to leave the parking lot without paying by credit card and also registering on line with the parking management company. Frankly, I am doubtful that there is a parking attendant at all. There was no evidence of human life in the garage on the day I visited, other than the cheering squad at the gate to the parking lot. That the parking attendant has an office is also a surprise. I imagine it as always locked and no one actually inside--as paying someone to just sit there all day would take away from the 71% profit margin. Finally, I mentioned corporate indignity earlier. Well, let me just remind you, Mr. Man-in-Charge-of-the-Hospital Man, the whole free woman's wellness visit is rife with indignities, most of which a man like yourself, or any man for that matter, will never experience. Ladies, be now warned. Most of us will now have to sell our soul to the corporate gods for the insane indignity of lifting our legs akimbo while our medical professional sticks unholy pieces of shrapnel in unmentionable places. And everyone thinks we're done with the Dark Ages. Sincerely, A. Citizen Taxpayer November Something, 2021--Sweet Potato Awareness Month
November is month for family gatherings, and with them come the most awkward moments and memories. Recently, I had a conversation with my first cousin about men and kids, and life in general. She was making her point about family obligations when she stumbled into the weeds. It went something like this, Cousin: You remember when you were in my wedding, right? Me: You mean when I was a bridesmaid, and then I wasn't? Cousin: Me: Cousin: What are you talking about? Me: Cousin: You were a bridesmaid in my wedding. Me: I got demoted from bridesmaid to house party. Cousin: You were a bridesmaid in my wedding. Me: You fired me. Cousin: Me: Anyways, that was two weddings ago, why'd you bring it up? ... Luckily, we are still friends today. I think we go too far back to let something like a little old wedding party mishap and demotion stop us from moving forward. But some friendships do not stand the test of time. I cannot begin to think why they don't. Along with family get togethers, this month also is the time to celebrate the lowly sweet potato. And in that regard, I think of all my long time female friends with whom I share recipes, helpful advice, books, and the occasional glass of wine. All of this is to say, that I have only one goal left in my life, and that is to become a Sweet Potato Queen. Author Jill Conner Brown is the founder and inventor of the concept of the middle aged, middle class Sweet Potato Queens, a loosely woven group of loose women who go around marching and participating in parades in the deep South. Ms. Brown has written nine books about this real group of women. The latest one is titled, Fat is the New 30: The Sweet Potato Queens' Guide to Coping With the Crappy Parts of Life. Her first book was published in 1999, but the concept of Sweet Potato Queen came to her when she was looking around for something to do after "passing through a bit of the doldrums," in the early 1980s. The idea for the book was born when she entered four friends in the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Jackson, Mississippi. The parade ready Sweet Potato Queen is a mix of a beauty queen wannabe and a high school marching band majorette. Sequins, Glitter, and big hair in the form of wigs are requirements for membership in the group. Without spoiling the ending, I will tell you that I have recently been experiencing the doldrums myself, partly because of the quarantine and partly because I'm approaching the birthday of a new decade in my life. And right now, today, I have literally been assisting a member of my own family with literal crap due to his recent misadventure at the hospital just yesterday. It's no secret who I am talking about. My son, known as Muscles Malone in this blog, has the burden of living with a serious bowel disease. But enough about him. This post is supposed to be about me. All me. I AM I NEED OF A PARADE I TELL YOU! Finally, to wind it all down, I will admit that there have been other times in my life when demotion and the doldrums have gotten the better of me. For example, in another post about a year ago, I told about the time I got demoted from bringing sweet potatoes to bringing fruit salad to my family's Thanksgiving meal. It seems my version of the traditional Thanksgiving dish was bit too boozy. I had always brought fruit salad, but that one year, I had been asked to bring the more complicated dish of sweet potatoes. Leave it to me to booze them up too much. That year, football game watchers lay passed out in the den after the big Thanksgiving feast. But not from tryptophan in the turkey. It was the extra bourbon I added to the yams that did it. The following year, I was quietly told to bring the fruit salad to the family celebration. From the dizzying heights of the sweet potato casserole to the bottomless pit of the fruit salad I fell, all in the span of one Thanksgiving. The thing about fruit salad is that it is total frippery. It looks real pretty sitting there in it's cut crystal serving dish. Like the Sweet Potato Queen on her parade day float, it's all window dressing with no substance. No one ever eats the fruit salad, as their minds and guts are too stuffed with the weightiness of the dinner mainstays. October 27, 2021--National Black Cat Day
In some countries like the United Kingdom and Japan, black cats are thought to bring good luck, but here in America and in most of Europe, they have been associated with evil. And Halloween. I have never had a black cat. So all of my misfortunes can just be chalked up to plan old circumstance. I once had a neighbor who owned a black cat, though. I remember that every year around Halloween, she would say she needed to bring her cat inside because there were nefarious people about who might mean to do her black cat harm. Or maybe they just thought it would be cool to bring home a black cat for Halloween. That was when we lived in a house with a front porch. It wasn't much of a front porch, but it was more than we have now--which is little more than a covered stoop. I am a fan of front porches, the bigger the better. That house had a covered front porch with enough room for a rocking chair if you edged it in just right, which is of course what I did. It was an old fashioned wicker rocker that previously rocked my babies in their nursery. When it became clear that they had outgrown the nightly tradition, and toys were taking over their space, I moved the chair to the front porch. I didn't really sit out there all that often, but frequently enough to have to knock the neighbor's black cat out of it. It seems it had become one of her favorite resting places. As a matter of fact, that cat and I developed a love/hate relationship. Typically, she was in my rocking chair when I came home every day from work. As I entered the house, I would stop and get the mail from the mailbox which was near the rocking chair. At first, the cat would not even look up from her afternoon snooze. From time to time, I would reach down to pet her, but she was having none of it. She loved my chair, but she didn't love me. After a time, she grew accustomed to my coming home around the same time everyday and disturbing her slumber. Often, I would just call out to her kindly. "Hello, kitty. How are you today? Is my chair comfortable enough? Shall I get you some water, another pillow, a gin and tonic?" No matter my greeting, she would just look at me, bare her fangs, stretch out her sharpened claws, and hiss. And this my friends, I submit, is why black cats have a bad reputation to this day. They take over your space and then complain when you greet them. I imagine a cat would make a terrible roommate. On the other hand, come to think of it, maybe they make the best roommates. They naturally have clung to that old adage, "What's mine is mine and what's yours is mine." There must be some ancient wisdom in that, if not something magical in conducting oneself that way. "Leave me alone," they seem to say. "And what?" we think. "You'll leave me alone?" "No," their green eyes permeate our thoughts and tell us. "I won't hock up a fur ball on your rocking chair." October 20, 2021--Celebration of the Mind Day
by Karen Schwabenland Some of you may be wondering what I've been up to or where I've been recently, as I have not posted a blog in a few. Why I've been to England to visit the Queen, that's where I've been. We sat down to tea, and what we talked about is as good a guess as any. One thing we talked about, or I think we talked about, was the incredible human mind which is what we should all celebrate today. I know a bit about the human mind, as I birthed two of 'em. Both my babies were born with big, fat, beautiful brains. Do you know what that means? It means they both had oversized heads. Their heads were so big, in fact, they could not enter the world in the usual way. As this is the season of Halloween, I thought today's topic should go a little further than just a discussion of the brain. Let's talk about what the brain is housed in--and that is, by and large, a human head. Each time my doctor discovered that my baby had grown so huge that one more spurt of HGH(the human growth hormone) would cause me to go all Sigourney Weaver from the Alien movie, she decided to take matters into her own hands. I have linked the scene (above), but warning--it is not for the faint of heart. Do you know what they do when a human boy or girl child is deemed too perfect to fit through the mother's hooha? Well, they reserve an operating suite for you, that's what they do. The doctor calls all of her friends and relations, and they all gather in a private, secret room deep within the bowels of the hospital. They stand by with their steely knives waiting to carve you up like so many young Turks at your local fall festival's pumpkin carving contest. One of them may drop a knife or two on the dirty floor, only to pick it up and hand it to your doctor. Another one will look at you with a seditious, slimy smile. You are too busy planning your offspring's baptism party and decorating the still unfinished nursery in your mind to worry about any of it, though. What the people in that room do not know is that you have already preordered the hospital provided birthday cake and grape juice, and that you are counting on eating it soon after all of this nonsense is over with. If (as in my case) the doctor sets to work carving you up, and the baby is still too big to come out (as in my case), then there is one more final thing they can do, which (as in my case) they did. And that thing is cut off your legs and bring the infant child out through what is left of your torso. The only problem with this method of delivery is that you can never be sure if they replace your legs with your own original pair, which of course explains "The Pale Green Pants," (link) by Dr. Seuss. "The Pale Green Pants" is an early childhood horror story, like all Dr. Seuss books, except this one has a truly otherworldly, spooky quality about it. For the uninitiated, this uninhabited pair of pants haunts this little furry creature by following it all over town late at night. A little known fact is that all Dr. Seuss books are autobiographical. Word is, Seuss wrote "The Pale Green Pants," after a trip to New Orleans in October where his wife gave birth by leg-ectomy. You see, I am not the only woman who has survived this traumatic birthing experience. All persons with a (insert v-word here) who have children with great, big beautiful minds must endure this method of slaughter. By not harming those perfect heads that house those perfect brains, those children will grow up to be important people, perhaps even crown heads of Europe. Monday, October 4th, 2021--International Zookeeper Day
By Karen Schwabenland Somewhere in the 'Burbs: Today we celebrate what my blog is named after, and that is...zookeepers! More specifically, I would like to inform readers of the reason for the name of my blog, in case they missed it somehow. I am not a literal zookeeper any more. There have been dogs, cats, and birds living in this residence, along with the occasional rodent and marsupial. And while I have both loved and abhorred all of them, the name of my blog actually comes from the musical, "Les Mis." There is a song in that musical titled, "Master of the House." I hope I am a mistress of a house who is better than the one suggested in the song. But I like the vibe the song gives out. I like the energy it creates. It suggests that the singers are simply thieves, only looking to see what they could take from their patrons. I am--while not exactly a thief--always and only looking out for myself. Oh, sure, I am providing a safe place for my family members to unwind, vent, be themselves. Maybe eat a home-cooked meal once in a while. Or have clean sheets and towels now and again. But I would not be honest if I did not admit that I have a foot in the game as well. And all those mom blogs out there with their perfect recipes and homes...well, they are not real, or at least not real in my experience. So here is to overflowing dustbins, the nearly empty cupboard, and the dusty chandelier. Here is to digging clothes out of the dirty hamper when there is nothing left to wear. Cheers to all of the burnt meals and unmade beds! Hungry pets and howling children! Everyone one of us has been there, done that, and nearly died trying to put it right. So whether, you are a master of a house with offspring passing through, a teacher with a classroom full of inmates, or simply a person who takes care of others' needs, may you find a home here. And now I will print the lyrics to the song that I cherish so much that I named my personal blog after it. My comments are in blue: (Also you can find the link here to the performance via Youtube :) "Master of the House" Lyricists: Alain Boublil and Herbert Kretzmer My band of soaks, my den of dissolutes (heavy drinkers and those who indulge in vices) My dirty jokes, my always pissed as newts (giving out poison to predators, and here everyone is seen as a predator) My sons of whores (no, no, no, no not tonight) spend their lives in my inn Homing pigeons homing in They fly through my doors And they crawl out on all fours (probably sick or drunk, but I like to picture the character Kate in "The Taming of the Shrew." After a day in my home, a person could be so emotionally diblilated, they fell like they are walking out on all fours) Welcome, Monsieur, sit yourself down And meet the best innkeeper in town As for the rest, all of 'em crooks: Rooking their guests and cooking the books Seldom do you see Honest men like me A gent of good intent Who's content to be Master of the house, doling out the charm Ready with a handshake and an open palm Tells a saucy tale, makes a little stir Customers appreciate a bon-viveur (hedonist) Glad to do a friend a favor Doesn't cost me to be nice But nothing gets you nothing Everything has got a little price! Master of the house, keeper of the zoo Ready to relieve 'em of a sou or two (coin of low value) Watering the wine, making up the weight (a complicated method of measuring alcohol content in wine) Pickin' up their knick-knacks when they can't see straight Everybody loves a landlord Everybody's bosom friend I do whatever pleases Jesus! Won't I bleed 'em in the end! Master of the house, quick to catch yer eye Never was a passerby to pass him by Servant to the poor, butler to the great Comforter, philosopher, and lifelong mate! Everybody's boon companion Everybody's chaperone But lock up your valises Jesus! Won't I skin you to the bone! Food beyond compare. Food beyond belief Mix it in a mincer and pretend it's beef (never above my standard) Kidney of a horse, liver of a cat (well, maybe not a cat, but still...) Filling up the sausages with this and that Residents are more than welcome Bridal suite is occupied (Because I would take that room for myself) Reasonable charges Plus some little extras on the side! (Oh Santa!) Charge 'em for the lice, extra for the mice Two percent for looking in the mirror twice (Hand it over!) Here a little slice, there a little cut Three percent for sleeping with the window shut When it comes to fixing prices There are a lot of tricks I knows How it all increases, all them bits and pieces Jesus! It's amazing how it grows! (Oh, sorry love Must get something done about that) I used to dream that I would meet a prince But God Almighty, have you seen what's happened since? Master of the house? Isn't worth my spit! Comforter, philosopher and lifelong shit! Cunning little brain, regular Voltaire Thinks he's quite a lover but there's not much there What a cruel trick of nature landed me with such a louse God knows how I've lasted living with this bastard in the house! Master of the house! Master and a half! Comforter, philosopher Don't make me laugh! Servant to the poor, butler to the great Hypocrite and toady and inebriate! (toady--one who puffs up others in hopes of getting something for themself) Everybody bless the landlord! Everybody bless his spouse! Everybody raise a glass Raise it up the master's arse Everybody raise a glass to the Master of the House! September 22, 2021--National Imperfection Day
Now that I'm retired and all, with nothing much to do, I thought I would sign up for a class or two. A friend of mine recommended a Bible Study that is held at my very own church. How lucky for me. She said it was fun place to meet like-minded women, and they serve you lunch. She had me at lunch. I went on line and signed up for something. I am still not sure what I did, but I put my credit card in and got a receipt email. Thirteen dollars. Why that unlucky number for a Bible Study? I think it was a message of some kind. A negative one. Finally, I was going to be one of those women. You know the type. They have no real place to go, yet they dress up as if they do. You have probably seen them in the grocery store on a Wednesday morning. Or waiting in line at the post office. Maybe getting dressed at the gym after a morning round of tennis. I know a woman for whom I was once a problem child. She was the keeper of the assisted living where my dad used to live. I don't think she did much except try to convince everyone that she did. It was one of those kinds of jobs. The kind of job where you just look really good for your age and know a bunch of stuff about the residents, but don't really interact or do anything with them. Every time there was an issue with my dad's living arrangement I had to go talk to her. Since I worked full time and had what I like to refer to as a real job, I always made my appointment late in the afternoon. I had her undivided attention for about twenty minutes. I was always mid-sentence when she ended the meeting with the phrase, "If you will excuse me now, I need to get to a Bible Study across town." If you think about it, it is the perfect way to end an unwanted complaint meeting. No one can fault you for needing to get across town to a Bible Study. I pictured her tutoring newly arrived immigrants or neglected children on the ways of the Bible. Later, my dad told me she lived in an exclusive, gated community. I surmised that she also attended an exclusive, gated church. She seemed like the type. I was kind of excited that I might to get to experience living like that kind of woman. This morning, I got up and put on makeup. I had already chosen an outfit. All I had to do next was show up. Most embarrassingly, I arrived early. A lady was just setting up. There were name tags and books on a table. A food truck was unloading something that smelled good. I apologized for getting there early. I stated my name, and she told me I wasn't on the roster. "Are you sure? I know I signed up for something." "This is a class for mothers of young people." She looked at me. Really? I am a mother. I thought I was a mother of young people. Golly. I'm not. I am no longer a mother of young people. This thought tumbled around in my brain. In fact, it is still tumbling around in there right now. How did this happen? The nice lady went to make a phone call to see where I fit in. She could not get anyone to answer on the other end. I found myself apologizing for taking up her time. As I was about to leave, she told me to check the next building. The building for older adults. That just made me sad. Instead of doing that, I just walked down the street to a discount clothing and home decor store and allowed myself to partake in some retail therapy because I am that kind of woman. When I got home, I powered up my computer. Although I had typed in today's class on my electronic calendar, what I have actually paid thirteen dollars for is some kind of Advent class that doesn't even start until November. Just as well. It's too hot outside for all that makeup anyway. This morning I even had a scarf tossed jauntily around my neck. Picture that. A scarf! It was 95 degrees outside. Before I sorted everything out, Mister met me at the front door. "What are you doing back so soon?" he asked. "Did you get the day wrong? Again?" He knows me so well. "Kicked out," was all I could say. Mister went into the kitchen and came back with my favorite beverage. He handed it to me silently, poured himself one and we drank them in solidarity. And that is how me and mister have become Bible Study reject-day drinkers. |
AuthorKaren Schwabenland--Keeper of a daily blog of written matter, reporter of events large and small, and charlatan extraordinaire Archives
September 2022
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