After all these years, all the lessons, all the ad-nauseum rehashing of every single stroke on every single hole by every single male member of my family – I finally get it. I can now appreciate a good round of golf.
I hate going to Walmart. Not that I hate Walmart itself; honestly, Walmart employees are usually the nicest, happiest, friendliest folks around. Especially that man or woman who greets shoppers when they come in, and bids them farewell when they leave. They really love their jobs!
I don’t watch much television news, for several reasons. First, call me crazy, but I just want the facts, you know? I’d like to hear something like, “Today, North Korea’s president gave a speech in which he said, ‘Neener-neener-neener, you can’t make me stop building nukes!’ while simultaneously looking into the camera and flipping off the United States.”
So, there we were at the beach, 30 of us, in a huge house together, having a helluva time. My generation spent most of each day at the beach under umbrellas and tents, yakking, catching up, arguing, laughing, and keeping an eye out for cocktail hour ... which seemed to be earlier every day. Grown children, nieces and nephews, though, decided that the clock was not a factor: Cocktails are appropriate from breakfast on, a lifestyle I frown upon outwardly ... inwardly, not so much.
So, here we all are at the beach in Corolla, on the Outer Banks, 30 of us, all in one house, granted one big house, but still ... one house. The oldest is Dad -- he’s 86. The youngest is James (named after Dad) - he’s 4 months.
Dear Jessie: Welcome to our home and thank you again so much for watching the “girls” while I’m at the beach this week! I think you’ll have an easy time, because they really are so sweet and low maintenance!
So today is the day we go to the beach! Big deal, you say. So what, you ask. Everybody goes to the beach around here, snore.
Not that I’m elderly or anything, but being fifty-none-of-your-business years old, I sometimes have a teensy problem remembering things. Not the big things -- I don’t forget to eat, sleep, get dressed or buy hair products. But, the little things -- returning a call, getting all the groceries on one trip, putting stamps on letters, making a dentist appointment ... although, that last one may be more of a subconscious pain/panic/denial -- the little things are getting to me.
Today is my daughter’s birthday, and I just hung up from getting her a gift certificate for a hair styling at her local spa, which reminded me how nothing any spa could ever dream up could help my hair in this lifetime. I can take them all the pictures I want to of Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman,” and it is - and will forever be - futile. (You men won’t understand this column, so I’d move on to the Sports section.)
Cast: Her - adorable, perky, around 22 yrs. old, around 110 lbs.;
Me - not.
Her: Hi! (brilliant smile and all exclamation points) Welcome to “We-Have-Absolutely-Nothing-You-Could-Fit-Into”! Are you shopping for your daughter today?
Happy Easter to you all. I wish you peace, love and a basketful of jellybeans! No, I’m not in the bourbon, I’m on Spring break…FINALLY!
A while back, I wrote about how it’s important to be nice to fellow human beings on this planet because, you know, it’s the right thing to do, and just in case there IS an angel up there who sits in front of this big book of names and counts up everyone’s good deeds ... well, I want to make sure I’m at least ahead of my sisters.
However, it’s also extremely important to perform these acts of friendship and benevolence in such a way as to be able to withdraw from the scene when necessary. It should be an in-and-out thing.
So, one day last week, I took my pearl-handled pistol (which I keep in a little flowered Clinique makeup bag) and headed off to the local gun emporium to buy some ammo and to have the pistol serviced, because the action on the slide was sticking (you notice how, the minute we’re talking guns, I start talking all tough and NRA-ish?).
Yesterday, my mother turned 85! I wasn’t going to write a column about her, because I’ve done a couple and, really, what more is there to say? And, then it started coming to me…all the “more there is to say.” Like:
My mom is the laughter I hear in the night as I fall asleep, down in the living room with my Dad, usually talking about us kids; she’s the wave I look for as I leave for school; she’s the proud smile I cling to as I mount the steps to the stage for my piano recital; and, she’s the implacable voice of censure when I’ve done something stupid. Which, honestly, I did a lot.
I entered the emergency room at the little hospital in the mountains at 1:30 p.m. I was told at 3 p.m. that I’d be admitted overnight for shortness of breath, low oxygen level, and a “funky” EKG, even though I insisted to everyone within earshot that my EKG had been funky since I was 17, and my heart is fine!