kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Happiness

  • Hair Truce at the O.K. Salon

    Hair Truce at the O.K. Salon

     

    I survived the salon. I was described as “glowing” by Marco and Jocelyn — before the big equipment rolled out. It must be those hot flashes I endure nightly. People are beginning to notice. I must be singed around the edges or something. Crispy crunchy. It most certainly can’t be my personality, which isn’t exactly electric. Magnetic? Hmmm… Nevertheless, they were glad to see my money —the MoH’s cash —my plastic that the MoH pays for me again. And that’s the RT in the photo. I just wanted to see your jaw drop onto your keyboard.

    No matter how much I try to get the lovely people at the salon to understand that I don’t care what they do with my hair, they’re fairly conservative. I beg for layers. For dark hair. For sassy. But I get, “Blonde works best for your grey areas because it blends as it grows out.” What they’re most likely worried about is whether I have lawyers ready to slap a suit on them for ruining my hair. Paradise, remember? Like a good client — well, except for that 10-month lapse — I give in to their suggestions every time knowing that they really don’t want me to look like Pepe le Pieu. I tell them, “Short is okay.” But I get layers that only I notice. Conservative ones. They must know how much I’m damaged by having to wear underwear on my head when I was little. They must know how much I like hair that goes where it is supposed to go. And they totally understand that I have to have a pony. They probably figured out a long time ago that I’m fairly high maintenance even though I love to suggest that I’m not. Might I lobby for being discriminating instead?

    It was a relaxing catch up session, and a leisurely perusing of Fast Company magazine — my attention captured by an article on Travis Knight, the man who will inherit Nike, and another about Al Gore’s $100 million makeover. I should have been looking at a magazine with humongous photos, because I didn’t have my glasses. But I’m a great masochist — especially with an audience, so why not act like I can see the page? The fact that my arm was extended as far as it could possibly reach most likely gave away my sham, but the ordeal kept me occupied during waiting time between coloring, and accelerating. Shampooing and massaging. Cutting and blow drying. Ironing and trimming. It was a serious challenge to yank the magazine in each time a stylist dashed by to greet a new client. Or cruised by to check on someone’s foils. And if they hadn’t moved me from the spot where I was braising under the hood, my extended arm most likely would have been the cause of one client hitting the deck. The one who caused the whole salon to freeze.

    For about four seconds.

    Then Marco whispered to me that it was only Mary, a mature client who usually arrives for her appointments loaded on OxyContin. Do drop in, Mary! Unfortunate, actually. The salon used to offer red or white wine in addition to hot herbal tea or mineral water, but can you imagine Mary imbibing? Evidently, there was some concern about clients oozing out of their chairs and on to the floor in mid cut. It was thought that might not be good for business to have clients in Paradise laying on the floor with their drawers showing.

    I can’t imagine why not.

    So what do you think?

    Real New Do Is it better than this?

    Before the Cut

    I hope so.

    And you should feel quite special, because it was a bit damp outside this morning on my walk, and damp and my hair don’t exactly mix. I was a veritable fuzzball by the time I got back home. A poodle. An urchin. I had to fix it up again. Just for you. There.

    I’m thinking Keira can have her gorgeousness. I can muster up some glam myself — sans the battery operated fan, of course. Because it would mess up my hair. Not quite Grace in the Fabulous Fifties, and no, not Shelly in the Esoteric Eighties.

    Glam Four Just me, in the…um… ah…well, now. Oh-tees? Whatever.

    So Tah-Dah. Aren’t you glad that’s over? And just in time for Friday. The sky is completely gorgeous today, a soft breeze is ruffling the trees, and an amazing 76 degrees is helping things along — including the eau de dog whiz wafting through the window.

    I’ll have to find somewhere to swish my hair tonight.

     

     

    Somewhere other than this room and for someone other than PhotoBooth. I’m thining the MoH is elected, lucky dude.
    See what happens when you drop out of society? It’s all down hill from here. But with great hair.

    Kind of like dying with your boots on.

    Okay, perhaps not.

  • How Mameve Medwed saved my summer reading life

    About that pile of books I’m supposed to be reading…

    Some time ago while I was reading through others’ blogs, I spied the cover of a book in a sidebar. If I remember correctly, there was somewhat of a tease in the caption encouraging me to receive the book free if I was willing to review it. You do know that I am completely aware of the promise I made to read all the books I have at home before I purchase another, don’t you? I chide myself each and every time I see something I’d love to read that isn’t in my stack of books. I’ve been so trustworthy. So diligent. Well, perhaps not quite tenacious enough when one considers the amount of time I’ve taken to read through a couple of the first books on my list.

    Just a refresher: the whole point of reading everything in my house has been my cost saving measure: a sort of contribution to the family’s coffers since I’m sans income. Besides, I did take the time to choose and purchase these ah… tomes at one point in the past, mulling over the authors, considering the reviews, and projecting the mood each would lull me into as I read.

    So when I saw How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved my Life in the lamentably forgotten blogger’s sidebar (I am so very sorry!) with “free” nestled beneath the cover shot, I thought that it wouldn’t be cheating if I accepted the offer. Sure, I’ll read a book and write a review. Technically, I wouldn’t be spending money for the book. It would be just fine if I sneaked this one in to relieve myself of the recent horrendous reads I’d suffered through. So I clicked. A free book!

    The book was delivered, and read. I read it in two days. Not a month like Mapping the Edge. Not weeks and weeks and weeks, like Dog Days. Two days. Now, that’s more like it. Nothing like being back in the saddle again. Greasing up the ol’ reading machine. I’m back. Besides, it’s summertime, and what can be more perfect than a book that travels easily to the beach and back? A book that’s about antiques, New England, a little romance, an obscure biography by Virginia Woolf called Flush, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s thunder mug. Ahem… Excuse me?

    Let me back up a bit before I truly begin.

    Quite some time ago, I was in Cambridge, MA, working on a project at the Harvard Graduate School of Ed and happened upon Mail. The cover was an eye-catching yellow, and I was drawn to the author’s name — unusual. The setting was Cambridge — how coincidental; the protagonist a writer — and I wanted so much to be a writer. So it seemed perfect for a summertime read to ease my mind from the less than glamorous work I was involved in: curriculum writing. I no longer have the book, most likely loaned to a friend who neglected to return it, but I remember enjoying the woman in the story and her quirky personality. I remember her mailman, too…It’s been a while since I’ve read something by Mameve Medwed — nearly ten years.

    I’m so sorry, Mameve. I know you’ve published other books in that time, so it’s odd that I’ve not come across one while traipsing through bookstores, or surfing Amazon’s cyberstacks. And I know that had I found one of those books, it wouldn’t be hidden in that dusty stack I currently find myself having to read. I would speak to my marketers, if I were you, because I enjoyed your first book quite a bit and would have read the others had I known…

    Memories of Medwed’s writing came quickly back as I began this latest of her novels. Abby Randolph is an easy to get to know woman who sells antiques. Her store isn’t one known for grossly ornate 18th century European credenzas, or priceless Baccarat crystal candlesticks. In fact, her “store” is a booth that sits alongside that of others who have a passion for, and know much about old things that just might be worth more than we think they are worth. Like the porcelain chamber pot that sits in Abby’s booth. The one her colleague encourages her to lug to the Antiques Roadshow soon coming to town. The chamber pot once owned by her mother who was recently and tragically killed. Her lovely mother who, after years of chin-up tolerance with her role as one of “the Cambridge ladies” poet E.E. Cummings writes of, runs off to seek a new life: a life with the woman next door. Yes, woman. Her best friend’s mother. The mother of the boy next door she fell in love with so many years ago.

    Medwed’s ability to sell Abby and her self-deprecating existence, her seemingly new found promise of wealth, and love, are what make this book. Otherwise, liking Abby could become a challenge. She seems not able to hold herself up or deal with her life. She lets people walk all over her. She just accepts things. But she knows it. And when she acknowledges her shortcomings over and over again, you find that you are on her side, cheering her on, wanting her to step up and push back against the pathetic people she has chosen to tolerate throughout her life: the pseudo best friend who is really only out for herself; her ex-business partner and lover, gone after taking what he could from Abby’s life as a Cambridge professor’s daughter and has moved on to a more profitable lifestyle; or the reporter who surfaces to get the inside story on the chamber pot, now authenticated and valued at a staggering amount of money.

    Don’t most people fare well after they’ve received news of a windfall? Shouldn’t everything turn around in their lives, making their dull existence more bright? Can it erase the sadness one feels for the tragic loss of a mother, and a young man always thought of as someone who would be part of her future?

    Maybe it can. Abby Randolph has to confront her demons in much the way that you and I would, failing over and over again, before she is able to arrive at what matters. Without Medwed’s clever sarcasm and tight narrative, without her insider knowledge as a Cambridge resident, How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life could be just another book in a growing list of what is now referred to as Chick Lit. Without Medwed’s dry humor and ability to capture the odd characteristics humans have, Abby could be just another female whose pathetic lack of self-awareness makes her unnoticeable. Instead, we are left smiling as Abby grows into herself and her life.

    http://www.harpercollins.com/services/browseinside/widget.aspx?hc.guid=3ee96b8e-5b18-427e-a36e-6893adfa1856Mameve Medwed has saved me from the depths of yet another completely dreary read. Thank goodness. Now I can go back and read her novels I’ve missed in the past ten years. But not until I finish that stack. Promise. Well, maybe the public library has them. That’s free, too. Right?

    I’m left wondering on whose site I originally found the offer to review this novel and will continue to do some investigating. My quest has dropped me into the world of publishing houses and their quest to step up their on-line marketing. It has taken me to Booksquare and a very interesting look at opinions on the publishing industry. It has also taken me to First Look at Harper Collins — a very intriguing opportunity for someone like me, trying to avoid those books I already own, wanting instead to wallow in the possibility of buying more, always more.

    Oh, that heaven is a bookstore when I get there…

  • Makin’ Like a Tourismo in So Cal

    The weekend was lovely. Completely. Go figure. I don’t especially like driving — or riding in a car. LA Traffic I’d like that twitching nose thingy so I could just pop in and out of places. And it is summer, so the potential for a hot day anywhere in Southern California is quite high. But the wind was blowing, and we were up high on a ridge with a lovely view. Crowds? Oh my…we don’t mix. All those bodies, that mass of humanity. But it was fine. Miraculously fine. Really. Even though the parking lot attendant said they were expecting 25 thousand people Saturday. The MoH and I looked at each other. Was that a lot?

    IMG_2293 I know my mother was doubting my confirmation that all was well on my call home to her. She would have a hard time believing me because she completely knows that I usually don’t enjoy this sort of thing. For years, I’ve completely avoided it, or just gone along with it in the spirit of familial companionship. Or something like that. So now I’m wondering what was up? Perhaps again, I less than enjoyed anything that took time and energy because I needed to savor my down time — store up my energy — get ready for Monday. Can you imagine doing that for nearly 20 years? What a complete loser I’ve been. A lesson in moderation would have been nice along the way to learn a bit of tolerance.

    So off to Universal Studios we went a la family road trip style. Now, I did have something up my sleeve. The Hotel. I love nice hotels. Swanky lobbies, eight million percale count sheets, and lovely bathrooms. It’s a problem. I could totally be one of those traveling people who just stay in hotels. I’m thinking it’s the clean factor. There’s no clutter, the bed is made when you return from a difficult afternoon touristing, car parking is valet only, and they hand you an ice cold bottle of water as you head out for your day of adventure. And if you’re feeling special — room service. *sigh* Not on this trip, though. The Graciela Lounge But you do remember The Stagecoach Inn in Monterey, right? You decide.  The Graciela… The Graciela Coffee Bar Or the Stagecoach Inn?  Hot Towel?  I rest my case.

    What was nice about this trip was knowing that there was only so much we could do and see. There was no hurry to fit in a zillion things, no itinerary, no waking up to the blare of an alarm clock. And surprisingly, no serious traffic. What? And we drove through LA? Go figure. Okay, so the picture above is the only snag we hit and it was only a 15 minute one at that.

    High points? The back lot tour. Yes, I’ve been on it several times over the years, but this time was the longest and the most seen. Maybe we just had a tour guide who was into it, wannabe actor that he stated he was. I had to stop and wonder about what kind of life that would be. But he looked like he was enjoying himself talking to a tram full of blase tourists — most of whom probably do not know or care about all those old glorious black and white movies. All those gorgeous and perpetually glam shot ready stars like Hedy Lamarr, or Carole Lombard. And there’s no way they could possibly get a thrill looking at those old deco style dressing rooms of the stars and famous costume designers. Or knowing that those soundstages have housed a very unique brand of history. Somehow, Terminator 2 doesn’t cut the mustard as something to get nostalgic over. Astro Studs

    The brand spankin’ new Mummy roller coaster ride is way fun. You have to totally love a ride that whirls, spins, and shoots you through the darkness. Yes, I scream. A lot. Of course, I yell on the simulated Back to the Future ride also, and it’s more than 10 years old. Does anyone but me scream on a fake ride? I’m hopeless.

    A semi high/low point was the Jurassic Park ride. Yes, you get wet. I knew that. But the advertised “new and improved” was a bit too much improved. As the ride concluded, I wondered what the Japanese man sitting in the row in front of us was looking at, but I smiled at him none the less. After I asked the MoH whether my eyes were black or not, he said, “You’re going to have to go to the ladies room” quite graciously, and with not the slightest hint of controlled laughter. Not, what he could have said, like, “Oh My Gawd Your Eyes Are Completely Black and You Have Streaks of Mascara Running Everywhere!” No, he didn’t say that, kind man that he is. But he could have.

    I spent about 15 minutes in the bathroom trying to rub the black streaks of mascara from my cheeks and around my eyes. And no sunglasses to hide behind because they were in a locker. By the time I was done rubbing, I was left with some freaky black eye liner and no sun screen. So should I have thought about waterproof mascara when I was in the drug store purchasing my “Buy One–Get One Free” Maybelline that I haven’t worn for years? I wasn’t planning on crying, no weddings were booked, and most days, putting on mascara isn’t high on my list of priorities. So I got soaked. Completely drenched. It took my shirt several hours to completely dry. It was a blast.

    The nicest surprise was the original Bob’s Big Boy around the corner from the hotel. It was in the cutest little neighborhood called Toluca Lake, “Established 1923,” or that’s what all the signs said anyway. It was cool. And the whole area had remnants of that old LA look when things weren’t so slick and smoggy. When neighborhoods were quaint, and you could walk down the sidewalk to a store close by. It made me wonder for five seconds about living in LA. Well, maybe 10.

    IMG_2365  Where was I? Oh yes, breakfast. It was completely saturated with calories, but my goodness, was it delicious. I didn’t lick the plate, but I wanted to. Have you ever had deep fried French toast? With cinnamon? And syrup. And butter? Coffee refilled every time I got it doctored up just right. Hot coffee. Not warm you better be careful or our lawyers will sue your lawyers coffee. *sigh* I didn’t even need a crane to get off the vinyl bench. But I also haven’t eaten much the past two days. I just wanted to see if my arteries still worked to be safe.

    The “mall” next to the theme park is pretty interesting as well. Musicians, food, strange tee shirt shops and stores that sell chocolate covered Twinkies. Really. No, we didn’t buy one. Chocolate Covered Twinkies  But the RT and I are thinking we can come up with something better. Plus, we’re headed to the County Fair on Friday where I hear they have deep fried Twinkies. I couldn’t spoil my appetite, right? Ewww….How do you spell C-A-R-C-I-N-O-G-E-N-I-C, class?

    Completely low point? The theme park food. I can’t believe I got sucked into it. Again. They just have you by the short hairs so know they can charge a chunk of change for warm cardboard. IMG_2342  School cafeteria food is better. Real warm cardboard is better for that matter. Really. Put a little bernaise on it….The giant Corona helped wash it down, though. And the giant Heinekin the next day was even better.

    On that note, I’ve survived the assault on my taste buds and have been cooking. If you’re in the mood for a salad or hunk o’ beef (sorry to my vegetarian friends) then check it out. We’re giving our Barby the workout. I’m still not back to my usual blog self, however, and the MoH has more days off scheduled next week, so I’m going to have to figure out how to keep things running smoothly in Bloggsville. Stay up all night? Schedule particular days for visiting my favorite people? The word “schedule” makes me quake in my flops.

    Anyway, thanks for bearing with me while I figure it all out. And know, that when I’m not sitting here, you are sorely missed. *sniff*

  • Solstice Love in Paradise

    Solstice is Over

    We did not carry drums. Black cloaks may have been an excellent idea considering the damp, salty chill. And antlers may have been in order had we thought of the idea. There always seem to be those who are just more creative than we are. Regardless, we did take the time to pack a quick dinner, throw a few sand chairs in the trunk, grab sweatshirts, and roll down the hill to celebrate the Summer Solstice.

    A bonfire might have been nice, but there’s probably a rule about that. A maypole would have drawn too much attention from those whose view we could have blocked, solstice celebrators’ silhouettes frolicking back and forth as the ribbon wrapped its way around the pole. Besides, we’re mechanically disinclined. Waving bundled sheaths of grain did cross my mind, however. Of course, there’s always another time.

    We sat on the rocks, so did share a remote kinship with those who head to Stonehenge on this day each year. Does that make us pagans? Unlikely, considering that “hick,” or “rustic” may be a bit harsh as far as descriptors go.

    Is the experience spiritual? Being with those you most love often is, isn’t it? With a massive ocean stretched as far as you can see, and the anticipation of that amazing orb growing as it sinks slowly into its watery end for the night, what more could a person want?  Sandwiches, of course. Eating is always spiritual event for me.

    For some reason that I can’t exactly remember, we started taking the two older boys up to a hill near by to watch the sunset on the longest day of the year. It was free, and we did many free things in those days. But the real reason was just to introduce them to something that doesn’t take much effort, and allows you to pause to consider the passing of time and seasons. Whether we have much of a seasonal change here in Paradise or not is beside the point. They loved it.

    When the June gloom was so heavy that even in East County Paradise where we were living, no glimmer of golden orange light could be seen, we were always disappointed. The pleasant aspect of this disappointment, however, was that we were able to do the very same thing on the Autumnal Equinox. It is extremely rare for there to be cloud cover here at that time of the year, so we were able to promise them a make-up day not too far in the future. It is usually unbearably hot just about anywhere inland, and the build up of pollutants in the air thanks to Tijuana and Los Angeles guarantee that there will be a spectacular sunset. Unfortunately, by that date, school has begun again, and the day is a reminder that soon, darkness will come earlier and earlier — a poignant end to a carefree time of the year.

    Ahh…the ebb and flow of time and seasons.

    The rituals we hang on to for life and love.

    Solstice Sun

  • BBQs & Choosing Happiness at The Home Depot

    Virgo I forgot to look at my horoscope yesterday morning, and therein lies the rub.

    You see, I never have been very good at running errands. I’m especially poor at it now that I rarely have to leave the house if I choose not to. The whole idea of putting on make-up, shading in my sad excuse for eyebrows, and tying back my unruly hair just to take care of the odds and ends of our life is tiresome. All that starting and stopping — getting in and out of cars. So gauche. So we tolerate things that don’t quite work, or need adjustments, or go without something that needs replacing. Shabby chic?

    I spent years semi-silently grousing about not being able to take care of such things because I was teaching and couldn’t call for appointments, let alone actually go to an appointment. If I could only find the time…It seemed that everyone else in the world had closed up shop before I could get there. Poor, sad creature. Mistreated and maligned soul.

    I shouldn’t be complaining because my exercise in futility yesterday couldn’t have been for a greater cause. Last Sunday, the MoH and I went on a BBQ finding expedition. Our beast has seen better days, and although still functional, it’s only a matter of time that the cooked-on grease holding it all together finally gives way and it collapses right in the middle of a swanky get together with just a few of our very dearest friends. Okay, well it sounds good, right? The swanky part. Not the crashing thing.

    We looked at BBQs with stainless steel exteriors, ceramic grates, steel grates, drawers, and cabinets. We looked at rotisseries, burners, split lids, and sliding propane holders. Did we purchase one? No. Because we don’t have a truck. So I called a few days later to graciously inquire as to whether there is a cost associated with putting a BBQ together. I imagined that I might tackle it, but my dremel would most likely not get the job done. And the image of a crazed woman, hair on ends, a hammer and wrench clutched in a vise-like grip, and crouched in a corner of the garage waiting like a fiend for the MoH to arrive home did cross my mind. No, I would not be putting the BBQ together, so purchasing the big box wasn’t going to happen. Besides, I could also picture the big box falling out of the trunk of my car while driving up the hill, rolling backward for some distance, and picking up speed until it crashed into the brand-spanking new Mercedes CL550 coupe following me up the hill. Oops.

    Perhaps I could have the BBQ delivered? “Can’t you borrow a friend’s truck?” the man on the phone from customer service inquired. I wondered whether his ingenuity had allowed this question to come forth, or if he’s coached to ask this of customers. I quickly searched my mental Rolodex of friends, woefully knowing before I became too engrossed in the task that we knew of only one person who owned an SUV. No one who owned a truck. Well, my brother owns a truck, but he’s an hour away, and all that hullabaloo just to get a BBQ to our house?

    So I doctored up my face, made sure my arm pits were smelling fresh, and just for good measure, spritzed on one of at least ten flavors of body sprays I’ve collected from the RT’s gift giving, before backing out of the garage smelling like a cross between a cucumber and a melon. You know. Fresh. Salad-like? Ready to take on the day. The sunroof was open, and the new CD I burned yesterday was playing on the Bose. Good attitude, right? Making the best of a situation I don’t prefer. Going to buy my sweetie a BBQ for Father’s Day. He’s worth it — fab Dad that he is.

    Do I have to tell you that they didn’t have any of the BBQs we picked out Sunday?

    • There was no one to answer questions once I arrived. Even after I stood near the BBQs, waiting, patiently.

    • No one came after I asked the customer service lady about getting assistance. Nicely.

    • The second time I went to customer service, the young man followed me to the BBQs but couldn’t answer my questions, so had to call someone else for help. I looked at the new Weber’s grilling recipe book. Patiently.

    • The next guy confirmed they had 5 of the model we liked in stock, but couldn’t find one anywhere — in or out of a box. I followed him on an in-store field trip looking for BBQs. But would I like him to call another store?

    • Yes, he called another store, who said they also had 5, already put together, and would I like one reserved, and 25 bucks off for my trouble? An officer and a gentleman, that guy. Things were certainly looking up!

    • I couldn’t find the other store — 20 minutes away. Even after driving down the rather lengthy road. It wasn’t where I thought it was. There was not a single gigantic orange Home Depot sign in sight.

    • I wondered what my horoscope had been for the day.

    • 411 knew of no Home Depot on that street.

    • I called 411 for the first store to confirm that there IS a Home Depot on that street. They insisted it was.

    • I pulled into the Bank of American ATM to get cash because I never have money in my wallet.

    • I then pulled into the Mc Donald’s to order a Big Mac meal (non-super sized, thank you — at least I hadn’t completely gone berserk) and stuffed my face while driving back down the very lengthy road, getting secret sauce on my face all the while, and guzzled diet Coke which I really don’t like.

    After finding The Home Depot, which actually did have a sign, around the corner on the other street, my stomach quite full considering I haven’t slummed at Mickey D’s for months and months, my guilt about eating Muck Phood just beginning to bloom, the 9 million calories… I cheerfully shopped and gathered hickory chips, a light for the BBQ, and raided the plant section to spruce up my patio. I approached the customer service desk, my basket a raucously colorful display of flowers, and myself, cheerful just by association. “Hello,” I said, knowing that I’d soon be done and home.  The such and such store called about reserving a BBQ for me? It has my name on it and should be here.”

    • They sent me to the contractor’s counter.

    • The contractor people didn’t know what I was talking about so sent me back to the customer service counter.

    • The lady at customer service greeted me with an, “Oh. You’re back,” and smiled sweetly with no discernible hints of sarcasm. I asked her again about the reserved BBQ, and she said I needed to go outside to the “Summer Sale” jumble of BBQs, lawn sets, and other seasonal stuff.

    • I did. There was no BBQ with my name on it, but there were three that might be kind of like the one I’d been trying to valiantly less than half-heartedly purchase for my MoH. The employee was squeezing through the rows of BBQs raising covers and looking at tags. She wasn’t sure. I asked her about delivery or truck rental while she was looking, but she had little information. She told me I had to go back inside to take care of that. “But we only have one truck,” she adds, “and it’s on a first come first serve basis. We don’t call you to let you know it’s back. You have to wait for it.” I pictured myself, sucking on the warm Diet Coke left in the car, waiting for the rent-by-the-hour Home Depot truck to get the BBQ home. I pictured myself driving the truck.

    • I called the MoH and told him he would to have to rent the truck after work.

    • I went back inside. “Oh, you’re back,” the perky person I had spoken to earlier said again. “Do you have a SKU?”

    • I wondered again what my horror-scope must have been.

    • I didn’t have an SKU. I turned to go back outside, but she stopped me, and said she’d go instead. You think it may have been because my face was five shades of purple by this time, and I was totally over this shopping experience? After she returned, she wanted me to go back out and choose the one I wanted. I followed her. Smiling.

    • We got out to the sale jumble area again, and the employee I spoke with earlier avoided making eye contact with me. She was now very helpful, suddenly more alert, informative. My BBQ was tagged. It said S-O-L-D in very large letters on a piece of paper stuck to the tags that showed it had been marked down 60 bucks since Sunday.

    • I paid for my things, was handed a direct number to the customer service desk to ask about the truck rental just in case I had any more difficulty.

    The MoH went to the store last night after work and saw the truck sitting there, but someone else had already called and was coming to get it. First come first serve? So he came home without the BBQ after waiting an hour for the truck. Taco Bell on the way home seemed to make it all right. No, I absolutely did not have Taco Bell.

    But this morning, I did read yesterday’s horror-scope:

    Invite as many people as you can to the party because it’s truly a the-more-the-merrier type of day. The power of your personality is what influences people. Keep smiling. Happiness is a choice.

    I should really go rent that big damn truck today and bring that BBQ home myself. I just don’t know how I’d get it off the flatbed after I got it here. So the MoH will have to try again to get his BBQ home tonight. And I’ll be happy to go with him, because happiness is a choice.

    And if we’re lucky, The Home Depot will not have sold our already paid for BBQ.

    I wonder how we’re going to get the old beast out of here after the new one arrives? Anyone want a free BBQ? It still works.