Adventures on a Big Wheel

When  Toddler  visits,  she likes to ride a Big Wheel that Grandma let her pickout  herself at WalMart. Skipping over the  Dora the Explorer model, Toddler picked the big black one with the neon green seat that makes all the clicky, roary-like  motor sounds of a real motorcycle.  She could  hardly sit still until we got it put together and had  all the decals put on. When that was done, she took off down the sidewalk.

I watched her as she flew across the hard, gray strip, wincing when she’d hit a root-born crack real hard, remembering exactly how it felt to  have to stop and straddle  the toy to navigate over a big bump in  the walkway.

Sometimes I feel like that’s what I’ve been doing, as I navigate my way back to a sense of financial stability, and  balance in my career  of 25 years. I’d let myself fall into a decline, a type of burn-out. Turns out, I’d let a bit of  difficulty in one  workplace send me off into a hidey hole at another, where I had my own space and didn’t have  to work with others if I  didn’t want to. Just do my job and go home.

Now, after being led  to the salon where I work,  I feel a renewed interest  in my career,  and things are picking  up.  I am  seeing less and less bumps in the sidewalk to struggle over. I still run into those little cracks that jar  me here and there. But so far, this salon has been good for me. I’m learning new  things,  and rediscovering the value in working and playing well with others.

Throughout her riding, Toddler took joy in what she was  doing. I’m rediscovering the way to do the same. The same way she loved racing the little  boy on across the street, reveling  in the friendly competition, I am tackling challenges  I  normally shy away from.

And  it’s paying off, bit by bit.

I’m  not out of  the woods yet, by any means.  But I’m finding the  path, praise God. I am  thankful for the blessings of  the past week, especially. Tired and sore, but thankful. Like Toddler, who knew when it was time to rest from her  racing and bumping around,  I am taking today to kick back  and rest, so I can face another week at the salon, hoping for more blessings to come.

I’m SO fired!

Well, not really. Not for lack of having a smart mouth, though. I guess.

Sunday was a real bitch of a day at the grocery store. It always gets me, how that day can be one of the worst of the week. Especially since a lot of people who come in are stopping by after church. Where’s the love, people?

I was working express (yes, we mean 10 items or less, really) and this young family drove up with the big ol’ buggy that has a mini-park bench on it that kids LOVE to sit on. Well, that’s okay, but the chick left it right at the front of the counter instead of pushing it through. Her husband asked her to push it around the other side out of the way, but she just acted like she didn’t hear him and helped her baby daughter pick out some ice cream from the case. Noticing people were already having trouble with it being in the way, I asked them, very nicely, if they could move the cart around to the other side of the counter. I couldn’t reach it from being hemmed into the register area, and all the sackers were busy or hiding in the breakroom.

I hear the woman tell her husband, “I’d tell her to move the mother f****** herself.”

I met her sly glance head on and said, “I asked nicely.”

“Yeah, but it’s your JOB.”

Picture steam coming out of my ears.

“Actually,” I say as she walks off, “It ISN’T.” Which it kind of is, but I sure wasn’t going to let her have the last word. How stupid is that, anyway? If I were thinking, I would have told her that sure, it’s my job to clean up after people without the common courtesy and thoughtfulness to the shoppers behind her to push the freakin’ cart through the line. Or, I might have asked her if she kissed that darling baby with that mouth.

THEN another family comes through, buys six dollars of products, and asks for $100 cash back. No problem, but I had to call a front end manager to open the till for that amount. So I call. And I call. And I CALL. No one is coming. There isn’t even a manager in sight. The customer is getting frustrated, I’m getting frustrated, the people in line behind her are getting frustrated. (I did mention I was in the express check out, right?)

“I was just trying to save a trip to the ATM,” the woman says, her forehead in her hand.

“You mean that one over there?” I ask, pointing to the ATM at the bank branch just across the aisle from us. I even FELT like a smart ass as I said it. It was kind of a funny situation, really, but the customer just shook her head and said, “Oh.”

Then, Old Curly came in some time last week. Remember this guy? He’s the one about 75 years old (or older) kind of brawny with a bald head–except for one curl, ONE, right front and center on his head. And he gels it. Yes. The one curl.

He’s always curt, and takes fiendish delight in belittling or being downright mean from behind his square, heavy eyeglasses, tinted dark enough to make eye contact near impossible. Which is fine with me, because with some of the ways he treats not only the checkers, but the sackers, too, he might just turn to dust if I make a connection with him. Lately, he’s taken to coming through my line. Oh, joy. I just ring up his purchases, say thanks, have a nice day, and resist offering him a receipt because he just throws it back at us and says he doesn’t need that trash. I try not to even look at him. Which is difficult, because, despite some evidence to the contrary, I am basically a friendly, polite person.

But this one day last week, the grouch made a beeline for my register. And I couldn’t help it. That curl. That lonely, shiny curl. What was wrong with it? I wondered. More than usual–Oh, my goodness. Whatever was married to that curl that morning was GREEN, like a big ol’ juicy booger. ECK! I couldn’t stop my gaze from straying back to his head. To that curl. I was going to go cross-eyed if he didn’t get out of the store soon. The more I looked, though, the more I decided…it looked like glue. A giant glob of green, gooey glue.

Surely not. Could it be possible this guy actually glues that thing to his head?

Ugh.

It was all I could do to hold my tongue so when this guy verbally abused yet another sacker. But I should have spoken up. Next time, and there will be a next time, I will.

Over all, people are nice, and I enjoy them. But I’d be surprised if my smart-aleck comments don’t get me cut loose one of these days.

I don’t know my own strength…

Well, Christmas has come and gone.  For the most part.  Uncle B and Aunt D are coming this next weekend, and we’ll holiday with them.   Looking forward to that.

Brother, SisM, and Toddler were here this weekend. Mom and I finally finished decorating Santa Claus cookies, baked gingerbread men, and Mr. Man helped wrap gifts.  It finally felt like Christmas.

Toddler was in full-blown Christmas reverie. She opened her baby doll, and exclaimed, “A Water Baby! Just like I saw on the commercial! Oh, wow!”  Yeah, that Water Baby was neat, but none of the baby dolls I ever got came with a heart-shaped tattoo on their butt.

Who knew? Toddler is now  tuned in to commercials, like the rest of us. I’m sure her Mom and  Dad realized this long before I did.  Perhaps I should ask her what she wants for Christmas now, to get my ideas. And, to my dismay, I received my first eye-roll, and she’s only four years old. All I did was ask her if she remembered when we used to sing Jingle Bells together.  “Yeeesssss,” she groaned, casting those saucer-sized baby blues toward heaven.

It was long after I got my Big Hug. When we first walked in, Toddler ran to us and as I caught her up, she hugged my neck just as hard as she could.  When I commented on how  strong she is, she said, “Yes, because I just don’t know my own strength.”  Then she leaned over to deliver Mr.  Man’s share of that strength.

She helped pass out the gifts, and loved giving as much as getting.  She watched me open one, and smiled when I exclaimed over the present of sumptuous bath products.  “You thank us for that,” she said excitedly. And I did, lavishly. At one point, she looked at her pile and exclaimed, “Someone must really like me.”

Ya think?  Grandma was having just as much fun as she was!

We looked at Mom’s new Christmas decorations, one of which was a flameless candle from Avon. She picked it up to show it to me, and explained, “This just isn’t your ordinary candle.”

While the best part of Christmas is the  love, I have to admit I was spoiled. 

Mom surprised me with a KitchenAid mixer. I was NOT expecting that.  Actually,I thought Mr. Man was going to get me  the mixer. When we exchanged gifts, and there was no mixer,  I thought that was it.  But then voila, Mommy comes through! Mr.Man delivered a different surprise altogether–neon to go underneath my pretty little Inferno Red PT Cruiser. I hope  I can find someone  to put the lights on for me  soon.  He also got me a  B & N gift card, and some other accessories for my car, some I’d wanted for awhile.

We celebrated a wedding with a friend who is more like family this past week, too.  A veteran Cavalry Scout home from Iraq for awhile, he’s had more than his share of heartache personally and professionally. It’s a joy to see him achieve his heart’s desire at last.

Today, though,  I attended  a funeral for a family member of my dear friend, Thumper. This was the fourth death in her family within five months. It is heartbreaking to watch her get knocked down time and  time again. I wish there was something I could do  to make it better, but this is in God’s hands.  I can only lend an ear and a shoulder, and hope I canbe a good enough friend to her. 

So many times, I feel like I fall short in that area, regarding many friends.

For some good news–

My new salon  location  is working out  extremely well, so far.  It is an answer to many prayers I’ve uttered over the past few months.  I feel a renewed sense of passion for the career I chose so many years ago. This place, I cautiously say, is the best salon I’ve worked in so far.  If I can stay focused on the work,  and not get drawn into any inevitable dramas that rear their ugly heads in any work arena, it will be absolutely ideal. I feel  better about myself just by working there.  Like after twenty-five years in the biz, I’ve finally received the promotion I deserve. Oh, I’m not claiming to be the best hairdresser in town by any means, and have produced some real uh-ohs (some of them on friends. Sorry!) but I think I’m finally on a level I’ve worked hard for.

My creativity is renewed…do you think I might be inspired in other areas, too? 

Here’s to 2009, and a sense of hope and possibility!

Lovin’ it!

Well, the new salon is a dream so far. Over 10,000 sq. ft. of AHHHHH…..

I’ve already been busier there in the past week than I have at my old location in the past few years.  I hope this is a sign of more good things to come. The stylists are nice and have been welcoming so far. My clients seem to like the updated surroundings.  I feel like I’m in an honest to goodness salon again.  The other place was a place to park for awhile, and the people were nice, but I didn’t realize how stagnating it was to my career.  (You’d think getting a second job would be a clue, right?)

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Spent the afternoon looking at houses.  Couple of possibilities.

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Have a decent schedule at the grocery store this week.  One of the busiest weeks the year! Speaking of year, I have now been at the supermarket for a year.  They gave me a new shirt!  YAY! (Can you smell the sarcasm?) I’m supposed to get a raise, too.  We’ll see. 

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Brother, SisM, and Toddler are supposed to come to town this coming weekend.  Talk about a time for Thanksgiving! It will be a different holiday this year.  Well, it was last year, what with Granny in the nursing  home. This Thursday, Mr. Man, Mom and I will celebrate together.  And we will enjoy it.  Mr. Man’s parents are out of town.  We miss those who are not with us, and are a bit lonesome with out them.

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Have been reading up a storm this week. Home For the Holidays by Johanna Lindsay, All That Matters, by Stef Ann Holm, Comfort and Joy by Karen Hawkins, Santa Baby by Jennifer Crusie, Lori Foster and Carly Phillips . . . I guess that’s all for this week. I might have told you, I don’t remember, that I bought The Story of Edgar Sawtelle.  I hate to admit it, but I didn’t finish this one. I RARELY quit a book before I finish it, and usually feel guilty if I do. This is one I kinda feel guilty about.  It’s not that the writing is bad, it isn’t, it has good characters, but halfway through, it still hadn’t  hooked me.  I  mean, nothing was happening, really.  A lot of backstory, not enough movement.  It may be some people’s cup of tea, but for me, it just didn’t work out.

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Have fun with this article!

Let’s Rate Punctuation Marks

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Well, off to do the laundry, and take a hot, bubbly bath!

My job gave me the bird!

As a matter of fact, they gave all of their employees a turkey for Thanksgiving. 

What?

Daddy was always the turkey man.  Mom cooked one turkey after he passed away,  but it just isn’t her thing, so we’ve been getting smoked turkey from a local butcher for the past few years,  and it is wonderful! (I also vote their beef jerkey THE BEST!)

So.  I have this turkey.  What now? I am curious to know if I can actually prepare one.  That’s never fallen to me before.  But I don’t want to do it on an actual holiday, since there’s a very real possibility I could screw it up.  Let’s face it, my track record isn’t the best. 

I turn to the website that’s given me some good recipies in the past, and find this five-star recipe. Then, for two evenings, I read several of the reviews, to see what people liked  so  much about it, and to note the problems some might have had, and maybe some tips and tricks tucked within the overwhelmingly positive comments.  Okay, I thought.  How can I go wrong with this?

When I open the package encasing the bird, I remembered why I buy boneless breasts. I had a bloody carcass on my hands.  Yeah.  FLASHBACK: Seventh grade homemaking class – our group invites a notorious rascal to  be a part of our table, because we’d heard rumors there was going to be preparation of a whole CHICKEN.  The rascal served his purpose, he cut it up with gusto and a smile.  But now, this was MY project, distasteful  as it was.  Remembering what Mom told me about being sure to get the innards out, I tilted the slimey corpse upward, spread it open, and gingerly reached inside and pulled out what I guessed to be the neck.  SUCCESS! Still, something didn’t seem right.  Isn’t there supposed to be more in there?  I open the legs wider, angling more light into the cavern of the cadaver. Where’s that little bag everyone warned me about? The one with the rest of the innards? 

I call Mom. “Is there something I’m missing?  I don’t see or feel (shudder) anything else in there.”

“I don’t know, baby.  Could be you didn’t get one.”  (I think, but I’m  not sure, that she is slightly amused with my endeavor.)

Oh well, I  thought.  I guess I didn’t get one.  I go ahead and rub the bird with kosher salt, inside (yuck) and out, and set it in my big ol’ container (That Mr. Man and I hunted for last night at WalMart) with cold water and slipped it into the fridge for the prescribed amount of time.  I’ll just finish this baby when I get home from work early tomorrow afternoon, I decided.

Tick Tick Tick….

So, I get home today.  I get out my trusty Vidalia Chop Wizard  (I love that thing.  I’m on my second one. Hey. looking up the site,  I see that have a slicer, too! Must get.)  and slice up my veggies.  I go to rinse the bird, and, on the advice of one of  my customers, look on the OTHER end, where the neck used to be ( I hate to think about it) and VOILA! There was the bag.

“So,” Mr. Man opens the wine. “Are we going to eat this tomorrow?”

“No.” CHOP. CHOP. “Tonight I hope.  Why?  Would you rather eat it tomorrow?”

“No…they just take twelve hours to cook, right?”

“I hope  not.  It’ll be kinda late, but we’re having this turkey tonight.”

So, Turkey is in the oven, I settle in and Twitter and e-mail some ideas back and forth with critique partners. Oh, and finish off the leftover wine from  the recipe.   I’m not one that has a taste for wine, but there’s no  reason to waste  a good Texas wine. As good as it was, it couldn’t beat the  margaritas I’d  had at supper the night before. Man, I love a good margarita.

Later,  I’m checking the bird, basting, basting, basting…Mr. Man strolls by. 

“Look.” I  say, thinking it’s looking like a real turkey. 

“And?”  he asks.

“AND?”  I close the oven  door.  “And, would it HURT you to recognize my effort?”

He reaches into the drawer across from us and comes up empty.  No thermometer.  It’s packed and in storage, just like my veggie peeler. Yep, used the old knife method this time. Eh.  Anyway, Mr. Man had no better knowledge than I about how to eyeball the thing to tell if it is done. I just went by the pop up thing. 

So, I fix the biscuits and the sides and a couple of pumpkin pies, and in a while, I took that baby out of the oven and dug in.

I’ve never carved a turkey.  Ick. Messy. 

Thought I’m no Domestic Diva, and won’t be offered a show on the Food Network anytime soon, I am happy to say that The Turkey wasn’t bad.  Now I know I CAN do it, if I MUST. 

I  do think Mom  knows best after all. Not that I ever doubt that. I think we should stick with our favorite butcher’s poultry from now on.

Err…Maybe they shouldn’t have gone there.

Which is what I thought often today, as I checked out groceries fast and furiously. I think they tried to kill us today.  A preview to the upcoming holiday season, I guess.

Halloween in a grocery store is a weird place.   But that’s okay, I’ve been described as weird a time or two myself.   Some of the costumes were cute. Some were, as one of the sackers said, a hot mess.  Oh, my gosh, that one, the hot mess, really should not have gone there.  She was some kind of zombie-cowgirl-prostitute or something.  Blech.  Let’s just say, there were some things hanging out that really shouldn’t have been. And some people I thought were dressing up…weren’t.  That really WAS their look.  Ooops.

I didn’t know we could dress up.  When people asked me about my costume, I just told them I was disguised as a hairdresser with a second job.

Speaking of hairdressing. I got a job in another salon this week.  It was voted best in our town this year.  It’s absolutely gorgeous.  It looks filled with promise. like I was led there.

Of course, I felt this way about that house we signed  a contract on, too, and we learned today that the sellers aren’t willing to extend the closing date again.  They want back on the market.  But, Oh, be sure to come back if we sell ours and theirs is still for sale.  Well, something’s led you to believe ours is going to be on the market quite awhile.  Maybe we’ll take our money somewhere else after all.  Your potty’s in a closet anyway, and that’s weird. (You know, the kind of bathroom where the commode is in a little closet like room inside the big bathroom?) So we are getting our earnest money back.  It makes me sad.  I’m discouraged.  I feel like the people who come to look at our house only see what needs to be done, and not the potential.  I see our listing on the Realtor site, and all I see is “it’s over 50 years old”  under the description. I don’t see enthusiastic descriptions like on the other houses listed.  No mention that it has a new sewer line, new top of the line windows and siding, new water heater, new dishwasher, new roof, large backyard, or that the fridge and stove stays.  It would be great for a young couple starting out.  It was for us. Maybe it would go over better to be described as being in the same FAMILY for nearly 50 years.

But, no, it’s not MOVING.

She-Who-Sells-Houses says that it’s been slow EVERYWHERE with that stupid crap going on in the economy right now.  A friend who knows another Realtor says he’s said so, too.  But my town is really supposed to be doing well in spite of what’s going on elsewhere.  Maybe after this election crap is over things will improve.  We have one more month at half price at our storage facility.

I thought that house we offered for was meant to be for us, that we were led there.  Now we’re losing it. So, I felt I was supposed to go to that new salon, too?  What if that’s a wrong move? What if I go down in flames there?

Crap.

Why don’t we turn this blog into “DW’s Whiney Page?”

Hopefully I’ll have something more positive to blog about soon.

If we don’t sell this house pretty quick, we are going to have to start all over with our foster parent things. And this is at the root of it.  We want a family.

NOT Limes!

There is punishment for being well-rested.  I knew it.

Working the express line to day, and this fella, about 70 or so with a Rueben Kinkaid hairdo (from the Partridge family, youngsters…Google it) and square, wire-rimmed glasses comes  up, chipper as can be.  He begins unloading his items, lastly three bags of lemons, ten to a bag.

“How about those limes?” He grins. “Aren’t they something?”

I look at the bags again, just to double check. Were they some kind of weird limes from some exotic place that merely looked  like lemons? Nope. They were lemons. And I said so. 

“Nope.  Them there’s limes. Ten for a dollar. Sign said so. They were right under a sign that read limes, ten for a dollar.”

Was he joking?  I kinda thought so, at first…by this time, D, a sacker, had come up to see if he was needed to help with the guy’s order.  He’s also heard part of the conversation  by now.

I searched for a sticker on one of the lemons and finally found one (ONE, out of thirty lemons.)  I keyed it in, and sure enough, they rang up as organic lemons.  And they were BIG lemons.

“No, they’re limes,” says Mr. Hairsprayed man.  “Sign said so.”

This so and so KNEW what he was doing was wrong.  I wasn’t putting up with it. “D, would you mind checking that sign for us?”

D was on the same track as I was with this, so he went back and checked, then when he returned, he confirmed that they were indeed lemons.”

The guy’s face clouded. “Then I don’t want them.”

So I voided them from his ticket.

“I want a manager,” he says. 

I page a manager.

“I want THE manager.”

I page THE manager.  Who is obviously unavailable at the moment. 

“STORE MANAGER!” The man booms out the manager’s name in a big, deep voice.

Okay.  Houston, we have a problem.  Co-workers’ attention is now zeroed in (I love how we keep an eye out for each other, most of the time.) I’m not afraid, but want  to nip the problem in the  bud, so I’m trying to get someone to get the Security Guy over, without alerting the guest. The Store Manager doesn’t appear. No assistants appear. 

Before Security Guy can get there, the angry man shoves his cart toward the sunglasses display. “You can just forget the whole thing.  *(&&%$! mislabled merchandise….mumble…mumble…..” he growls as he heads for the produce section.

I try to deal with the abandoned ticket, and start on the next guest.  As I’m checking that one out, the angry guy comes back cursing and waving the sign in my face.

“I have no control over that, sir,” I say.  Security Guy takes over from there. 

Funny enough, I was in a good mood for the rest of the day, even though it continued to be a day full of minor but irritating foul ups for me.  I guess God blessed me with the good mood so those frustrations wouldn’t get to me.

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M at work called me over to help  this little elderly lady, who wanted to find her picture in our local magazine that covers events and stores about our area.  Lot of Social Events covered there, if you get my drift. Lots of interesting stories, but definitely a Place to Be Seen  in our town.   Anyway, this sweet little lady had features similar to my Granny’s,  and besides that, I was more than glad to help her. 

“They took the picture on Saturday.  My daughter was mostly concerned I that I stand up straight,” she said.  “I think she loves me anyway, but my back, it just hurts so bad sometimes, and I can’t straighten up.”

It was plain for anyone to see this was the case.  “Well, ” I say, “I know they love you.  How could they not?”

“Well,” she chuckles, ‘Thank you, precious.”

I  explained that since the picture was taken Saturday, it would most likely be in the next month’s issue. We got to visiting about the event, and it was an annual fall festival in a nearby small town that has big money, and this nice little lady is the mother of a very big somebody in that town.  I’m a little bit, teeny weeny bit familiar with that town since SisM grew up there.  Turns out that this nice little lady knows SisM’s mom. 

Small world.

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Still no news on the house front.  Thus no news on the foster parent front.  And no decision on the other salon option.

Should I or shouldn’t I ?

Well, I had a pseudo-job offer today.

I went to another salon in town today, after something I’d heard I could buy there today.  It was a salon  I’d been curious about, it’s actually a salon and day spa, and is really classy.  I found out when I was inside, visiting with the owner, that it had also been voted the best in town 2008 by an annual local poll. I used to work with the owner, at another salon, several years ago.  Anyway, she was just showing me around, and it came up that she had an  opening, and maybe we could work something  out. 

They need someone to do nails…including regular manicures and  pedicures.  That’s the thing, I only do  artifical  nails…and have never flexed my pedi muscles.  Never really wanted to, really.  But I can.  And they seem to be a really busy salon, with regular call-ins. 

I have to ask myself if I’m ready to do this, if I want to change and do a full-header reinvention of my cosmetology career. 

I don’t know.  It’s tempting.  It’s a beautiful salon, higher-end, yet I didn’t feel out of place or  uncomfortable.  I think it’s a place my clients would feel comfortable. 

But…ugh.  The idea of another big change. 

The lease is higher, but the potential of making more money is definitely there.  I’d have to get over my aversion to taking on people I don’t know.  I know, weird, and it’s only come on the past few years, which is One reason my hair career is not as  it should be at the moment.  I think my exposure to a host of different  people at the  supermarket job has helped somewhat.  I don’t know if it’s my anxiety issues, or my issues with my self-confidence lately, or the loss of trust I’ve experienced the past few years in  my relationships with people I thought I could trust. 

I have to face it, I’m just weird sometimes, and I don’t know why.

Man, I’m a headcase.   

But I’ll be thinking on it.