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This may seem terribly ironic to you, given what my occupation is, but I hate shopping. Really, I do. I like to shop when I'm being paid to do it. However, just to go shopping to shop is definitely not my cup of tea. Sometimes, though, it has to be done.

So today, while I was having my cup of tea (literally...Willow and I met for high tea), I made a decree that I would go shopping and I would buy myself some new underwear. I know. This seems like a strange decree to pronounce in a tea room, but I'm not average.

The reason I made this decree is because I have been washing laundry constantly to clean my very few pair of underwear I have left. I made a rule that I would start throwing away anything with holes in it. Needless to say, I'm down to the bare minimums. Plus, I had pulled the pair I was wearing out of my butt for the 13th time of the day. (I like to call them Indian underwear...they keep creeping up. I know, I know. That's not politically correct, but "Native American Underwear" or "Indigenous People Underwear" just doesn't have the same ring to it.)


So after tea, I pulled my undies out of my butt, gave myself a pep talk and went to a store. I ended up in three different stores, looking for underwear. In the first store, I was momentarily distracted by the clearance section of clothes. Saving money does make shopping a little more tolerable. They had no underwear, but I found a nice shirt!

Throughout the three stores, I had an ongoing dialogue in my head, and I figured I would share with you some of the things me, myself and I discovered as we shopped together. So, without further ado, here are my random observations while shopping. (By the way, don't look for the meaning of life in these deep observations. You won't find it here.)


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Observation #1: One size does not fit all.


Observation #2: Just because something says it's your size does not mean it is.


Observation #3:
The retailers have a cruel sense of humor.


Observation #4: To get people to move out of your way, just laugh hysterically while behind the closed door of a dressing room. When you come out, people may look at you strangely, but they will, indeed, move out of your way.

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Observation #5: A security tag, strategically placed, can actually cause temporary blindness in the eye it hits as you try on a shirt.



Observation #6: If you come out of the dressing room, covering one eye with your hand while hysterically laughing, people will move out of your way even faster.

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Observation #7: Just because something says, "Tummy Control," does not mean it is.



Observation #8: Refer to observation #3.



Observation #9: Yoga pants should be illegal after a certain size.



Observation #10: Unless you actually do yoga, it's probably not advisable to wear yoga pants in public.

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Observation #11: While yoga pants are made in much larger sizes than they should be, normal, comfortable, non-lacey but non-granny-panty panties are not. It is impossible to find normal underwear in larger sizes.



Observation #12: Refer to observation #7. This applies to underwear as well, because there is no way THESE panties will make your stomach look smaller.


Observation #13: Refer to observation #3.


Observation #14: Apparently larger sized women have bigger crotches. This is the only possible explanation for the extra 3" of fabric in the seat of larger panties.



Observation #15: Did I mention the retailers have a cruel sense of humor?


So, all in all, it was not a very successful day. I had to go home eventually, with or without comfortable underwear. I guess it's time to do the laundry. Again.  -Al

 
 
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We used to laugh at my grandmother for all her worrying. That woman could worry about everything. She worried about the light bill. This was evidenced by the single 35 watt bulb that would be burning in her house when we would arrive there after dark. She didn’t want to waste electricity, you know.

She worried about what the trucks were doing at the grocery store across the street from her house. She called the corporate headquarters so many times, I think she had them on speed dial (except for the fact that she refused to get a dial tone phone and instead, used her old rotary). I’m pretty sure they knew her by name at Bi-Lo supermarket, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t because she was spreading goodness and joy.

My grandmother worried about everything. Most of all, she worried about my cousin. We’ll call him Johnny. He was the oldest, and it was very apparent he was my grandmother’s favorite. Grandmother loved him best of all. There was no denying it. Even she did not deny that.

When my grandmother would hear a siren, she would immediately say, “I hope that isn’t Johnny.” It didn’t matter where we were or where Johnny was. As soon as a siren was heard, her brain immediately went to him. He lived out west for a while and we were in South Carolina, and Grandmother would still say, “I hope that isn’t Johnny.”

“No, Grandmother. I’m pretty sure we would not hear a firetruck 1500 miles away.”

It was never logical to us, so we laughed about it. My silly grandmother and her silly ways. We did not understand why she was such a worrier.

Fast forward a few decades, and I am beginning to understand. I have a child who is driving. All at once, he has grown wings and is flying around town. (Hopefully, he isn’t really flying….I really hope he did not inherit his father’s lead foot.) I find myself worrying when I hear sirens. “I hope that isn’t Beetle,” I sometimes say out loud. Then, I look around to see if my grandmother is in the room. She’s not. It’s me. The Worrier.

I don’t think I was a worrier before now. Honestly, my normal response to stress has been just to fall asleep. You may think I’m kidding, but I’m not. If Mr. Everything is scaring me with his driving, I just go to sleep. He asks constantly why I sleep so much in the car. Why, I can be asleep before we make it out of our town!

When bills were weighing heavy on us and the phone kept ringing with bill collectors, I slept. When our business burned down, I stifled yawns while waiting for updates on the fire. When I drove home from the trauma center after leaving Mr. E and his burned face, I had a hard time staying awake on the drive. Sleep. It’s the perfect cure for stress.

In the case of the Beetle, however, sleep isn’t working. Instead, I find myself obsessing over the things he could possibly be doing wrong. The poor child faces the sniff test every time he walks in the door. The nose will know if he’s been up to something. Every time he is near me, I have to resist the urge to ask lots of questions. Sometimes, the questions leak out anyway.

For the 2.4 minutes I was awake in bed last night before falling into my normal comatose state, I pondered why it is I am worrying so much. The Beetle is a good kid. Sure, he has done stupid things. They all do. Overall, though, his goodness to stupid ratio is pretty high. I trust him. I do. Sort of. Well, until my imagination gets the best of me. Then, I freak out and wonder if the sirens I hear are headed to save the Beetle from his vehicle that is dangling over the edge of a cliff. Then, I remember we don’t have cliffs in Florida.

I don’t know why it is I worry so much. If the poor child survives me, he should get a t-shirt. “I survived life with my crazy mother.” I don't know why my mind automatically goes to the worst case scenario. Maybe it's genetic.

I wonder if there is a worry gene that I’ve inherited. Overall, it seems to have skipped a generation. My mother does not seem to worry like my grandmother did and now I do. However, the other day, I told her I had a sore throat. Her response was, “I hope it isn’t Ebola.” She was kidding. I think.         -Al


 
 
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You wouldn’t think having doctors see various parts of my body would bother me so badly. I’ve been going to the doctor for a long time. I mean, it all started 41 years, 9 months ago when the doctor saw me completely naked. Unfortunately, having to get naked has been a regular occurrence since then.

When I was sixteen, my doctor sent me home with the news that I had lumps in my breast, and I needed to see a surgeon. I was hysterical, as I’m sure you can imagine. First, my mother ripped the doctor’s head off and handed it to him on a platter. (Her exact words were, “Don’t you ever, ever, ever send a child home with the information that she needs to see a surgeon! What is the matter with you??” Note to self…never mess with a Mama Bear’s cubs.) Next, we called the surgeon. I had to go to the hospital and have a needle biopsy. They did not call it that, though. They called it “aspiration.” I’m pretty sure they were banking on the fact that the high school sophomore did not know big words. Anyway, the aspiration consisted of the surgeon reading the instructions while in the room with me and then performing the procedure. You can image what my mother did to him when she realized he was reviewing his Cliff’s notes before sticking large needles in me.

I’ve been to the doctor plenty of times in my life, and I’ve been in many precarious positions there. I mean, after all, I’ve birthed two babies. People said I would lose all modesty after childbirth. They were wrong. I was horribly modest then, and I’m horribly modest now.

So, when my primary care physician said I needed to go to a dermatologist for a full body scan, I told her I did not like the sound of that. She said it wouldn’t be so bad. I told her, unless the scan involved something science fictionish, like beaming me to another location, I was pretty sure it would be so bad.

I hesitantly made the appointment for The Scan. Like a dumb dumb, I made it for the day after we got back from vacation. Good plan, Al. Eat unlimited food for a week and then go stand naked in the doctor’s office.

All the way to the office, I prayed for the doctor or nurse practitioner to be fat and middle aged. At least let her be heavier than average, I prayed. I’m pretty sure it’s wrong to pray for that, but I was desperate. When I arrived, the very young, thin and pretty nurse walked me back to the room. She told me I could leave my bra and underwear on but would need to take everything else off. I asked her if I should take off my bra, since one mole that needed to be checked was in that general area. (I know…way too much information.) She said to go ahead and take that off and to put on a paper gown. Yay.

I sat on the table and waited for my fate. I was still praying for an old, fat lady. Hold on to the hope, right? There was a knock on the door and in came, you guessed it, a pretty, petite, blonde, beautiful young woman. Kill. Me. Now.

Doctor Beauty introduced herself and reached out her tiny little hand to shake mine. I thought I might break her sweet little fingers. She said she was going to examine me for moles, and she asked me to stand up. Doctor Beauty began at the ankles and worked her way up and down and all around. I kept picturing myself as the giant from Gulliver’s Travels while this tiny doctor and her little assistant moved around me.

At one point, not only was my gown shifted to reveal way too much, but Doctor Beauty was lifting my underwear and looking underneath. At that point, I asked why I had left the underwear on if they were going to peek under it anyway. Doctor Beauty said they tried to allow the patients as much modesty as possible. I tried not to laugh.

A moment later, I accidentally said out loud, “Yep. This is just as humiliating as I imagined it would be.” Neither tiny person commented or acknowledged me. It was better that way. They probably wished the giant would just hush so they could finish their examination.

Doctor Beauty decided to shave six moles from me for a biopsy, and she circled each one with a marker. She left the room, and the sweet nurse started preparing needles and razors. I liked the nurse more than Doctor Beauty.

The nurse and I started talking as she sliced layers of skin from my body. At least it distracted me from the needles. I thought the worst part was over since I was no longer standing half-naked in the middle of the room. Then, the most painful part of the experience occurred.

As the nurse and I chatted, I made a horrible discovery. It turns out this grown woman who was cutting pieces off me was the child of someone I went to high school with. I asked her if she could just stick me with another needle because that would hurt less than the knowledge that I was old enough to be this adult person’s mother.

When the nurse was finished, I got my cane and my bifocals, and I found my way out of the office. I cranked up the radio on the way home and played rap songs just to prove I still had it. I’m pretty sure the guy at the red light was impressed.

At least my body scan was over, and all I had to was await my results. I got the call and five out of six moles were just fine. The sixth was a little iffy, so I will have to go back and have it removed. At least it is just on my back. Hopefully, I won’t have to completely disrobe for that procedure. All I know is, Doctor Beauty is going to be hard-pressed to get me back in for another body scan in a year, as recommended. No. Indeed. It will take much longer than that before the memory fades enough for me to volunteer for another examination. -Al


 
 
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I will just issue a warning here: Men and young people, read this at your own risk. There’s nothing TOO bad, but you may just get more information than you really want to know. Consider yourself warned.

I’ve been going through a lot of tests lately. I don’t mean tests, as in trials and tribulations. I mean, sure, sure, I’ve had those too, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean tests. As in, “This will only hurt a little.” As in, “Mrs. Not Your Average Al, you may just live to see next week after all…” Suffice it to say, middle age sucks.

It all started a few months ago, when our generous president made sure we got health insurance. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not making a political statement there. I have my own thoughts about Obamacare, but they are just that…MY thoughts. So, I’ll keep those to myself.

Whether we like it or not, Mr. Everything and I now are the proud owners of a shiny new health insurance plan, and for the first time in a gazillion years, we can actually go to a doctor when it’s not an emergency. So, we eagerly signed up for appointments. After all, he and I both needed bloodwork so we could get refills on some medications. Our previous providers had officially cut us off, so we had to do something or we would surely die.

The Mr. went first, brave man that he is. His outcome was not horrible. It consisted of bloodwork and an ultrasound to check out a growth on his thyroid. We thought it would be no big deal. Little did we know, that would turn into a trip to the ENT, where the kind doctor looked up Mr. E’s nose (I’m still pondering what his nose had to do with his thyroid…) and felt his throat before asking for a mere $202 out of pocket. Sure. No problem.

In the style of “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,” Mr. E’s visits progressed. If you go to the doctor, he’s surely going to feel your throat…. and if he feels your throat, he will think there’s something wrong…and if he thinks something is wrong, he will definitely send you for an ultrasound…and when you go for the ultrasound, it won’t come back okay….and when it doesn’t come back okay, you will be told to go to the ENT… and if you go to the ENT, the doctor will feel your throat….and then after he feels your throat, he will send you for a biopsy…if you have a biopsy, it will not feel good…and after it doesn’t feel good, the one thing that will feel worse will be the amount of money you owe out pocket….and when you pay the money out of pocket, you will be told everything is fine….and when you are told everything is fine, you will surely wonder why you went to the doctor in the first place!

Next was my turn, so off to doctor I went, where I eagerly awaited my opportunity to be weighed in public. That is, after all, one of my favorite things to do. Luckily, they did not have to bust out the lift to weigh me.

Anywho, I went in expecting to be sent for bloodwork. I did not expect to have the full gamut of tests run, from head to toe. I left the doctor’s office with a huge stack of orders.

The bloodwork was the least of my worries. There, they drew six vials of blood. I was a shade paler when I left the lab.

Next came the thyroid ultrasound. Mine was fine, so I did not have to give the mouse a cookie, thank goodness.

After that, came the leg vein ultrasound. I thought if one more person said, “This won’t hurt a bit,” I was going to slap someone. In fact, when you have varicose veins, an ultrasound on your legs hurts like a beast. Besides hurting, it’s extremely awkward to have to, “Turn this way, put your leg out flat, move your other leg out of the way, don’t forget to breathe, now act natural and don’t forget to smile, don’t mind my head right here, leaning over you in a very awkward place, now, I’m just going to dig this little ultrasound thingie into the bend of your knee while I squeeze your ankle. Relax. This will only take a minute.”

Back in my pregnancy days, when asked if something was going to hurt, my obstetrician would say, “This isn’t going to hurt me a bit.” At least he was honest. Some ultrasound technicians I know could stand to learn from his wisdom.

Along with my various ultrasounds came the big M, as in Mammogram (with a capital M). I’m just going to tell you, you have not lived until you’ve had someone reach over, lift your breast and put it on a shelf. Then, the experience is complete when they clamp a cold plastic plate down on it. Good times, people. Good times.

I left the radiology location so happy all my tests were finished. I figured I was probably glowing from the amount of radiation I had just been exposed to between the X-Ray and the ultrasounds. I was so glad that was over and behind me for another five years. Woo-hoo!

Two mistakes there… First, I found out at my age (“Women your age” is the most dreaded phrase…dreaded for the doctor, because my response is to punch him or her in the nose.)….at my age, I have to have a mammogram yearly. I don’t want to discuss it. The second mistake was in thinking it was over. Oh, no, my friends. I had not even made it out of the parking lot of the radiology office before I got a call saying I had to have another mammogram done on the right side. Oh, joy.

Later the same week, I went back to have the second mammogram done. I thought the first one hurt. I was wrong. On the second go-around, the technician once again lifted my boob (something I’ll never get used to) and sat it on the shelf. She pancaked me pretty good with the squisher. Then, just to ensure it was flat enough, she began manually cranking the squisher down tighter. Words went through my mind, but they were not nice, so I just bit my tongue. I thought I was going to black out there for a second. I envisioned myself, unconscious, hanging by my boob from the mammogram machine. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I actually started laughing as I pictured that. The technician looked at me like I was crazy, but it was better than crying, right??

I survived the mammogram and was so glad it was over. Then, they said I needed a sonogram. Oh boy. Allow me to disrobe in front of one more person. Yay. At least this sonogram did not hurt, and she did not have to squeeze my ankle to look at my boob.

I left the office, relieved it was over. I felt good that I had done something for myself. (Though I decided I should rethink ways of caring for myself….a massage, a pedicure, a cup of tea….these all seemed like better ways). A few days later, I got a call from the radiologist’s office. The woman said they had messed up. They were supposed to call me back for repeat images on both sides, so they still needed to re-do the left side. And so it began again….

The left side was not nearly as painful as the right. The technician who did it was much kinder and gentler. I pledged my undying love to her. That was kind of awkward, since she had my breast in her hand at that moment. I want to request her in the future, but I’m pretty sure I’m on her “do not treat” list.

So, the results of the mammograms were mixed. The left was fine. When the woman called to tell me my boob was fine, I said, “Oh, girl, don’t I know it? It is fiiiiine.” She did not find that funny. I really think I’m now at the top of her list. The right side was inconclusive, whatever that means. I was told they found nothing…no masses, no bumps, no hidden microphones or microchips, but they could not conclude anything. Well, thanks for that. That was money well spent. Now, I have to go back in 6 months to have another one done. Maybe by then, I will have paid off my out of pocket costs for my crazy mammogram-palooza.

So, the only thing that was left to do was one final doctor’s appointment. It was a thrill. Let’s just say it involved me, a doctor, a nurse and a razor blade. Come back next time, and I’ll tell you all about it.  -Al


 
 
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My reaction to the recent news story of the girl who was suspended for saying, "Bless you."
 
 
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Well, finally, I’ll get to the point of this whole trip down memory lane. You can’t say I didn’t warn you. I told you at the get-go that it would be a long story long, and I did not disappoint, did I? It has been a loooong story! So, if you are still with me and haven’t lost interest in Chalet Suzanne yet, bravo to you! (By the way, it might be time to find a hobby…)

During my last two articles, I told you about our many experiences at Chalet Suzanne, a sweet little inn in Lake Wales, Florida. It’s a magical little place, and sadly, it is closing. In fact, I think, as of today, it is closed. *Sigh.* No more Swedish pancakes. Now, what do I have to live for?

The infatuation of this inn started for me when I was 17 years old, which was like, a million years ago (or at least 100), according to my kids. The love for the inn never died, and that includes this last trip we took.

When Mr. Everything and I found out Chalet Suzanne would be closing, we knew we had to make one last visit before it was eternally too late. (Okay, that might be a little dramatic, but it’s my story…) I made the reservation, and we counted the days until we could return. We had not been in at least 5 years, and it had been at least 10 years, if not more, since we had eaten dinner there. We decided to go for the whole sha-bang. I mean, why not? It was our last chance for all eternity. (I’m on an eternal kick today, can you tell?)

Last weekend, we finally got to go to the inn. As we drove down the driveway, I knew things had changed a little. The grass was overgrown. This was something that would never have happened back in the day. Also, there was a lawn mower broken down by the main drive. That would explain the overgrown grass, I suppose.

We checked in, and the staff members were not nearly as warm and welcoming as we remembered. I mean, they weren’t unfriendly, but we were not called by name or anything.


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We got to our room, and while it was clean and comfortable, we realized one reason the inn must be closing. The low ceilings, while charming, were also claustrophobic. The bathroom, while cute with the pink and green tiles, was so outdated, it wasn’t even funny. Okay, it was funny. Mr. E and I joked that it was a good thing neither of us has thick hair (or much hair for that matter). It would have taken days to rinse the shampoo out with the drip, drip, dripping speed of the shower head. The towels were worn out. The tiles in the bathtub were starting to fall off the walls. Yep, the time had come for the inn to admit defeat.

Don’t get me wrong. We still completely enjoyed our stay. We could just see the wear and tear in the groaning little building where we stayed. I’m sure the owners of the inn were faced with a multi-million dollar overhaul or allowing the inn to give up the ghost. I’m pretty sure they made a wise choice. CPR on this place would have been very difficult.

As we walked around the property, we noticed the rotting wood on several buildings. We found our tile with the “cow-pig” in the autograph garden, and it had mold on it from the weather and overgrown plants nearby. The mold did not detract from the quality of my artwork. It was hideous to start with.

When we went to dinner, we were surprised to not find Kenny Rogers, the maître d’ who had been there during each visit we had made to the dining room. You’d think we would have learned the man’s real name over all those years, but “Kenny” worked for me. Instead of Kenny, we found the owner’s wife acting as the hostess. Apparently, Kenny had not informed her of the rules, because she was just letting anyone in. In the past, we had seen men turned away for not wearing jackets and ties and women given shawls if they wore sundresses with straps. But, like so many parts of Chalet Suzanne, those rules had withered away. We saw people in jeans and in shorts. One lady had a bandana on her head! It was a travesty, and we knew Kenny would never stand for it. We decided that was why he was gone. He had probably quit because they told him he couldn’t enforce the rules anymore. They were just happy to have business coming in, but Kenny wanted decency and order. The poor man was probably alone and heart broken, wearing his suit and tie, sipping his coffee from his China cup. It was a sad picture to envision.

Our meal was slow. I mean, really slow. I kept reminding Mr. E that it just meant we had longer to enjoy the ambiance of the dining room. Before it was over, we’d had plenty of time. Believe me. It took us twenty minutes just to be able to order our food. We were pretty sure we would be living there for a while. I was okay with that idea as I was surrounded by miscellanea at its finest. I don’t think the Mr. was in agreement. He likes for his plate and bowl to match, thank you very much.

During the meal, we couldn’t help but notice the decline in service. Not that we were complaining. It was still a really nice meal, and we had a great time. However, little things, like a spoon to stir my coffee, were overlooked. In the days of old, that would have never happened. Back then, someone would have been there, with spoon in hand, calling me by name and offering to stir the coffee for me. Now, they had gone all modern on us…the new motto was, “Do it yourself.” At one point, I considered getting up and pouring myself more iced tea, but I was afraid Kenny’s ghost would come back and smite me. (Oh wait, I don’t think he’s dead – at least I hope not! So, maybe he’d have an out-of-body experience to come and smite me.)

We determined quickly that we were seated in the “uncool” dining room. The beautiful, tall, skinny, fashionable people were all led to the other dining room. That was the “cool” room. Apparently, they didn’t think we fit in there. If Kenny had been there, things would have been different. (He probably would have made us eat in the kitchen after that whole “V Day” incident…) Our dining room had the short, the fat, the old, the ugly, the man blowing his nose on his linen napkin. (Seriously, people. If you do that, please stop. The rest of us can hear you. And if your husband is the one doing that, make him stop! You boss him around on everything else. Why are you allowing that?)

In the cool room, the fashion was higher, the high heels were taller, and the hair was sleeker. They were well adorned with jewels and baubles.  There was one table in our line of vision who we named, “The Happy Table.” The party of six polished off three bottles of wine, by our count. There were also a few bar drinks to add to the mix. They were really, really happy. They kept toasting everything. “A toast…” “Let’s toast….” “Toast, everyone….” It got to the point of funny to us. We were greatly amused just by watching them. I’d bet they weren’t nearly as amused or amusing the next morning. Come to think of it, I did not see a single one of them at breakfast the next day….


PictureI don't know who they are, but he knows Eric.
We weren’t sure how we ended up in the uncool room, but we had no doubt how the couple seated next to us got there. They were so completely annoying. They kept talking to Coke Bottles, the piano player. (We’ll get to him in a minute.) They also kept dropping names. Every time the server would come near them, the man would say something about “Eric.” Apparently, Eric was the owner of Chalet Suzanne, and somehow, this guy knew him. All I knew was, he didn’t know Eric well, because this man was, after all, seated in the uncool room. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard anyone drop names more than this guy did. At one point, I was pretending to bend over and pick up the names as he dropped them. At least Mr. E found it amusing.

Then, Mr. Everything decided he was going to start shooting spit balls at this guy every time he said something stupid. Thankfully, these were just pretend spit balls, but it was funny anyway. Every time the guy said anything, Mr. E would take his straw and blow through it like he was shooting something at the man. It was hilarious, and don’t worry, the guy was too busy talking about Eric to notice us making fun of him.

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So, on to Coke Bottles. When we arrived, we were the only ones in the uncool room, other than the piano player. He greeted us from across the room, and we said our friendly hellos back. Then, we assumed we were finished talking to him, but we were wrong. He came to our table to expound on how his evening was going. He had glasses so thick, they were (you finish the sentence) like Coke Bottles, thus the name. He wore a nametag that said his first name, which I can’t remember, and it said, “I play for tips. I sell CDs.” Nothing like a little tactful hint.

Coke Bottles tried to make conversation with us. I’m pretty sure he wanted a tip. Little did he know, we’d left our millions in our other pants. We were polite enough but did not engage. This is a trick we learned a long time ago when dealing with the mariachi band at the Mexican restaurant. Don’t make eye contact, and don’t engage. You’ll regret it if you do.

Coke Bottles circulated the dining room five times during our meal. Each time, he attempted to chat with us. Each time, he got a polite, “Uh-huh,” and nothing more from us. We are skilled at this game. So, we got out without having to have a real conversation with Coke Bottles, and we did not buy one of his CDs. We really did not want one of his CDs. Really.

All in all, the evening was a great time. I can’t say the service lived up to our expectations, but the food was fabulous. You haven’t lived until you’ve had lingonberries on chicken. It really did not matter that the service was lacking. It just gave us more time to have fun and enjoy our little restaurant for one last hoo-rah. I’m so glad we went, and I wish we could go back, just one more time….  -Al

 
 
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You can tell, since this is a continuation of yesterday’s story, that Chalet Suzanne was definitely a part of our history. Mr. E and I loved that place and visited whenever we could afford to (which, sadly, was not often). Today, we’ll continue our trip down memory lane. I told you it was a long trip!

On one anniversary, it might have been the 10th or 11th, we managed to go to the inn for one night. We even splurged and had dinner there, as well. For most years, we had not opted for the dinner as it was just more than we could pay for. On this particular trip, we were rushed in packing and getting out the door. My parents were keeping the Beetle and the Goose, so we took the kids to their house. As we were getting close to Lake Wales, where the inn was located, we got a call saying the kids had forgotten to get their pillows out of the trunk of our car. So, we turned around and drove back. My parents met us halfway, bless them, and got the kids’ belongings. We patted their little heads (the kids’, not the parents’) and left them for a second time. This time, the Goose decided she really, really wanted to go with us. She begged. She pleaded. She cried. We said goodbye. I felt guilty for about 1.2 seconds, but I knew she was fine. My sister and I have always referred to my parents’ house as “Disney World” for the grandkids. It’s a much more magical place than it was when we lived with them, that’s for sure. Anyway, I knew she would be fine, and if not, I’d see her in less than 24 hours. That which doesn’t kills us makes us stronger, right?

We were so happy when we finally got to Chalet Suzanne. Even the drive down the long driveway was magical as we knew we would soon see the enchanting pinkness of the inn….. and there it was! I really did love that place!

We got checked in and settled into our room. I took my dress out of the suitcase and hung it up so it would not get wrinkled. Mr. E decided he’d better do the same with his suit. I placed my shoes out by my dress, and he went to do the same. Except, his shoes weren’t there. He’d forgotten his dress shoes. Ugh! The only shoes he had were white Reebok tennis shoes.

So, here’s the thing about Chalet Suzanne’s dining room. It had a dress code – a serious dress code – and Kenny Rogers, the maître d’, meant business! I had seen that man require guests to put on borrowed coats and ties, and I knew he wasn’t letting Reebok tennis shoes into his dining room at dinner time. So, we went shopping.

This was in the days before the mall was built in Lake Wales, so there was not much to choose from in the sleepy little town. Mr. Everything finally settled on a pair of black dress shoes from Payless. They squeaked when he walked and left black marks on the floor everywhere, but they were black, and they met the requirements.

Since that trip, I have never let Mr. E forget his shoes again. In fact, I’ve also never let him live it down. On our recent trip, he almost walked out without his suit. Luckily, we remembered. We joked that Kenny would have banished him for life. Little did we know how much things had changed. We’ll talk about that next time.

Our overnight stays quickly became trips to the inn for breakfast. The breakfast was at least 25% of the magic of the place, so I was okay with that. The Beetle, the Goose and Mr. Everything took me there several times for Mother’s Day. It was so much fun, and I loved getting to visit. Then, the kids got older and began trying to kill each other any time we were in the car for more than five minutes. At that point, I decided it just wasn’t worth it, and even the breakfast trips ended. We considered just going without the kids, but somehow, a Mother’s Day celebration without my children just didn’t feel right.


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The breakfast at Chalet Suzanne was amazing. Everything about it was magical. Just thinking about it takes me to my happy place. (Excuse me while I pause….I’m envisioning pancakes.)

The coffee was the best I had ever tasted. The fact that it was served from silver kettles into eclectic China cups didn’t hurt either. Then, there was the food. Oh my goodness, the food. The eggs were scrambled with chives. While that sounds disgusting, with a little Chalet Suzanne magic, it’s actually quite tasty. The bacon and sausage were good, as well. However, anyone who knows me knows I was never there for the protein. Oh, no. It’s all about the carbs, my friends, and the carbs were AH-mazing! First we received these tiny little cinnamon rolls that were thick, chewy (in a good way) and delicious. We also got a stack of probably 10 to 12 pancakes. Before you think that’s a lot, realize these pancakes were small and paper thin. A stack of 10 to 12 was probably an inch tall and 2 ½ inches in diameter. The taste was wonderful, and the texture of these tiny pancakes was almost crepe-like. The pancakes were served with lingonberries.  Yeah, I didn’t know what they were either. They are almost like cranberries, but sweeter, and they go surprisingly well with pancakes! Of course, I’m a traditional girl and just want syrup and butter, but Mr. E loves him some lingonberries. The best part of the whole breakfast was we could get more! The servers would walk around with a plate of pancakes and serve as many more as we wanted. I discovered several trips into it that I could get more cinnamon rolls too, if I just asked.

On the trips with the kids, the staff members were so sweet to them. I was a little nervous about taking my little beasties into a dining room with all that old China and the antique furniture. Though I knew they could be well behaved, I also knew it could really, really wrong really quickly. The ladies there just loved them, though, and made them feel welcomed. They even gave them bags of old potato rolls so they could feed the turtles in the pond. While I did love turtles, I also really loved those potato rolls and considered snatching them from my children and eating them myself. Old or not, those suckers were amazing. However, my love for the turtles and my kids won, and I sacrificed the day-old bread for them.

When we would go feed the turtles, they would see us coming. As we walked toward the pond, hundreds of turtle heads would pop up from the water and start moving toward the shore. By the time we got there, the whole city of turtles was waiting for us, as though we were the royal family and they were looking up at us to pay their respects. Either that, or they just wanted the bread. The kids had a ball feeding them. It was the kids, of course, who loved it, because I’m much too mature and grown up to get my kicks from turtles. Really.

On those days when the kids would take me there, we would walk around the inn and look at the antiques and alcoves. We would sit in the gazebo on the air strip and watch planes land or take off. We would also walk around and peek inside the planes that were parked there. Those are some great memories.

The Beetle had gone to Chalet Suzanne with us a few times before the Goose was born. Her first trip to the inn did not turn out quite as well. It was the day that forever changed what I remembered when reminiscing about taking my kids to Chalet Suzanne. We’ll call it “V Day.” “V” would be for Vomit. I’m pretty sure I’ve told you this story before, but it’s worth repeating, much to the Beetle’s chagrin.

On this trip, we took my mother-in-law with us. It must have been a combined Christmas gift for her and birthday gift for me. I know it was Christmas time, because there’s a Christmas tree in the picture. We enjoyed our breakfast, and the Beetle was enjoying more chocolate milk. Even the chocolate milk was refillable at this place. He loved that, because I usually limited him to one glass, if we were paying for it. The Goose was demanding more pancakes. (Like mother, like daughter.) We were enjoying feeding her and relaxing in the dining room. All at once, the Beetle grew pale and said, “I don’t feel good.” These were not words I wanted to hear from this kid. His other nickname was, “The Puker,” because he had barfed in public more times than I care to think about. When she got older, if the Goose had said she didn’t feel good, I would have told her to sit back and rest for a minute. She would have been fine. However, this wasn’t the Goose. As soon as the Beetle said it, I grabbed his hand and started for the bathroom. We only made it two feet from the table before he started vomiting. I grabbed a napkin – a cloth napkin – and told him to hold it over his mouth. He tried, bless his heart, but it was just too much vomit. We ended up leaving a trail of vomit from the table all the way to the bathroom, which was, of course, at the front of the entire building. This wasn’t just any vomit, either. This was chocolate milk vomit. If you are a mother, you know that smell. If you aren’t, consider yourself blessed.


PictureV Day - Notice my white tank top he's wearing and the wetness of his overalls....
By the time we got to the bathroom, the Beetle was finished puking. He was wearing overalls, and the vomit had run down between the bib of the overalls and his shirt. His shirt was covered, and he was holding a pukey napkin. He asked me what he should do with it, and I considered the possibilities. I could take it and hand it to Kenny Rogers, the dress code Nazi, or we could just toss it. So, in the trash it went. I felt a little bad, but I was pretty sure they didn’t want it back. The Beetle asked me what to do about his shirt. I told him to take it off so I could wash it out. However, as I looked at it, it went in the trash too. (You may not realize this, but I have a weak stomach…like, the weakest of weak. I gagged while changing my own children’s poopy diapers, and I have never, I repeat NEVER, dealt with puke. That’s the Mr.’s job. So, the fact that I was trapped in this bathroom with chocolate milk vomit was pushing me to the brink of sanity. It was the shirt or me.)

The Beetle could not just walk around topless at Chalet Suzanne. Luckily, I was wearing a tank top under another shirt. Though I was not fully comfortable going without the tank top, I figured it was better than him going without a shirt at all. Since the Beetle felt better (he always felt better after he puked), we went ahead and walked around the inn. It was still a good day, but my breakfast memories were forever marred by The Incident.

The next time we visited Chalet Suzanne was another breakfast trip. This was at least 3 years later. We walked in at breakfast, and Kenny Rogers said, “Oh, I remember you…” That really wasn’t what I wanted to be remembered for.

Next time, I will tell you about the visit that sparked this whole voyage down memory lane. -Al

 
 
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I’m just going to warn you now, in case the title of this story wasn’t enough for you, we’re about to take a trip down memory lane. If you don’t want to go, get out while you can. Consider yourself warned. This is a long story long. (Instead of a long story short.)

Recently, we found out the inn where we spent our wedding night would be closing its doors for good, after 83 years in business. We decided we had to go there one last time, because this place is just such a part of our history. Mr. Everything says we have the restaurant at this inn to thank for causing me to want to visit so many fine dining restaurants for my job. He might just have a point there.

The first time I ever heard about Chalet Suzanne was when I turned seventeen. Some sweet older people at our church told Mr. E about it. They would fly their plane there sometimes to have lunch. (Just a normal, average day in the life…) They told Mr. E he should take me there for lunch or for dinner, and he decided to do just that.

For my seventeenth birthday, Mr. Everything told me he had a surprise for me. He said he was taking me to a very nice dinner, and he wanted me to dress up. In fact, he bought me a dress for the occasion. (No, it wasn’t controlling…I promise. It really was a sweet gesture, though it sounds a little creepy and controlling in text. Trust me on this. It was sweet.)

Anywho, for my seventeenth birthday, 3 days before Christmas, Mr. Everything took me to Chalet Suzanne for dinner. We got there, and it was, by far, the cutest place I had ever seen. It was pink! And the buildings made it look like a Swiss village! And when it got dark, there were Christmas lights! It was magical, and I knew right away that I loved it, regardless of how the food was.


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We entered the building that houses the 5 dining rooms, and the floor creaked underneath us. I felt like a giant as my head was only about 6 inches from the ceiling. This was an old building. We could just feel the age in the way the floor sounded and the way the walls and ceiling looked. It was old Florida at its best. The whole building slanted downward toward the back, so we walked that way. What we found was a dim, eclectic mixture of dining rooms like nothing I had ever imagined. It was awesome! The tables were set with plates and glasses that did not match each other. Everything was hodge-podge, and I loved it! We were seated in a room that had a grapevine with Christmas lights above us! It was spectacular! (I know I’m using a lot of exclamation points here, but you have to understand how amazing this place was!!!) (!!!) The host, we’ll call him Kenny Rogers, handed us menus and told us to enjoy our evening. (He really, really looked like Kenny Rogers. Really…Really.)

As we began to look at the menu, I pondered what the listings meant. There were words on there I did not even know how to pronounce, and under each menu item, there were numbers spelled out. For example, the menu said, “Chicken Suzanne. Our wonderful, succulent chicken breast cooked in blah, blah, blah. Fifty three.” I had no idea what “Fifty three” could mean, and I sat there trying to figure it out. Then, all at once, I realized what it meant. Oh. My. Gosh. That was the price!

I began to hyperventilate. (Okay, not really, but I felt like I was going to.) I thought I was going to fall out of my chair. I stammered, “We have to go.” Mr. E asked me why, and he was obviously taking great delight in this moment. “Because, those are the prices!” He told me not to worry about, and I said I was worried. I really thought he should be worried too. He insisted he knew the prices. I had tears in my eyes. He told me happy birthday, and he said to just relax and enjoy it. I told him it was too much money, and he assured me he had a discount card that would make it cost less. I accepted that answer, because I really wanted to stay in this cute little dining room all night. Later, I found out, the discount card only took off $25. I could have killed him, but I was really glad he made me stay.

The dinner was amazing! I had never experienced anything like it, and even now, with all the places I’ve been blessed to visit, I have never been anywhere else that could compare. First off, the service was impeccable. As soon as we would put our forks down after finishing the last bite of something, the server would appear, almost magically, and offer the next course. Also, the cool thing about this place was all the courses were included in the price. We had a broiled grapefruit (amazing…trust me on this), Moon Soup (What’s an adjective for amazing?), salad, an orange crepe to clear the palate, dinner (chicken for me, filet for the Mr.), lemon sorbet and finally, dessert. Oh. My. Goodness. Dessert. Mine was called Gateau Christina. It was layers of chocolate ganache and meringue. Even the iced tea was included. It was amazing. They brought me sugar water to sweeten the tea to my taste. I felt so fancy. They took our picture for our special occasion, and they brought us a can of Moon Soup. It was wrapped all pretty and had a candle on top.

That night, I knew where we would spend our wedding night. I was only 17, but I had known since I was 16 that I was marrying this man. I just had to wait until I was old enough so my parents would not freak out. After dinner, as we walked around and saw the village-like inn, I knew where I wanted to be.

Three years later, I got my wish. As crazy as it was, we drove from our wedding reception in our town to Chalet Suzanne, which was an hour east of us. We spent the night there, and then we got up and drove past our home town and then almost an hour west to catch our flight to our honeymoon destination. So, staying at Chalet Suzanne on our wedding night was not the most practical idea, but it was what I wanted, and Mr. E made sure I got it.

Our wedding night was so nice. We were both so tired from the festivities of the wedding. I had already cried for an hour straight on the way to the inn. (I explained that in this tale: CLICK HERE) We went to dinner at the cute little restaurant, and it was just as amazing as I had remembered. I ordered the exact same thing I had the first time. Why mess with perfection?

Our room was equally amazing. We stayed in the Tower. It was a room that had its own staircase with a little balcony area. The room had a Jacuzzi tub and a king sized bed. It was decorated with antiques and was so cute. I can still picture it. They provided Neutrogena toiletries. To this day, that smell takes me back to that room. We could not have picked a more magical setting for our wedding night.

We returned to Chalet Suzanne a few more times over the years for anniversaries. It was our original intent to return for every anniversary, but life, kids and finances made sure that did not happen. But, it was fun while it lasted.

PictureBehold, The Cow-Pig.
On our first anniversary, we painted a tile at the pottery shop at the inn. This was to go in the “Autograph Garden,” a magical place where celebrities and visitors could leave their marks. We decided to decorate a tile to commemorate the fact that we survived the first year. It was kind of a big deal. And of course, because our last name is a part of a pig, we had to draw a pig. Unfortunately, I had not learned to draw yet (not that I’m much better now, but I’m a little better…), and the pig turned out looking more like a cow. Now, every time I visit that Autograph Garden, I’m horrified to see how bad my drawing really was. Mr. Everything calls it the cow-pig. He’s so encouraging. I wonder why I could not have drawn a heart or a wedding ring or something else average and normal. (Oh that’s right….because I’m not.)

It was during that trip that I discovered the pottery studio and the antique chapel. There were just more and more things to love about the inn. The antique chapel was a little church (thus, the “chapel”) filled with antiques (thus, the “antique”). It was an eclectic collection of old stuff that could keep me enchanted for days. We loved to just stroll through the property and see all the antiques and alcoves. I just loved it there.

Next time, I’ll tell you about the breakfast visits to Chalet Suzanne. There are turtles involved. -Al


 
 
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The other day, I went to the gym. I know, that’s unlike me to actually exercise. I've always said I’ll exercise if someone pays me to do it. Then, a mystery shopping company offered to pay me. Shoot. I should choose my words more wisely.

For this assignment, I had to attend a group exercise class. Oh, joy, my favorite. Exercise combined with talking to people in the morning. Fabulous. My choices were a class that had “combat” in the title or a water aerobics class. I decided anything named "Combat" should be avoided at all costs, so water aerobics, it was. I showed up half an hour before the class. There was another water aerobics class going on at that time, so I figured I could observe what I was about to get myself into. For posterity sake, I decided to record my thoughts. Okay. The times might be off a little, but you’ll get the idea. (And by the way, punctuation police, yes, I know, technically, there should be quotation marks on these, but I didn’t want to put them. Besides - for once - I did not say my thoughts out loud.)

9:35 AM Okay, here goes nothing. I’ll just sneak in and see what this class is like.

9:36 AM Why is the lifeguard looking at me? I’m not joining the class yet, lifeguard. Leave me alone.

9:37 AM Maybe if I go to that end of the pool and watch from a distance, I won’t be so obvious.

9:38 AM I’m the only one not swimming laps. Maybe I should swim laps so I blend in.

9:39 AM Yeah. Right.

9:40 AM How can I possibly have to go to the bathroom already? I went right before I came out here!

9:41 AM Those ladies look silly doing that. I hope I won't look like that.

9:42 AM Pardon me, little boy. No, no. Don't worry about kicking me. I love to be kicked by small children.

9:43 AM Why does the lifeguard keep looking at me? Maybe I should dance for her.

9:44 AM That would be a sight.

9:45 AM I wonder if I should dry off and go to the bathroom?

9:46 AM
Nah. I'll be fine.

9:47 AM I didn't know that dance was called the Cuban Shuffle. It looks really silly underwater.

9:48 AM Kid, if you kick me again, we're going to have a problem.

9:49 AM Does the mother not see him? Hello! Your child is kicking me.


9:50 AM I wonder if I should put on sunscreen? It’s still morning. I should be fine.

9:51 AM Maybe I should get out and go to the bathroom.

9:52 AM I wonder if there really is such a thing as dye that turns the water blue if you pee-pee in the water?

9:53 AM I guess I'd better not find out.

9:54 AM I'm pretty sure blue water would blow my cover as a mystery shopper.


9:55 AM I remember when suntan lotion was oily and actually made me burn. It’s a miracle I survived my childhood.

9:56
AM If I end up with skin cancer, I'm totally blaming my mother.

9:57 AM I'll just blame her for everything anyway. It's all my mother's fault.


9:58 AM I wonder what the Goose and the Beetle will blame on me? They have so much to work with....


9:59 AM Oh, crud. She’s ending that class. I guess I should go over there.

10:00 AM It’s all old ladies in this class. I should be fine.

10:01 AM You can do this. You're a survivor.


10:02 AM They are all talking to each other. No one is talking to me. Is it because I’m too young for this class? I wish I knew someone. Then, I'd have someone to chat with.

10:04 AM That one’s coming to talk to me. Please don’t talk to me.

10:05 AM I really should have gone to the bathroom.


10:06 AM (As the old lady talks to me) She knows I’m not her age, right? I mean, I really don’t fit in this group.

10:07 AM This isn’t so bad. Moving in the water – I can handle this.

10:08 AM I wonder if I keep doing this if my thighs will be as fit as the teacher’s thighs?

10:09 AM The teacher isn’t even in the water. How is she so skinny?

10:10 AM She probably goes to the combat class.

10:11 AM It has only been 11 minutes? I’m going to die.

10:12 AM I’m old. I do fit in with these ladies.

10:13 AM My arm flaps are making waves.

10:14 AM Everyone else has arm flaps too. I’ve found my new home.

10:15 AM This isn’t so bad. I could do this for a long time.

10:16 AM It has only been a minute?

10:17 AM The lifeguard is looking at us. He probably thinks we’re a bunch of old fat women. How embarrassing. Should I tell him I’m really not that old and that I can still wear my earrings from high school?

10:18 AM People are watching us. At least the water hides most of me. What would I look like right now if I were in the combat class?

10:19 AM I would be in an ambulance right now. At least I would be finished exercising.

10:20 AM I really should have put on sunscreen.

10:21 AM Oh good. We get to use swim noodles. This will be fun.

10:22 AM You want me to do what with the noodle?

10:23 AM These old ladies are putting me to shame.

10:24 AM I am sitting on a swim noodle in a public pool, pretending to ride a bike. This is a new low point in my life.

10:25 AM I think that little boy just pointed and laughed at me. Shut up, little boy, or I'll kick you.

10:26 AM Who cares? I’m 41 years old. Why do I care what people think? Laugh, little boy. You’ll be 41 one day.

10:27 AM 41. Ugh.

10:28 AM At age 41, you would think I would know to use sunscreen and to go to the bathroom before class.

10:29 AM I wonder if I’m really 41? Maybe my birth certificate was printed wrong. I’m really 31. That sounds better. My birth certificate probably is wrong. I'm sure it's my mother's fault.

10:30 AM I look pretty rough for 31. It’s probably because I didn’t use enough sunscreen.

10:31 AM I’ve made it through half the class! I can do this!

10:32 AM I’m not going to make it. I’ve got to go to the bathroom, and all this bouncing and water is not helping. Maybe I should test the blue dye theory. Nah. I'd better not.

10:33 AM How can pushing a swim noodle underwater hurt that much? This teacher has evil powers.

10:34 AM She may be evil, but she has nice thighs. I wish I still had nice thighs.

10:35 AM That’s why I’m here.

10:36 AM Okay, actually I’m here for the paycheck.

10:37 AM Maybe if I join this gym and keep coming back, I’ll have nice thighs.

10:38 AM (Looking around at my classmates.) Maybe not.

10:39 AM I’m too young for this class.

10:40 AM I should have gone to the combat class. I could have left to go to the bathroom.

10:41 AM Is that my skin I hear sizzling?

10:42 AM Is this class ever going to end?

10:43 AM Oh, look, the lifeguard is doing the motions to the YMCA song with us. I wonder if he would be able to see it if I used the bathroom in the pool?

10:44 AM Is he mocking us? How many of these women have used the bathroom in this pool?

10:45 AM That’s not nice, lifeguard. We’re trying, you know.

10:46 AM Old Ladies Who are Trying – that should be the name of this class. Better yet: Sunburned Old Ladies Who are Trying.

10:47 AM You want me balance on one foot in the water and do what? I’ve got to go to the bathroom! There is no way all these old ladies have gone this long without going to the bathroom.

10:48 AM I did it, and I made it look easy! I think I’m going to need a shower to wash off the pee-pee water when we are finished.

10:49 AM See? I am younger than my classmates, AND I managed to hold my bladder.

10:50 AM I hope the lifeguard saw that and realized just how young I really am.

10:51 AM I really wish I had used sunscreen. I could have put it on when I went to the bathroom before class.

10:52 AM Oh! She just said we would start the cool down!

10:53 AM How long do we actually have to cool down? We’re in the water. We aren’t hot.

10:54 AM This is never going to end. My flesh is burning, and I’ve got to go now!

10:55 AM Give myself a hug? Really? That’s weird. If I squeeze too hard, I’m going to pee-pee.

10:56 AM I guess it’s no weirder than riding a noodle bike in the water. I feel so light in the water. I'm a butterfly!

10:57 AM This was kind of fun! Now, I’ve got to go.

10:58 AM I would do this again. It's fun to float like a butterfly.

10:59 AM One minute to go! I’m going to have to run to the bathroom. I could fly since I'm a butterfly.

11:00 AM I made it! That was awesome! I want to do the next class! Which way to the bathroom? I'll flutter my wings and fly there!

11:01 AM (Getting out of the pool) I'm a hippopotamus! Do my arms and legs way 1000 pounds? Make way for the hippo! She's got to go!

11:02 AM Could someone please just carry me to my car? Better yet, can you take me to the bathroom?

11:03 AM The old ladies are moving just fine.  Rock on, old ladies! You’re my heroes, but don't any of you need to go to the bathroom?

11:04 AM Check me out with my bad self! I survived the class, and I made it all the way to the bathroom. Yay me!  

So, if ever you see me in public and wonder what's going on in my brain, you're probably better off not asking. Join me next time in water aerobics class, and you can think with me. Just be sure you go potty and put on sunscreen. You'll regret it if you don't! -Al

 
 
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I’ve known for quite a while that raising a boy is very different from raising a girl. I’ve even had semi-heated discussions with other parents about which one is harder. My opinion? Typically, boys are harder when they are little because they are rough and energetic; however, they ain’t got nothin’ on the girls. Girls are an adventure all on their own, and from my experience, they make raising boys look like childs’ play. (Well, parents’ play, I guess.)

I see the difference between my boy and my girl constantly. My mother and mother-in-law see it too, as they often say, “He never talks to me,” or something similar about the Beetle. That is one thing no one has ever said about the Goose. She talks plenty.

Yesterday, though, I had a huge, huge reminder of how very different my children are in demeanor and personality. I took the Beetle shopping. This does not happen often. Since he finally finished growing at the speed of light, he actually has been able to keep his clothing for quite a while without needing new pants and shoes every three days. His shirts have fit him for years, because, while he was thicker before and required a little more width, he grew tall and thin, and the width of the shirt became length. It worked, and I didn’t have to buy him new clothes. Yay me.

We are getting ready for the kids to go to camp. As strange as it may seem, every year, camp means clothes shopping. I guess it’s because they have to pack for a week with several extra sets of clothes. Usually, about this time of year, we realize they only have enough clothes for four days. Since they don’t go to school, this isn’t usually a problem for us. We wear pajamas as school uniforms, you know. (She types, as she wears her nightgown at 12:16 PM…)

The Goose goes shopping much more than the Beetle. She is in the growth stage, where she grows two inches overnight. Her clothes seem to be shrinking in her closet, so we have to buy clothes pretty often. A shopping trip for the Goose usually means bracing myself for a day full of activity. We go from store to store, looking for the right size, the right material, the right color and the right fit. It’s a hard job. She’s pretty picky about what she wears. In her defense, the child takes after her mother – the one who gets angry if her socks choke her feet or her shirt rubs her the wrong way. Can you say, “Sensory issues?” Don’t say it so loudly. You’re hurting my ears.

A trip to the store with the Goose usually involves great discussion:

“Mama, what do you think about this one?”

“Mama, did you see this shirt?”

“Mama, doesn’t this remind you of the shirt I had 3 years ago?”

“Mama, will this fit me?” “No. You haven’t worn that size since the third grade.” “But it looks big.” “It won’t fit.” “I think it will. I’m going to try it on.” “It won’t fit.” “I’ll try it anyway, just in case.” “Whatever.” …….. (from behind dressing room door) “Mama, can you see if they have a bigger size in this?” *Sigh.*

“Mama, do they have a different color in this?”

“Mama, can you find pants to match this?”

“Mama, what about this one? What do you think?”

“Mama….”

“Mama….”

“Mama….”

Last week, I asked the kids to start planning what they would pack for camp and to let me know what they were lacking. The Goose came with her list of items. The list took up a full page. We went the next day and knocked out just about everything on the list. The child now owns three times as many decent bras as I do. I’m not bitter. Really.

The Beetle shrugged and said he thought he had everything. I told him to be sure, because I did not want any last minute surprises. He came to me two days ago and said he needed jeans. “For camp?” I asked. He said yes, for camp. I asked why in the world he needed jeans for camp when it would be 150 degrees in the shade. He said he wanted to wear jeans. I asked him if he realized he would be the only weirdo wearing jeans at camp, and he shrugged and said he really didn’t care what everyone else thought. Somehow, I believed him.

So, yesterday, I decided I had enough energy to tackle Bealls and Wal-mart (Lord help me) for jeans. The Beetle said he was willing to go look, so we were leaving. I told him to let the Goose know we were leaving, and he said, “Do I have to?” I said yes, because I don’t like to leave without letting my kids know. He said she would want to go with us. I said she wouldn’t because we were just running to Wal-mart. He said she would. I said to just do what I said. The Beetle told the Goose we were running to Wal-mart, and she came running out of her room saying, “I want to go!” We should have snuck out.

So, the three of us headed to Bealls and Wal-mart. On the way, I told the Goose this was the Beetle’s shopping trip. I told her I had devoted hours, possibly days, to her shopping and that I was going to help the Beetle. I’m pretty sure I heard his eyes rattle in his head as he rolled them, but I didn’t care. I wanted to give him attention so he did not feel like I always did more for the Goose. She tends to dominate our lives, you know. The Goose said that was fine and she could shop on her own. I corrected her and said she could look on her own, because we were not shopping for her. I’m pretty sure I heard an, “Uh-huh,” under her breath.

We went in Bealls first. I was mentally prepared to allow the Beetle too look. I am not good at paying full price, especially full department store price, but I wanted him to get some good jeans. We got to the men’s department, and the jeans were on “sale” for $50. I practiced calm breathing. The Beetle said, “Okay, let’s go.” I told him to look, and he said, “I did. I don’t like anything.” I asked why, and he said he just didn’t. I asked if it was because of the price, and he said no. He just didn’t like the style. I wondered how he could know, since we had been in the department for less than 5 minutes, but I wasn’t questioning it since I was starting to hyperventilate at the idea of paying full price. The Beetle ended up getting a few shirts, and the Goose managed to sneak one in too. Then, off to Wal-mart we went.

In Wal-mart, the Beetle walked to the jeans display, picked up one pair and said, “Okay.” I asked if he wanted to try a few pair on to make the trip to the fitting room worth it. He said no. I said to humor me, and I picked out a few more pair. I asked if he liked the color. He said it was fine. I asked if he saw a shirt we passed, and he said he did. I asked if he liked the style of some shorts, and he said no. I asked if he wanted to look for swim trunks, and he said, “Sure.” He looked, literally looked, at a rack and said they did not have anything he wanted. I asked about 75 more questions that he answered with one word answers. Meanwhile, the Goose was across in the women’s department, holding up shirts and yelling to me, “Mama, do you like this shirt?” “Mama, what about this color?” “Mama…..”

I followed the Beetle to the fitting room, but he was already in the room by the time I got there. The Goose came and starting trying on all the clothes she was just looking at. The Beetle came out to show me the first pair of jeans he had picked out (only because I insisted on seeing them). He said, “These are good. Let’s go.” I asked if he had tried on the jeans I had picked up. He said no. I asked if he was going to, and he said, “Why? These fit.” And with that, he had picked his jeans.

I asked the Beetle if he was sure he had the right size. They looked a little big to me. He said they were fine. I asked what size he was wearing currently, and he said he didn’t know. I asked him what size the jeans he had worn from home were, and he said he didn’t know. I told him to look at the tag, and he said, “Well, these don’t fit.” I asked him what he meant they didn’t fit. He said he had to use a belt to hold them up because they were so big. Now, mind you, this was all in front of the Wal-mart fitting room lady who was beginning to believe I was a neglectful parent. And, by the way, the jeans were a little baggy, but not THAT big. I asked him again what size they were, and he named a size that was 6 sizes too big for him. (Please don’t call DCF, Wal-mart lady.) I asked where he got the jeans from, since I knew I had not bought them. He mumbled something about someone giving them to him. I asked why he wore them if they were that big, and he said they were the only jeans he had. (1. Not true. 2. Wash your laundry.) I asked why he had not let me know this, and he said he did. (Yeah. Two days ago. Put the phone down, Wal-mart lady.) 

With that, I told him to pick the ones he wanted and to go get more.  He went and got two more pair of the same style in the same size and the same color. I asked if he wanted to mix up the color a little, and he humored me. He ended up with two lighter wash and one darker wash. I expressed disappointment and said I preferred the dark wash and would like to see him with two pair of those. He just looked at me.

Five minutes after we had arrived at Wal-mart, the Beetle had his jeans and was ready to go. We waited thirty more minutes while the Goose tried on clothes. I walked back and forth to grant the requests of different sizes, different colors, different everything. The Beetle acted as though he was going to die if he had to stay in the store any longer.

As I stood there waiting for the Goose to finish in the fitting room, I realized how very different my children really are. I’m not sure if it’s just a boy/girl thing or if there’s more to it. I have demanding and docile, dominating and disappearing. It amazes me how very different they are. Now, my challenge is to keep one from taking over the world and to keep the other one from being forgotten and pants-less. Good luck to me. -Al