There's a reason they're called Wal-Mart Greeters and not Wal-Mart Small Talk Makers

This is the sort of thing for which I tend to have a very unique gift, yet being on the receiving end made me feel just as dumb.

The person who did The Sort Of Thing I Usually Do was the Wal-Mart Greeter. My relationship with this particular greeter has never progressed beyond greetings either coming or going: “Welcome to Wal-Mart” and “Have a nice day.” She sees me at least once a week.

But the other day, as I was leaving with my purchases, she called out something to me that didn’t sound anything like “have a nice day.” It sounded more like, “I hear [garbled] is doing really well in school.”

Maybe I should’ve kept pushing my cart out the door and acted like I didn’t hear. But no, I had to stop and acknowledge what she said. There was no one else around, so she must have been talking to me.

She’d heard Baby Bear was doing really well in school? But how did she know about him? I’d never mentioned him to her, and he hadn’t been to Wal-Mart in a very long time. What to do? I thought of replying, “Thank you—school’s been in session for over a month now, and we have yet to get a summons from the principal, or a petition from his classmates’ parents, or another resolution from the school board. We’re very proud of him.”

But that garbled proper noun she’d used didn’t sound anything like his name. So instead I cupped a hand behind my ear, leaned forward, and asked, “Pardon me?”

She replied, a bit more loudly and distinctly, “I hear Gabby is doing really well in school this year.”

Gabby? I don’t have a child named Gabby. I didn’t know what horrified me more—this very awkward situation, or the notion that she had me confused with another Wal-Mart shopper when I pride myself on being the best dressed patron here, even if it doesn’t take a whole lot of effort.

I suppose I could have just said, “Thank you,” and moved on with my cart and my life, but my mind raced with the ramifications of that. I was reminded of that episode of Seinfeld where a co-worker called Elaine “Susie” and what happened when she didn’t bother to correct the co-worker. What if the greeter started asking about Gabby every time I came to Wal-Mart hereafter? I’d have to make up a new story about Gabby with each visit. This could go on for years, and who’s to say it wouldn’t contradict anything Gabby’s real mother might say?

What if I told the greeter, for instance, that Gabby went to jail, just to get her out of the picture and end the whole Gabby saga? Imagine the look on Gabby’s mother’s face (or even my face, since apparently I look just like her), should the perpetually confused greeter happen to ask her if Gabby’s up for parole yet?

I couldn’t have that on my conscience, and I didn’t have the energy for it, anyway. Feeling very sheepish—and why I should have felt sheepish, I have no idea—I said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a child named Gabby.”

She didn’t say a word. She just stared at me, as if I were the one who’d said something wrong. (Well? I really don’t have a child named Gabby!) Meanwhile, a line was forming behind me. People wanted to leave the store, and I was blocking them. I hastily added, “But that’s okay—have a nice day,” which was supposed to be HER line.

Then I got the hell out of there and have been using the other Wal-Mart entrance ever since.

Do You Suffer the Outbreak of Sticky Slider Thigh?

Sticky Slider Thigh, or SST, is a rare condition caused when your sliding glass door gets stuck along the track as the result of prolonged rainy weather, and you find yourself having to press your thigh against the back edge of the door to get the damned thing to close after the dogs come in from doing their business.

When these multiple bruises suddenly broke out on my left thigh, I couldn’t figure out where they came from or how I got them. If I’d stumbled into a heavy piece of furniture hard enough to produce such pitiful patches of purple as portrayed in the posted picture, I’m sure I would’ve remembered.

Mr. Lucky hadn’t been beating me. Nor could I pin this on another brouhaha with the Bear. And the bruises aren’t at all painful or tender. They’re just . . . there.

Only how was I supposed to go out among other humans looking like this? Sure, I could wear long pants, but this is Florida in July. My leg looks as if it’s sporting a tattoo of the Shroud of Turin.

I went a-googling under thigh bruises, leg bruises, multiple leg bruises, and read all sorts of unhelpful things till I worked myself into a lather worthy of George Costanza (“Lupus? Is it lupus?!?) at his panic-stricken worst.

Then this afternoon, Mr. Lucky casually said, “Oh, by the way, I oiled the tracks in the back door earlier, so you should find it easier to open and close now.”

I said that was good, because I was having to use both hands and all my weight on the front of my leg to close that door. And that’s when it hit me like a gong: I realized my bruises were the result of something I hadn’t seen in all my Googling and Binging and Dogpiling. Sure enough, when I went to close the sliding glass door, out of habit (it’s been raining a LOT this past week), I assumed my usual rainy weather position along with the standard grumble of “Why can’t we replace these with French doors?” and my left thigh met the door’s back edge right where the bruises are.

So I have dubbed this condition “Sticky Slider Thigh” or SST.

That’s all it is, folks. No need to make a pilgrimage to my house with lighted candles and whatnot, because you think that’s a holy image on my leg and maybe if you touch it, you’ll be healed of whatever ails you.

You may, however, bring me chocolate.

Was This Guy Hoping To Hit On Me?

Mr. Lucky and I went out for a late lunch at an all-you-can-eat pizza buffet that was practically deserted—save for another couple on the far side of the room. We sat at a table across from each other. I’ve never counted the tables and chairs or checked the Maximum Occupancy sign, but the entire establishment can seat over a hundred patrons at once.

After a while, the other couple got up and left. Then an average-looking fortyish man in a baseball cap came in, affably chatting with the cashier while Mr. Lucky got up to load another plate at the buffet, and I remained at our table.

I didn’t notice anything unusual going on until we got up to leave some time later. Imagine my surprise to see that man sitting in the chair directly behind mine, dunking his bread stick into a bowl of marinara sauce.

Had I pushed my chair back just another couple of inches, it would have smacked into his or worse, we’d have an embarrassment of tangled legs—chair legs, chair legs! As it was, I wondered how I hadn’t even been aware that he’d sat down behind me. Neurotic, mistrustful creature that I am, I’m usually very sensitive about my sacred space and who dares to hover along its extensive periphery. He must have been very stealthy about it.

But why?

And why did he choose to sit there of all places, when there were more than a hundred other places he could have sat—some of them closer to the buffet, others closer to the televisions, still others near the restrooms and emergency exits.

At the very least, why didn’t he sit on the other side of the table behind me?

I’m not one of those women who slings her purse over the back of her chair—I keep it between my feet with the strap over one knee—so I don’t think he was after the purse.

Even Mr. Lucky was initially baffled when he returned to our table and saw this man’s back only inches from mine, but he said nothing until after we left. No doubt he knew it would freak me out if I’d been aware of this bewildering development, and he’d just sat down with a plate piled high with slices of pizza that he meant to enjoy.

By the time we reached our car, Mr. Lucky thought he knew what that man was up to: “He saw you sitting there alone, so he assumed you were single and saw an opportunity. He was probably hoping to hit on you.”

It wasn’t until we got home that I finally managed to stop laughing at such a preposterous notion. So the guy was scheming to pull the old and thoroughly pitiful, “Excuse me, but could I borrow your salt shaker?” stunt.

Next he’d ask to borrow the pepper, followed by a request for a few napkins and a painfully obvious, totally lame, “So you like pepperoni, huh? Everyone seems to like pepperoni, why is that?”, and if all went according to his tired, worn out, dog-eared, grease-spotted script, I would soon tell him how silly it was for us to keep chitchatting over our shoulders, and invite him to join me at my table.

But for the return of my husband.

Honestly, I didn’t think I looked that desperate. Pathetic, maybe.

Why Did the Peacock Cross the Road?

Coming back from lunch this afternoon, we saw a beautiful blue peacock literally sweeping his way eastward across Highway 301.

We see big gray cranes stalking along the roadside every day, usually in groups of three, but this must be the first time I’ve ever seen a peacock outside a zoo or formal garden. Where could he have come from? There are neither zoos nor formal gardens in the immediate vicinity. I’ve heard of neighborhoods down in Miami “terrorized” by peacocks run amok. For all their jewel-like beauty, they do make an awful screeching noise.

He scurried across that busy highway—a big garbage truck had to brake for him—and he safely reached the other side, where he started strutting down the newly paved bike path, his long tail gracefully stretched out behind him like a royal train.

I wanted to jump out of the car and go after him, though heaven alone knows why. He’d surely run away, and what would I do with him? I fear for his safety.

Mr. Lucky had his own idea about what to do with him: “I’ll bet he tastes like chicken.”

But romantic soul that I am, I remain enchanted. Does it mean anything if a peacock crosses your path—and if so, what?

Lady, Are You Dumb or Just Stupid?

You didn’t notice me as you walked by me on your way into the convenience store the other day. In fact, you didn’t seem to notice anything.

I, on the other hand, noticed a lot about you, and I’m still astounded, or I wouldn’t be blogging about it two days later.

For starters, you were well dressed—better dressed than I was, but you were probably stopping en route to work or class, while I was merely slumming with Mr. Lucky. And you had a very nice car. I can’t remember the make (and nowadays most cars look alike to me), but it was a gleaming silver sedan that appeared to be a few years old, as well kept up as its driver.

You parked it next to the passenger side of our vehicle as I stepped out of the convenience store with my pumpkin cappuccino (available for a limited time only). Mr. Lucky held the door for you, and you didn’t even thank him.

I noticed several things as I stepped between your car and mine: Your window was down. Your stereo was playing. Your engine was running.

You had no other passengers, not even a yappy little dog or a great big slobbering dog with head and tongue both hanging out the window. I’m glad I didn’t see a baby.

But you left your purse wide open—as in unsnapped and unzipped with contents visible—on the passenger seat.

Maybe you took your money with you into the store. Or maybe you took just enough to buy your own pumpkin cappuccino. (Only 99 cents in those little “Domo” cups, and I just noticed for the first time ever that there is no cent sign on my keyboard. Didn’t it used to be above the 6?)

How easy it would’ve been for me to reach inside your car and grab that purse. What fun I could’ve had with your credit cards! And making long distance crank calls on your cell phone.

For that matter, I could’ve just hopped behind the wheel of your car and taken it for a joyride—as long as it was automatic transmission. Had it been a stick, chances are good you would’ve caught me before I could figure out how to back out of that parking space without crashing through the glass doors of the store. (I’m totally clueless when it comes to manual transmission.)

Did you think it would be safe to do this because it was broad daylight, it’s not all that bad a neighborhood, and the place—A CONVENIENCE STORE!—wasn’t all that crowded at three in the afternoon? Or do you do this all the time, even after dark?

Or were you taking part in one of those hidden camera shows, and this was an experiment to see what someone like me would do?

Nah. I think you’re just a fool and you’re pushing your luck. Besides, that sort of thing could never happen to you. “I’ll only be a minute, and I can see my car from inside the store the whole time.”

But someone who knows what they’re doing—someone besides me—can take your purse or even the whole car, and be gone before you can drop your partially filled Slurpee in mid-slush and dash back out the door—especially if Mr. Lucky’s no longer there to hold it open for you.

Oh, well. Someday you’ll learn. I just wish you’d learn from reading this blog.

Why Am I Not Surprised?

Who Should Paint You: Pablo Picasso

You are an expressive soul who shows many emotions, with many subtleties Only a master painter could represent your glorious contradictions

What Artist Should Paint Your Portrait?

Some Unhappy Faces in the Cereal Bowl This Morning

But at least no one appears to be screaming bloody murder.



If only you guys would come out of the bag looking like Elvis or Angelina or even the Virgin Mary, I could sell you on eBay, make a few bucks, and maybe get my 15 minutes on the local news.

Until then, you're still just Bear food.

When One Phone Recording Talks to Another

Our answering machine has picked up a bizarre recorded message several times over the past month or so. Oddly enough, the recording asks for a different person each time—but that person is never someone named Lingefelt.

A woman’s deceptively pleasant voice does most of the talking except when stating the name of the person they’re looking for, then the voice becomes deeper, stiffer, and—dare I say it—more menacing. (All proper nouns are fictional, see previous blog entry.)

“This is National Credit Data Collection Systems of America with an important phone call for Lausanne Davin. If you are Lausanne Davin, please press 1. If you are not Lausanne Davin, please press 2.”

I don’t pick up the phone to press anything, I just listen. Next comes my favorite part of the message:

“If you pressed 1, please stay on the line. If you pressed 2, please do not listen to the rest of this message.”

Excuse me? You dialed my phone number. You’re taking up valuable recording space on my answering machine. Your blathering has interrupted me and pulled me away from matters more important, even if they’re not as blogworthy. This is my home, my private domain, and through your own ineptitude, you have intruded upon it. Therefore, since you are now here, I jolly well intend to listen to every word you have to say henceforth.

It’s as if the recorded caller has never heard of answering machines or voice mail, or they might say, “If you are Lausanne Davin, please pick up.” But they can’t make her pick up anymore than they can make me not listen to the rest of their message.

So I listen to the rest of the message, even though I’m not supposed to. Apparently they don’t want me to know that Lausanne is in deep doo-doo debt and has some serious ’splainin’ to do to her creditors. She is to call a certain number between certain hours on certain days, unless she wants her name reported to certain agencies.

Only why don’t they want me to know? If they think she can be reached at this number, wouldn’t they appreciate me taking the message for her, perhaps even talking to her as a friend who cares, and persuade her to pay her bills? Not that I intend to give her a loan myself, now that I know from this message she'll never repay the money.

Or are they afraid I might use the information against her, spread mean gossip about her? “You remember Lausanne Davin, don’t you? Well, guess what I heard about her? She’s—(gasp!)—behind on her credit card payments! Can you believe it?”

In this day and age, that’s shockingly juicy.

But here’s what bewilders me about this phone call: If you have an answering machine or voice mail, why pick up and press 1 or 2, regardless of whether you’re Lausanne or Karen, if you’re going to hear their message anyway?

Given the circumstances and my own overly suspicious nature (oh, go ahead and call me paranoid if you like, it won't be the first time), I can’t help thinking that if—just for kicks—I picked up this phone call and pressed 1 pretending to be Lausanne, I would not get the same message I’m not supposed to listen to.

Instead, I would get trouble.

I could get trapped in a web of “reverse identity theft” in which I would somehow find myself on the hook for Lausanne’s debts—which could very well extend to overdue library books, parking tickets, arrest warrants, fines from her homeowner’s association for displaying the wrong colored gnome in her flower bed, and don’t even get me started on the unwanted “parting gifts” she might have accumulated from her string of ne’er-do-well exes. Lausanne Davin may not even exist at all, but only be a figment of someone’s imagination, invented solely for that person’s fiendish amusement and potential profit. (Hmm—rather like the “real” Lausanne Davin.)

On the other hand, if that were so, then why have the "press 2" option?

I would rather not know, but instead be thankful for the answering machine. It screens, baffles, and amuses.

Guess Whose Birthday?

You Are a Philosopher

You're incredibly introverted and introspective. You live inside your head. You spend a lot of alone time meditating and thinking. People see you as withdrawn, and at times they are right. You are caring and deep, but it may be difficult for you to show this side of yourself. Your strength: Your original approach to thinking Your weakness: You tend to shy away from others Your power color: Pale blue Your power symbol: Wavy line Your power month: July

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

There's a Scream in My Breakfast Cereal!

After pouring cereal into a bowl for Baby Bear this morning, I noticed one of the pieces silently screaming at me in gaping terror:

"No! No! Not the milk! It's LOW FAT!"

After shooting the above photo, I wanted to get a closeup of our freaky little Edvard Munch. But just as I was about to click, Baby Bear--he of the non-existent patience, voracious appetite, and deadly impeccable timing--dipped his paw into the bowl and scooped up a handful of cereal, cramming The Scream into his mouth.

Fortunately, Mr. Lucky was able to fool around with the one photo and get the desired closeup:

Make that one more reason to stay married to him.

Results of My Autumn Quiz

Your Autumn Test Results

You are a playful, spirited person. You have a limitless imagination and amazing creative talents. When you are happiest, you are calm. You appreciate tradition and family. You enjoy feeling cozy. You tend to be afraid of change. You are never ready for things to be different. You find love to be the most comforting thing in the world. You feel at peace when you're with your loved ones. Your ideal day is active and full. You like to keep busy with your favorite things, and you appreciate a routine. You are nostalgic. You can't truly appreciate something until it has come and gone.

http://www.blogthings.com/theautumnquiz/

I've Been Tagged: 6 Unimportant Things About Myself

In fact, I've been tagged twice. I hope that doesn't mean I have to list 12 unimportant things about myself, or that I have to tag 12 people, because I'm not sure I know that many.

They say the rules of this meme are simple, but I'm sure I can think of a way to mess it up without even trying:

1. Link back to the person who tagged you.

2. Post the rules on your blog.

3. Share six unimportant things about yourself.

4. Tag six random people at the end of your blog entry.

5. Let the tagged people know by leaving a comment on their blogs.


SIX UNIMPORTANT THINGS ABOUT MYSELF:

1. I prefer "Mother, May I?" to "Tag."

2. My favorite "Mother, May I?" step is the Cinderella step. I can't even remember how to do it now, except it was sort of like a waltz.

3. When it comes to putting your foot in to determine who is IT, my favorite chant has always been, "Butter, butter, in the bowl, how old are you?" Of course, if I put my foot in to do that now, we'll be here all night.

4. My parents originally wanted to name me "Athena", but my grandmother vetoed it.

5. I once walked across a bridge from Norway to Sweden and back, just so I could say I did it.

6. I can identify most World War II movies by their theme music, thanks to my father who frequently played the soundtracks when I was growing up.

And for this I must link back to Wendi Darlin and Sandra Coburn; and I believe I shall tag Vicki Lane,Vicki Taylor, Anne-Marie Carroll, Kathy Carmichael, Erica Ridley, and ohh--how 'bout Gwyn Ramsey?

Everyone "Sort of" Worships Me, Do They?

What Your Halloween Habits Say About You

The scariest thing on Halloween is you! You definitely don't want any kids in costumes crossing your path - and you're willing to scare away any who do. No one quite understands you, but everyone also sort of worships you. And that's exactly how you like it. Your inner child is stubborn and a bit bossy. You fear people taking advantage for you. You are always worried about protecting your own interests. You're prone to be quite emotional and over dramatic. Deep down, you enjoy being scared out of your mind... even if you don't admit it. You are picky and high maintenance. If you wear a Halloween costume, it's only when you really feel like it. And it has to be perfect.

What's" Your Halloween Personality?

Most Dreaded Phrase in the English Language (first in a series):

"You! Yes, you there, with the look of sheer horror on your face. Stand up and introduce yourself!"

By now, it's too late to excuse myself so I can run to the ladies' room and check my teeth for bits of broccoli (and I don't even eat broccoli). All I can do is check my heels to make sure there are no strands of toilet tissue clinging to them like advertising banners behind an airplane, and hope there's nothing incriminating stuck to my backside when I stand.

"Tell us who you are, what you do, why did you come here, and how did you find out about us?"

The only way this can get worse is if they add, "Oh, and we see you brought your family, too! Wonderful! Won't you introduce them all?"

You have no idea how much fun this is in a place like church, where I usually have one kid splashing in the font and another munching on the communion wafers.

Fortunately, today I need only refer visitors to the profile on the right of this page (that's assuming I formatted everything correctly).

My youngest child is ten year old Baby Bear, and he is the only one still living at home. But that doesn't mean his two much older siblings won't provide their own share of fodder here.

My husband, Mr. Lucky, has recently retired after more than twenty years in the U.S. Air Force, and is home pretty much all the time now. But he got bored after a while, so instead of taking up golf or fishing, or even cruising for a trophy wife like other guys in his situation, he decided to spice things up by adopting a couple of beagles.

The irony? In regards to my writing, I can't help thinking I got a lot more done when the two older children were preschoolers, than I do now.

This blog will be mainly about my family, my writing, and my glamorous career as a homemaker; and how they all conspire to form a Bermuda-like triangle into which my sanity has disappeared.

And as it progresses, I hope to amaze and astound you with my ongoing, half-baked attempts to try and make links that don't stretch all the way across the page and beyond.