It's Called Stealing

Last night my husband and I ventured out for dinner and a little shopping.

In the parking lot of Home Depot, two women and a young girl were standing around a truck. As we walked by, I overheard this comment:

"We'll get the paint and paint the bedroom, and then we'll fill the paint cans up with water and bring them back for a refund."

I was appalled. First, I could never think of such a thing as my mind simply doesn't work in that direction. Secondly, there was a child there. What are these people teaching that girl?

Then we went to Tractor Supply so my husband could purchase a new pair of work boots.

He opened up the box for his size. Inside lay a pair of boots. But not the right boots. Not even new boots.

These were boots with the tops worn completely out of them. These were someone's old boots. Either someone had walked off with a new pair of boots, leaving these, or a new pair had been purchased and the box returned with these in them.

Either way, someone had a new pair of boots, and I am 100 percent certain they didn't pay for them.

We flagged down a store clerk and handed over the bad pair, shaking our heads and clucking about the things we were seeing on this strange summer night.

I know that times are tough. And I know that faceless, evil corporations are the ruin of the nation, and they should get theirs. I have certainly felt that way when dealing with some behemoth company that cares about nothing but the bottom line.

But it's still stealing. And I am many things, but I am not a thief.

Back to School

Classes start back today for the summer session at Hollins. I will be taking Politics in Literature, and we will be reading such stories as Dante's Inferno, Return of the King (Lord of the Rings), Animal Farm, and King Lear. I have no idea yet how many papers, etc., will be required of me, but I am sure there will be a few.

Summer classes run for six weeks, and so I will be attending class twice a week, for a total of six hours of class time a week. Doubling up, as it were.

I am a nerd, and so I am looking forward to being back on campus. I could do without the heat, but at least Pleasants, the hall where my class will be held, is air conditioned now. I can remember when it wasn't, those many years ago when I was an undergrad.

Last night I transplanted squash and cucumbers from a flower pot into the garden. I had performed a little experiment and the results were in. I had planted squash in the garden and in the flower pot on the same day, curious to see what happened.

The squash in the garden grew and grew, and the plants are tall and hardy. After a little rain this weekend, they are even taller. I expect them to bloom soon.

The squash in the flower pot were very small, looking very much like they'd only been growing a week or two. They were yellowing, also. The plants in the garden were nearly a foot taller. Obviously the potting soil lacked an essential nutrient, magnesium or something. So I ended my experiment and moved the sickly looking plants to the garden. I hope they live.

I had also planted an old pack of wildflower seeds in a pot and set it out. The plants came up okay, but when they reached the height of about two inches, some naughty deer click-clicked its way onto the deck and ate them.

I suppose it could have been a very tall rabbit. But in any event, the seedlings were chomped off.

So after I transplanted the squash, and added a pepper plant and a cherry tomato to our little garden, I planted annuals in the flower pots.

I love the feel and smell of soil. Is there anything more primal? The aroma fills the nose and seems to seep right down into the soul. Grounding me, pulling me back toward Mother Nature and the Good Earth and into total recall of a time when I ran barefoot and played in the rain.

This is the joy of creation, and then the joy of looking at the creation, of seeing the lively colored pots overflowing with oranges, pinks, whites and yellows as they are filled with flowers. Zinnias and petunias, nasturtiums and pepper jacks, names so bouncy and vivid that one wonders who comes up with such labels. 

An evening's work, to be enjoyed all summer, and into the fall.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Today I am 48 years old. I am heading into old woman territory. I am definitely in that area where you have lived more years than you have left. Middle age!

Here are a few shots of me through the years:

Me at age three with my baby brother.

 

Starting school, I think. Around six or seven.

 

Age nine or 10.

 

Age 20. Getting married!

 

Me at 47.

A Day at Green Valley

Last week my friend and I headed toward northern Virginia to the Green Valley Book Fair.

We make this trek at least once a year.

It's not like I need more books, mind you. I have shelves full, and a pile of books to read that is larger than any I've ever had before.

I seriously considered making a huge purchase of Nancy Drew books, as they had a large selection. However, I could not remember which ones I have here at home. A very long time ago I had thought to collect them all, but I never did. They were $2.50 each, which is more than I would have paid for them at the time I was collecting them (it was a long time ago). But it is a lot less than they sell for now.

My friend told me not to take her picture, so I can't show you what she looks like. She said a side view was good enough.

We also stopped by The Cheese Shop, which is near Stuarts Draft. This is my favorite place to buy certain spices. I also purchase a lot of McCutcheon's Apple Butter here, as it is my husband's favorite.

It was a good day.

Almost Done

I have my last class for the semester tonight.

Whew.

It's tough going back to school when you're old and those brain cells don't fire quite as fast as they used to! I have spent the last several days finishing up a final project and I have one more final paper to complete and turn in by Thursday. And THEN I can say I will be done for this semester.

However, I really enjoy school. I like to learn, and I love the interaction with fellow students and the professors. I love the environment of a college campus. I really liked my sociology class this semester and I got a lot out of that.

I am thinking I really missed my calling. I should have been a college professor. I could have taught history or something. But early on I was rammed into these ideas of what I should be and who I should be, and I think I've fought against them all my life. I missed opening a few doors, too.

Classes will begin for the summer on June 20. I've already signed up and even have my books here on the desk. How's that for being an eager student, eh?

Life Planning

Yesterday I bought a new planner. I am not sure why, since I have very little to schedule these days, but I decided to try something different.

In the 1990s I used a planner with great effect for a while, but then I started putting my appointments in MS Outlook, along with tasks and everything else, and found that I really didn't need a pen-and-ink planner anymore.

After watching the days of my life spin around like a top set loose on linoleum for the last year, I spent last month trying to get some oomph and pizazz back into my life (otherwise known as a kick in the ass, I think), and found what I had been using just wasn't working for me at this time.

My days still spun dizzyingly around and while I was working hard on my college classes, everything else seemed to be flying off into infinity and beyond.

So I thought I'd try something different yet a bit familiar. Thus, the planner, even though I have nothing to plan but the rest of my life.

I bought a Daytimer starter kit. I looked at the Franklin Coveys and the Day Runner starter kits, but decided that for the money the Daytimer seemed to suit my needs. They also offer planners now for mixes of home and office use, but they were just too cutesy for me. I like my scheduling to look like I'm all business.

Plus the Daytimer planner cover was a really soft brown leather that felt wonderful in my hands. It smells good, too. But it is not cutesy.

I like the 5 1/2 x 8" size, too. I tried several different ones 20 years ago and that was the size I settled on then, and it is the size I settled on this time, too. Someone told me once that the small planners breed small thinking. The ones that are larger are simply too bulky for me. Like Goldilocks, I need the one that is just right.

Trying to get the planner to work for me - and for me to do the work I want to be doing but keep not doing - will be my focus beginning Monday, when I expect to have this semester under my belt. That'll give me just over a month to have things in hand when I start back to school in June.

Wish me luck, won't you?

The Day I Saw Faeries

It was  a recent warmish day in early March. A breeze tossed the branches on the trees that were still bare from winter. The grass was trying to green up but still held a brownish tinge.

As I drove across Country Club Road, I spied movement to my left.

They stood in the field. Three girl faeries, in stair-step height. They wore shin-length dresses, and their long hair flowed.

All were barefoot.

And they were dancing.

The smallest held a scarf and it blew about her in the wind. The other two held hands as they rejoiced in the warmth and the breeze.

I could scarcely believe what I was seeing, for the sight was so beautiful - so wonderful and carefree - that I thought I must have imagined it. And then I thought how fantastic that those three could step out and enjoy the day, let themselves go with such joy and delight.

They must have been faeries. I have not seen them since.

Early March faeries, dancing to celebrate a queer, fey day.

Not so Pleasant

Last week I went early to my class in Pleasants at Hollins. It was one of those lovely days we'd been having, cool enough for a jacket but warm for the time of year.

I thought I would go into the classroom early and read ahead in the text. I was also looking forward to seeing my classmates and the professor. I am a nerd, yes. I like school.

When I attended Hollins as an undergrad, there was no elevator in Pleasants. I had many classes in this building and trudged those stairs numerous times. Sometime in the 1990s, they installed an elevator and restrooms for the disabled. Frankly, it was a welcome addition.

This is particularly true now, as my class meets on the third floor. Being the aging and overweight woman that I am, I take the elevator.


To be sure, this requires a deep inhalation of breath and a bit of bravery on my part. I do not have an elevator phobia per se, as I will get on them, but I don't like them much. On at least one occasion, I have emerged from an elevator and passed out. Fortunately that was at Roanoke Memorial.

The campus appeared fairly deserted at the hour of my arrival. Few cars graced the parking lot and I saw absolutely no one as I walked to Pleasants. I clenched my bookbag, entered the elevator, and pushed the button for the third floor.

I was thinking about the class ahead and our topic of conversation, Hull House in Chicago in the late 1800s, when the elevator suddenly jerked. It came to an abrupt and startling stop. It felt sickeningly free, as if were swaying. I gripped the railing on my right, trying hard not to panic. The doors did not open.

What should I do now, I wondered. The panel in front of me had a panic alarm. I felt the elevator jerk again. Should I jump and down and hope I was in the air when the thing crashed? Or should I be perfectly still to keep the thing from swaying? I couldn't remember. I thought of my husband as I saw the little emblem of a firefighter's hat on the button panel. What would he tell me to do?

After a few seconds, I realized I wasn't going to hit bottom. Certainly I would have already done so in those few seconds; it couldn't take long to crash three floors. I bit my lip, moved forward, and pushed the button for the third floor. The elevator jerked and swayed once more. Then the doors opened. I am sure I was solid white as I stepped out.

The entire building felt to me as if it were moving - I suppose my equilibrium had been disturbed - and I could barely walk into the classroom. I put my books down and sagged into my chair. A classmate entered and I asked if she'd tried the elevator. She said she had pushed the button but it never came. I told her what had happened to me.

When I saw the professor enter her office, I told her about the incident so she could alert maintenance and have them check the elevator. She said she had been trying to find a working phone as she had been talking to someone and the lines went dead. She had tried to call out again but she had no dial tone. A subsequent call from my cell phone to security indicated the phone lines were all out.

I surmised that there had been either an outage or a power surge while I was in the elevator. Solar flare activity? Car careening into a power pole? No one knew.

Out of order signs went up on the elevator until someone could check it out.

Thank goodness I did not get stuck!

A Day in the Life

Yesterday was an errand day, one I spent alone. Here's the first half of my day.

I woke before the alarm went off at 6 a.m., having had yet another night of vivid and disturbing dreams. My robe beckoned, thanks to the chill from below-freezing temperatures, and I grabbed it from the chair as I stumbled into my office to turn on the computer and then shuffled into the kitchen to heat water for tea. I kissed my husband as he sat at the table reading the paper and then rubbed his back and smooched the top of his head. He would be off to work soon.

Back in my office, I sat down at the computer and checked email, wrote a Thursday Thirteen for this blog, rose and returned to the kitchen to fix my tea and kiss the husband goodbye, and then back to the computer to read some news. By 7:30 a.m. I was slipping on my sneakers for 50 minutes of walking on the treadmill while watching the first  episode of season two of Star Trek: Voyager, wherein Captain Janeway discovers what really happened to Amelia Earhart.

After showering and dressing (sweatshirt with snowmen on it), I fixed myself an egg, peeled a banana, and settled down to eat with the newspaper in front of me. Bad news everywhere, what with that poor child abducted and her mother killed and government stupidity running rampant everywhere you look. I was grateful for the comics.

Time slipped away and I had to leave for a visit with my hairdresser. As I drove into Roanoke I listened to a book on tape (Garrison Keillor). Absolutely nothing happened between my house and the hair stylist, but when I arrived at my hairdresser's I saw an older woman standing forlornly in the parking lot beside an older vehicle. I glanced at her as I headed inside and she announced to me that her car wouldn't start and that someone was looking for somebody to help her. I thought of the jumper cables in my car but did not mention them. I did, however, step inside to see how long it would be before it was my turn in the seat and had every intention of going back outside to offer assistance if I wouldn't keep anyone waiting. However, I learned inside that the man in the shop next door was already moving his car to assist the woman and so my jumper cables were not required.

I stood at the window waiting for my turn in the beauty chair and watched the man, who could not figure out how to raise the hood on his vehicle for quite some time. One of the hairdressers finally showed him how to do that and I wondered how he planned to jump start a car when he couldn't raise the hood of his own car. However, he did manage to transfer the energy and the older vehicle came to life, as evidenced by the the stuff oozing from the car's tailpipe.

Two older women, their white hair pleasantly coiffed, were leaving their respective chairs to pay their bills. One of the older ladies made a phone call so that someone could come after her; the other had on a sweatshirt with the word Botetourt on it, and I admired that because you do not see things with the county's name on it very often.

My beautician, whose name is Rhonda, beckoned me over and she collared me with a cloak. I removed my glasses and earrings and she hustled me to the shampoo chair, where she proceeded to wet down the hair I'd already washed and did not dry (but which had, by this time, dried on its own).

Once in the chair we chatted about my recent second honeymoon in Greensboro and she asked if I liked the new outlet mall in Mebane, NC, to which I replied that the stores were great but the parking was abysmal, forcing us to walk almost a mile to return to the stores after lunch.

Suddenly one of the hairdressers said, "She's getting in the wrong car" and she headed for the door as the first older lady began climbing into the passenger seat of the vehicle of a strange man. She realized her mistake and was out the door before the hairdresser could rescue her. The older lady came back in the shop, somewhat sheepish, and she said the man laughed and offered to take her home, but of course she declined.

All I could think of was how gray my hair is now and how I do not want to be an old lady getting in the wrong vehicle and possibly being kidnapped and left for dead on the side of the road when they found out I had no diamond earrings and didn't carry cash.

Rhonda finished her artwork and, after blowing me dry, turned me around to show me my shortened doo. My hair has no body in this low humidity that the cold front has brought with it and so my bangs hung rather limply about my face. But that was not Rhonda's fault so I tipped her, declined the offer of one of their business planners, and left.

Back in the car, I checked my watch and wondered if I had enough time to run two errands before my 1 p.m. appointment. Deciding that I did, I headed to Books-A-Million. In the store, I wandered the aisles looking for a book for a friend (who reads my blog so I won't go into detail here) but was unsuccessful in my search. I will have to check Amazon, I thought as I headed to the magazine rack. Then I wandered through the children's items as I still needed to buy something for my niece. As I looked at various books, puzzles, and activity sets, I realized I had no idea what the child does with herself or if she even needs.

I have become the crazy old aunt who send presents that are not right and quickly discarded, I thought, recalling the time my grandmother in California sent me a big set of hot curlers, a most unwelcome present for a girl who spent as little time as possible on her looks (though you wouldn't know that from today's events, would you). I decided then and there to call my sister-in-law for an update on the child's likes and dislikes in hopes of picking out a better present.

At the cash register, the clerk asked me if I had a club card and I replied in the negative. "I do have a credit card, and that is what counts," I said brightly. He snickered and I felt old. I picked up my packages and left, thinking all the while this was the second time I'd been in that store and been annoyed by the checkout person in as many months.

In the car, I called my sister-in-law and left her a message. Then I turned the car toward Walmart.

During the long drive to Bonsack, I half listened to the book on Lake Woebegone while fretting about going to spend money at a place I despise but can afford. I needed dry goods and toiletries, all of which were cheapest there. Husband needed Dr. Peppers in vast quantities (he sucks that stuff down like water) and I refused to pay $1.68 for it when I could get it for $1 at the store from hell. But every time I head toward Wally World I perceive a slow burning sensation in my chest.

In the box store, I wandered through the drugs and toiletries, picking up the things I needed. I always check the aisle with the Oil of Olay even though I don't use it anymore because the Oil of Olay website said the company would be bringing back the formula I used to use (but that was a year ago). In that aisle, a very old woman with multiple wrinkles was placing a bottle of Oil of Olay Regenerist in her cart. In my mind, I shook my head and told her to save her money, for her face was far too gone for any cream to save it. Of course I did not say that and then I wondered how I could be so mean  as to even think it, but there you go.

Next I meandered over to the Christmas decorations in search of tissue paper for my boxes that needed wrapping and I looked in awe at the multitude of ways one might decorate for the holidays, what with blue balls for tree trimming and gift tags and paper and bows and ribbons and garland, and all of it stamped Made in China.

From there I ventured into clothing where I briefly looked at scarves. Lately it has been brought to my attention that perhaps I would feel warmer if I kept something about my neck, but most of my scarves are long and burdensome and so I thought something shorter might work. However, everything I picked up was longer than I am tall and so I left the items on the hangers and headed for the grocery aisles.

I gathered up my Dr. Pepper and then went in search of gallon jugs of distilled water for the humidifier. To my dismay, the store was completely out of distilled water and I imagined a small army of folks wandering in and out of that aisle, desperate to find something to put in their humidifiers so that their noses did not bleed from the double whammy of low humidity and furnace heat. And I was glad that I had enough water to get me through the weekend, though it meant another trip to the store early the following week.

At the checkout, I maneuvered my cart into the shortest line. The woman in front of me had a small girl and a baby with her. The baby had nothing on his little feet but upon inspection I noticed a hat and a blanket beside the baby carry so that was okay as it was warm in the store. The woman was checking out a massive amount of items and the clerk was nearly finished when she asked if they would allow her to pay if she gave them her card number but not her credit card. She had forgotten the card but had the number memorized, she explained.

However, this would not work and I watched in dismay, knowing I would now need to move to another line although it never works when I change lines, I always end up being further behind than I would have been. But move I did, and I muttered something to myself about people having no common sense; how could you go to a store to spend hundreds of dollars and not have the money with you to pay for it, and then I began thinking of my mother and how she always told me I had no common sense, and how this always made me feel bad for she said it like it was a bad thing. I had plenty of book sense she said but no common sense and I remember trying to figure out how one acquired common sense but apparently it was something you were born with and I missed out when they were handing out that particular asset on my way down to earth to be born.

And so I stood there wondering if all of my problems in life could be boiled down to this one missing item, this lack of common sense, and then it was my turn at the check out and just then it was time for the clerks to switch out, and so I had to wait even longer, and I began to fear I would be late for my 1 p.m. appointment because I had been in the checkout lane for so long even though I had allowed 20 minutes simply for getting out of the store.

But I was not late, and my appointment was a massage, and gratefully I flung my naked self upon the table and for an hour willed my brain to stop its incessant chatter while the greatest massage person in the world worked on my back and neck and tried to make me feel better. All the while soothing music lulled me and the oils oozed and I tried a little controlled breathing to keep the thoughts at bay, particularly when I felt ideas about career and jobs and how to make money come creeping in like some kind of spider on steroids. I slapped those back and took a deep breath and focused on the feeling of my muscles loosening and all was right with the world.

Fried Green Tomatoes

Every summer when the tomato vines reach toward the heavens and their blossoms start showing those lovely green orbs, I crave fried green tomatoes.

I am the only person I know who likes them, except maybe my father. I am not sure about my brother. My mother fixed them occasionally when we were growing up, which is where I developed a taste for them.

My husband will not eat them. "Fried green tomatoes is just a waste of a good tomato," he declares.

But last week, he was away for a few days. I'd been waiting for him to take this trip just so I could fry green tomatoes.

Fried green tomatoes require three things: the tomatoes, a batter, and cooking oil of some kind.

Now, I am supposed to be eating healthy. That means I am not to eat things fried in artery-clogging shortening. So I opted for a mix of safflower oil, Smart Choice "Healthy" Balance oil, and two pats of of real butter (for a little flavor).

The batter is always a problem. Some years I fry them up in straight flour, sometimes cornmeal, sometimes a mix of both. For a while I enjoyed them in a tempura batter mix that I found at the grocery, but I hadn't seen that in the store for some time.

I thought I'd use the flour/cornmeal mix, but I needed cornmeal. At the store I ran across something called Kentucky Kernel Seasoned Flour. Lo, it said it was for frying veggies, including tomatoes! Bless my soul and call me cousin! I couldn't believe it.

I sliced the 'maters, added an egg and water to the flour mix (I added a bit more water than it called for, to thin the batter a bit), heated my oils, and started frying!

I could hardly wait to taste the first ones to see if this new flour mix would be delectable or terrible.

Yum, yum! Terrific! A big thumbs up to the Kentucky Kernel.

And here's a trailer for one of my favorite movies: Fried Green Tomatoes, starring Kathy Bates and Jessica Tandy.

Ha Ha

I make my friends laugh.

My humor is dry, irreverent, and intelligent (if I do say so myself). I'm not talking slapstick here. I'm talking commentary on life that makes my friends howl. "You crack me up," they say, wiping tears.

Often I am surprised by the response because I was not trying to be funny. And apparently some of it is in the delivery, because it wouldn't look amusing if I wrote it down. I never attempt to write humor because I don't think I can. I mean, do you read this blog to laugh?

High School Reunion Blues

Last night I met with nine classmates from 1981, only two of whom I had seen since we graduated. We met to form a planning group of nearly-50s who want to have a 30-year reunion next year.

This is a class that has only had one reunion, a 10th, and I did not attend that one.

My class had about 220 people in it; I was 5th in my class in rank. I was one of two student speakers who stood before the class, along with the valedictorian.

It was a really long time ago, those years when I was 17 about to turn 18. My whole life was ahead of me. If I only knew!

But don't we all say that when we are feeling nostalgic?

It was great seeing these old comrades, even though I was a bit of a loner who did not hang out with any specific group. A class of 220 divides itself into so many smaller sections - the jocks, the smokers, the smart kids, and others. I think this has gone on since time began and will always continue as like seeks like and prejudices remain regardless of the thinking of the day. It is a part of being human, and it is especially a part of being a teenager.

I was saddened to learn that almost a dozen of us have died in the years since we graduated. Two took their own life. One of the girls pictured above died in a car wreck on the interstate near Hollins about two days after we graduated. Several died from cancer. I knew of some of these passings but at least one of them startled me as I remembered vividly a young girl full of life and mischief. But so it goes.

The rest of us are lucky to be moving on beyond middle age and likely don't even realize it. And here we are, thinking about a big to-do to bring us all together. It's kind of exciting, to think of getting together after all of these years.

I wonder what we will find?

O Covergirl!

I am not sure when Covergirl changed its products, giving things a new look and adding new items to its lineup.

Being old school (not to mention growing a little old), change sometimes frustrate me. Why can't they leave well enough alone, I wonder. I've been buying Covergirl since I was 12 years old. Give me a break.

Recently, when I went to purchase foundation, I discovered new bottles and a new sensitive skin product. Covergirl's water-based products have always been very good for my use; they had little smell or perfume, didn't break out my skin and I had no allergies to their items, unlike oil-based products which were guaranteed to turn my skin red and cause me no end of tears. It has literally been 20 years since I last tried another brand of makeup.

So there I stood before the makeup, blocking the aisle, trying to make a purchase when things were different. I pondered for a time, trying to figure out which, if any, was the old product and which did I want to buy. Finally I opted for the sensitive skin foundation.

The new foundation is a little chalky in feel and it seems to take a bit more to do the job than the old foundation I used previously. But the most unfortunate thing about this change is the darned stuff won't come out of the bottle.

No amount of shaking forces it out onto a finger. Instead I have had to resort to dipping a toothpick or Q-tip or makeup applicator or whatever else I can find into the bottle and forcing the foundation out. It is very wasteful.

I almost went back to get what I thought was the regular product but I haven't so far. Why? Because I think it is the design of the bottle and not the product that is causing the issue, and the bottles are all shaped the same way. Once the new sensitive skin foundation is out of the bottle, it flows fine.

Others agree with me. Check out comments on the Covergirl website to see what other unhappy women are saying.

Apparently Oil of Olay, which like Covergirl is a Proctor & Gamble product line, dropped one of its facial cleansers that I used faithfully, Sensitive Skin hydrating beauty fluid, because I can't find it anywhere anymore. Neither can anyone else, based on comments on the Olay website. I tried the suggested substitute and was so unimpressed that I no longer buy Oil of Olay anything, even though I used it for over 20 years. Now I am using Cetaphil, because it was the only sensitive skin item I could find that was marginally close. Cetaphil is owned by the same folks who own L'Oreal and is not a P&G brand.

So what does it say to me, Mrs. Older Consumer, who has been a faithful user of these P&G products for decades, when things change and it appears as if the company doesn't care? I am sure these changes are aimed at younger, more snazzy young women, those 20-somethings who do not have as much money as I do (if they have a job at all in this economy). I have never been a fan of marketing techniques that focus on younger people because it ignores the rather obvious conclusion that older folks of a certain age (say, 40-60) generally have more "extra" money than any other age bracket. We've already bought our towels and curtains and have a little to spend on things like beauty fluid.

What I am hearing is this: hey, Mrs. Older Consumer, go see what Maybelline and Avon and some of those other cosmetics companies that you've always ignored are offering these days.

And so I will.

Customer Service?

Today I went to a local big-chain bookstore in search of a cookbook for a nephew who will be spending his sophomore year in college eating his own food and not the university's.

I had found the book I wanted by looking at the company's online store and had printed out the book and price. It was on sale online for about 1/3 of the retail price, even to non-club members.

However, when I asked a salesgirl if I could purchase the book in the store for the online price, I was told I could not. I was unhappy about this but I wanted the book and did not have time to have it shipped, so I decided to buy it at full price.

I told myself as I wandered the store that if I had been a store manager, I would have instructed my clerks to offer some kind of markdown in the event of a question like that, so that you did not have a disgruntled customer. And while I was not angry, I was little miffed.

Later, as I checked out, the young man behind the cash register asked me if I was a club member. You know, you pay them $20 to join and you receive a discount from the full purchase price of the book.

I told him I was not a club member and did not wish to be.

He then proceeded to tell me how much I would save and how if I bought books more than once a year I would save money.

I told him I was not interested and that the price for the club was too high.  I used to be a club member, back when it was not a small fortune, I explained, but I would not pay the price now, and particularly not when I could purchase the same books online at much cheaper prices.

He continued to pressure me about buying a card and went into a song and dance about "bricks and mortar" costing more than online sites and that was why the club was good. I finally had to interupt him to ask him to ring up my purchases.

You would think at this point someone would take the hint and let it go. However, he continued to try to get me to buy a card even as I slid my credit card through the little machine. I finally looked at him and said, "Keep it up and I simply won't be back here at all."

I picked up my stuff and walked out.

I used to shop this store a lot. I love browsing a book store but I fear that, thanks to visits like this and the ease with which one may purchase books online, that book-browsing as a past time will one day go the way of the rotary dial telephone.

I find myself in this store less and less, because each time I go in I am pressured about this club membership. It ruins the entire experience.

Customer service is an art, apparently a lost one. Today, the first clerk should have offered me the book with a 10 percent discount when I presented the online book price to her, and the second clerk should have stopped  pressuring me about the club membership the moment I said no. I don't expect to be greeted at the door with a Coke and a smile, but some acknowledgement that my presence in the store is valued might make a difference, you know?

A Radiant Me

Last night I attended a seminar at Divinity Spa, which is located in Botetourt but near Roanoke.

The event was called Seven Keys to Radiant Well Being. It was conducted by Meenakshi Angel Honig, an Internationally Acclaimed Wellness Consultant and Yoga Instructor.

My registration was a spur-of-the-moment activity, made early on Tuesday morning before I was fully awake. I had seen an announcement about the seminar on Facebook and ignored it. But when a friend sent me the information, I decided when I saw it in my inbox that this meant I should go.

Afterward I second-guessed my decision. I feared I would not know anyone there and also that I would be the fattest and most unhealthiest person in the audience. I figured it would be full of stick women who do yoga four times a day and eat alfalfa sprouts.

While there were a few of those folks there, there were also a number of older women (even older than me, old lady that I am) and many had large bellies and butts so I did not feel quite so out of place. I also knew a few of the ladies in attendance and that definitely made me feel better.

The seven secrets were not new information for me, but apparently I need the message knocked into my head many times over in order to actually practice these things.

The first secret was breathing. A few weeks ago I met with another yoga instructor to focus on breathing and in particular breath exercises for my blood pressure. So I was already doing this first secret and I was pleased about that. I felt like I was one up on the game. In yoga, a breathing practice is called pranayama and it is the life force. Life begins and ends with a breath, Meenakshi told us last night. "Breath is the link between the finite and infinite," she said.

The second secret was to visualize your body being relaxed and to tell yourself that you're an okay person. I also do this to calm down, having learned it a long time ago. There are many ways to go about this but it is a great way to bring on sleep if you're having a tough night.

The third secret was range of motion movements. This was not yoga or even deep stretching - just moving your head about, lifting your arms, pulling out the muscles. I liked this part because pretty much anyone, even someone as stiff and unyielding as I, could do these.

The fourth secret involved attitude and then taking positive actions when faced with a negative situation. Meenakshi urged us to develop a positive attitude all the time and to see the good in stuff, whatever  it may be. That is not always easy to do. And then do whatever is necessary to correct the problem, but without complaining or whining. "There is no such thing as stress, only stressful thoughts," she said.  Also, "be the writer, producer, director and star of your own movie" and give it an upward spiral and a happy ending. I liked that idea.

The fifth secret involved lifestyle choices based on a "wellness" wheel. Even this was not new to me as I had come across a similar wheel during the Life Planning class I took at Hollins University this spring. So I already had a good idea of where I am deficit. I think her wheel had a few different categories. Her categories are spiritual, nutrition, yoga and exercise, positive thinking/communicating, relationships, stewardship, and creative self expression. Can you guess which of those I thought I was deficit in? After figuring out which area needed work, one must then create an affirmation about it, write down an action step, and give it a time frame. For example, I wrote: "I now have the tools to eat right and make healthy food choices," as my affirmation.

The sixth secret was nurturing activities. Taking care of yourself. Things like taking a break from a hard day to listen to the wind or the birds, using lotion on your scaly skin, that sort of thing. Smelling the roses.

The seventh secret was to have "attitudes that release stress and enhance well being." This would be things like remembering that the check out clerk is having a hard day when she snaps at you, or forgiving people who hurt you, stuff like that.

"Feel good, feel god" Meenakshi said.

This seminar fit in well with what I have been working on the past few months. Reducing stress is almost a full time job, at least for me.

Too Hot to Handle

Our weather has been very un-June-like and instead has been more August-like.

The temperatures have been in the high 90s for a week now.

How hot is it?

It is so hot that when I go outside after taking a shower, my hair dries instantly.

It is so hot that ducks are flying upside down so their friends will get a breeze from their flapping wings.

It is so hot that eggs cook on the sidewalk.

It is so hot that the trees have started walking toward the pond.

Well, you get the idea.

It is hot. Can't do nothing about it and I am thankful we have air conditioning.

That picture, by the way, was taken yesterday afternoon. The thermometer was in the shade. The gauge on the other side of the house, which was in the sun, looked like this:

The Four Seasons of Fincastle

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, I bid in the silent auction to win an item.

The item was a set of framed prints by Connie Marsh, who once lived in the town but does not now. They are pictures of various historical sites in Fincastle, one in each of the four seasons. It is titled The Four Seasons of Fincastle. In the late 1990s, when I was very involed in the organization, sales of this print were a big fundraiser for Historic Fincastle, Inc.

A silent auction, for those who may not know, involves writing down bids on a paper by the item. The last bid on the paper when time is called is the winner.

I did not start bidding until 7:15 p.m., and the auction was to end at 7:30 p.m.

It was an anxious 15 minutes for me for I was bidding against someone with a reputation that, if true, meant he could have written down any price and not blinked, whereas I was bidding in $5 increments.

However, I have always wanted this particular set of prints. I think it is quite beautiful and it reminds me of simpler times and a period in my life when I was working avidly to keep the historic nature of the Town of Fincastle foremost in people's minds. While it was not a particularly happy time in my life because of my mother's illness, it was a very busy and productive one.

This is a photo of the picture that I brought home. Yesterday we hung it in the hallway.

Phew Kitty!

The other day I was reading an entry over at Sweet Virginia Breeze wherein she described seeing a skunk or two.

I was reminded of my own encounter with a pole cat many years ago.

It was 1988; our house was but a year old. We had a little dog named Ginger, a mixed mutt who stayed outside.

She was a small dog, part terrier and part something else, very hyper and moody. She could be very affectionate when she wanted to be but if she was pissed off at you she didn't hesitate to glare and let you know you'd messed up.

I loved her dearly but kept her outside in all but the coldest weather because of my allergies. She shed constantly. She lived to be 17 years old so I must not have been too hard on her though I always felt guilty when it rained even though she had a nice dog house with carpeting in it.

Anyway, when we first moved into our newly-built home, we had to keep her on a chain because she kept wandering back down to the house we lived in before (it was just on the other side of the farm but she would take the road).

After a while, though, she decided she liked her new digs and so the chain was nothing more than afterthought. Gingere would lay in the sun outside the kitchen door and when I was home I loved to peck on the glass and get her attention. She'd come up and I'd pet her and send her back to her nap.

One hot summer night as I slept alone in our bed - my husband was at work at the firehouse in Roanoke - I heard Ginger barking as if the world was ending. I bounded from bed and switched on all the outside lights.

She was in the front yard and I couldn't see anything but she had something cornered on the front porch. I put on clothes and as soon as I went outside I knew what she'd cornered.

Skunk. And it was spraying. It was spraying the dog and it was spraying my house.

Ginger would not come when I called. That was her skunk and she wasn't going anywhere. She stood a few feet from it, barking as if all of hell was in front of her. The smell was so odious that I could not get close. It burned the eyes and made the breathe in the chest feel as if it were solid fire. I felt it on my skin and it burned that, too.

The smell began to infiltrate the house as the poor frightened, cornered skunk kept using its only defense.

I can't remember if we had a game warden in those days and I am not sure what one would have done at 2 a.m. anyway. Dismayed and upset, I called the fire station and woke my husband.

"The dog won't come away from the skunk and its spraying and spraying and it's all over the house and I can't make it go away!" I wailed into the phone.

"What do you want me to do about it?" my husband mumbled.

"Come home!" I cried. "Come home and get this skunk or we're not going to be able to live in this house for a year!"

I wasn't sure he could actually come home for such a thing. Was there something in the fire department regulations about skunk emergencies at home?

Finally I bundled myself up in old clothes, tied a kerchief around my head to cover my nose and mouth, and went back outside. I hooked up the water hose and went around to the front yard, where I sprayed the dog in hopes of getting her away from the skunk.

About that time my husband, who must have driven well above the speed limit to get home, pulled in the driveway. Once he opened his truck door he realized what I was talking about as far as skunk smell. If you have never smelled skunk smell when it has immediately been sprayed, consider yourself blessed.

He found me there with the water hose, crying, covered in water and smelling a little like skunk myself. Finally, we got the dog on the chain. The skunk regained its senses and ran off into the meadow.

The skunk had indeed sprayed the house. At that time we had cedar siding on it and the wood soaked up the odor.

We washed the dog in tomato juice many times over, and then washed her many times in various shampoos. Our shoes stunk from walking in the grass around where the skunk sprayed and had to be thrown out. As for the cedar siding, we washed it down with Mr. Clean, vinegar, and everything else we could think of.

It stunk for a long time, and years later when it rained it smelled like skunk on the front porch.

The moral of this story: stay away from skunks.

My Lucky Day

Saturday the weatherman called for rain and so my husband and I decided we'd head to Roanoke after lunch.

In Daleville, we stopped off at Lord Botetourt High School for the 50th anniversary open house. I didn't know we were going by so I did not have my camera, unfortunately.

The school had been cleaned and spruced up for the big event. It's a much larger building than it was when my husband and I attended. He graduated in 1977 and I graduated in 1981. They built on sometime after I finished.

The attendance was not spectacular at the event, perhaps because it was pouring rain, but I had a nice time touring the halls and looking at five decades of photos.

I also saw two of my favorite teachers, Dee Sheffer and Sue Obenshain whose last name is now Goodpasture. Ms. Sheffer taught me English and Ms. Obenshain taught math. I am quite fond of them both and so I was very glad to see them. My husband visited with a few of his former teachers, too.

He then spent time looking at FFA (Future Farmers of America) displays. He was very active in that when he was young.

From there we headed to Roanoke. While we were in a store, I won't say which one, I turned down an empty aisle. In the middle of the aisle lay a sealed bank envelope. There was absolutely no one in sight, so I swiftly knelt and picked up the item.

I could tell from the feel of it as I put it in my pocket that there was a good deal of money in this envelope. I rushed over to my husband and told him I needed to go to customer service right away. "I found a lot of money," I whispered.

We headed for customer service. As we hurried, we passed several store employees and I stopped to ask for a manager. One of them spoke up and said he was a manager. I told him what I had found and he ushered me over to customer service.

Together we watched the clerk count out the money and then take it to a safe place. I won't say exactly how much it was or in what denominations, but it was in the hundreds.

The manager thanked me for being honest and turning in the money. "I am sure someone will be looking for this," he said. I did not leave my name or anything and I wonder in retrospect if I should have. Oh well.

I have never in my life found such a large amount of cash. In fact, I think the most I have ever found was a $5 bill in a parking lot once. Maybe it wasn't so much my lucky day as someone else's. At least I hope so. I do hope they get their money back.

This event discombobulated me a little bit. I was very nervous handling this cash that did not belong to me, even though I was doing nothing wrong. After we left customer service we went back to the area where I found the money, thinking we might see someone frantically searching, but we did not.

After that, we spent several hours shopping, ending up at Sam's Club where we had a very long wait in line. Sam's is never a good idea on a Saturday but sometimes you just can't help it.

As we headed to dinner, I decided to call the answering machine at home and check messages.

"Hi, this message is for Anita. This is Vicki at the Vitamin Shoppe. We had a raffle drawing today and you won a prize! Please come by and get it. We will hold it until Wednesday."

Well! I don't win things very often - about as often as I find envelopes full of money. This was turning into quite an eventful day. We weren't far from the Vitamin Shoppe (which recently opened near the IHOP at Valley View) so after we ate dinner we headed over there.



The clerk handed me a bag full of goodies. Inside I found a cup, several mixes of a milk shake for women, a personal lubricant (hmm...hmm) acidophilus pills, DVDs about health, and natural sleeping pills.

While this was not quite as exciting as the greenbacks, it seemed like a nice way to end the day.

But since I was having a lucky day, we decided to go three for three. I stopped at Food Lion and purchased a lottery ticket.

What did I win?

Well, so far only $1 on a scratch ticket. But one of the tickets is for a drawing that has yet to be held.

Maybe my luck will hold!

Turtles

Last night in my Life Planning seminar at Hollins, the facilitator brought in Aretha, a massage therapist and inner light sort of lady.

Aretha's message to us was to find our inner purpose. Find our rhythm, our bliss, our peace.

She then played a CD with the sounds of the ocean and lead us through a short guided imagery so that we could all then pick up our pens and paper and begin the hard work of figuring out who we are and what we want out of life.

During the imagery I slipped into something akin to a trance. I have long used imagery techniques and can quickly fall into my "safe place" when I am feeling frustrated and upset, provided I remember to do it. Sometimes I forget.

As I listened to the sounds of the waves, images of turtles came to me,* totally unbidden. Dark green and serene, floating along in the water. They were safe in their shells, carrying their homes on their backs. They had no worries for everything they needed was with them or right in front of them. They were smiling.

Perhaps I then fell asleep, because suddenly there appeared a turtle without a leg. No blood, but no leg, either. And that turtle too was swimming along, but not doing quite as well as his peers. He was missing a back leg, after all. And then as I looked I noticed that others were missing parts, too. Some had no front leg. Some had cracked shells. One was missing an eye. They were all injured in some way.

The turtles continued to forge through the water, their turtle faces still wearing what I was interpreting as a smile.

I came back to myself with a start, feeling bewildered and confused. I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote "turtles without legs?" on it so I wouldn't forget. Shortly thereafter, still feeling as if I were in a dream, I wrote "Lose the Fear" and circled it. And then I wrote "Find Your Courage" and circled that.

This morning as I look over my page, written while I rested in a different space from that which I normally dwell, I see other things:

Time for myself
Just be
Be Love
Beloved
Love
Leave it all
Start anew
Create my own dance
Laugh
Live because you must
What does the heart say


*The facilitator said absolutely nothing about turtles, so I don't know where that came from.*