Author: Susie (Page 27 of 48)

               Years and years ago, there used to be film-developing booths around town. They always reminded me of snow cone shacks.  Anyway, you’d pull up to the window, drop off your film and a week or so later, they’d have your pictures to pick up (I know, I know, we’re really old).  But it was a convenience in those days.

               I typically did this task on Saturdays, when doing my other errands.  I got very good at answering the few questions the staff would need (what size of pictures, what type of printer paper, and the number of pictures).

               One weekend, when my husband and I were running errands together, we stopped by the booth to leave some film.  My husband was driving and he handed the film to the gentleman in the window.  The man quickly said something to my husband.  What my hubby heard was “Tree or fay or foe and sticks.”  My sweetheart glanced over at me in puzzlement and I said, “Say four by six.”

               He repeated my comment, to which the man said (again according to my husband), “Seagulls or dungeons?”  Again, sweetie looked over at me, this time in full-blown bewilderment, and I quickly told him “Say doubles.”

               He repeated my statement again, only to be given the comment, “Flossie or Lester?” In exasperation, my dearest turned to me and demanded, “Who are Flossie and Lester?”

               I said, laughing, “Just say Lester.”  As we drove away, transaction completed, I couldn’t stop laughing.  “He was saying ‘glossy or luster’ not Flossie or Lester!”

               My husband laughed too, and said, “I thought maybe those were our two choices in people to develop the film!”

               Years later, when I had nearly forgotten the Flossie and Lester incident, we had an encounter that brought it all back.

               We’re having some remodeling done in our home and a couple of men mudded the drywall last week. One of the men in this pair spoke English, but the other didn’t.  We got along quite well with one translator.

  On Monday, they were to return to sand the mudding, which was now dry. As luck would have it, we were also expecting lawn treatment folks and pool repair people. During this time, I was out at the store and hubby was working in the gardens.

When the first van arrived with two men, one jumped out and said a number.  My husband nodded, and agreed this was our address.  He assumed these were the folks putting in a new pump for the pool, since he had never seen them before and he knew the lawn people and the drywall people (or at least he thought he did).

So when the first man said “Sun, sun” to him, he nodded thinking they meant to do something with the pump and were glad it was sunny.  He was pointing to the pool area, when the man shook his head and repeated, “Sun.  Die-wall.”

Drywall.  Now he got it – these were two different men here to sand the drywall.

When I got home, he was laughing, but he did say it was important for me to stick around as a translator.  I mean, you just never know when Flossie or Lester will turn up to sun your die-wall.

               For years, I’ve secretly believed that I am a magnet for strange personalities.  I’ve never minded, because strange personalities often come in the form of very interesting folks.  For example, if there’s a person wandering around a large grocery store, looking for vanilla extract, they will choose me to approach and inquire about this. They won’t choose a person with an employee badge, or a nice elderly couple, or a person in the actual baking section – they will seek me out.

This happens in large cities as well.  If you see a person on the street, loudly proclaiming that their landlord is harboring rats in the basement, they are likely proclaiming this to me, personally.  Meanwhile, dozens of other people are walking by (mainly giving us a wide berth).

Lately, I’ve begun to think that my personality is attracting more than just odd quirks.  I seem to be attracting large, hard surfaces and not in a good way.

It started with the built-in garbage can in our kitchen.  You pull out the handle, deposit trash, and push the large drawer back in.  I’ve done this millions of times in the past twenty years but last week, it didn’t work.

I pulled out the drawer, threw in a piece of trash, and shut the drawer.  When I raised my hand, however, it didn’t come up naturally and easily.  It came up – full force-  against the edge.  This resulted in my ring finger and pinky getting severely struck – and a lined bruise formed almost immediately.     

The next day, I was leaving the garage where we park the mowers.  In front of that building, right between the two doors, is a plant stand we made several years ago.  Every spring I place a large, pretty pot of flowers there and it looks nice through the summer and into fall.  I say this not to brag, but to underscore that this planter (currently empty) is not a new addition. I’ve known about its’ presence for years and have successfully navigated around it for that same time period. 

Well, not that day.  On that day, I tripped over the dad-blamed thing and rammed my other hand into the open garage door.  This resulted in a bruise on the thumb of my other hand.

Sakes alive. I’m a walking disaster.  The worst was yet to come.

Just a few days later, there was a car accident down the road from us.  About three or four emergency vehicles raced down our road and we naturally looked out at the flashing lights.  They were about a quarter-mile away and soon I forgot about them.

After about an hour, I poured myself a little glass of wine and placed it on the dining room table. I returned the wine bottle to the rack, which is next to the three steps down from our kitchen to the dining room.  As I turned to go back up the steps, three things happened in about one second.

First, loud sirens screamed outside, down the road that intersects with ours.  Secondly, I was startled and turned around to look out the dining room window. Finally, as I turned, I stepped out – thinking I was on the bottom stair.

I was on the top stair and my foot found open air.  My leg plunged downward, as I was turning, and I didn’t, by some miracle, fall on my face.  I did, however, slam my entire backside into the corner of the wall.

Yes, I’m bruised -a lot worse than a finger and a thumb.  Suffice it to say, I couldn’t sit down easily (or lay down, for that matter) without a lot of discomfort.  But hey, while large immovable objects do seem to be attracting my body to them, I’m not breaking any bones.

               Yet!

Scene of the crime:

If you read my last entry, you know that I recently misplaced my driver’s license and had to get a replacement. That is always a fun experience and typically one I do not look forward to with any degree of excitement.

               This trip to the DMV was no exception.  It didn’t help that I was already aggravated over losing the stupid license.  But it’s just something that a sane person doesn’t want to be without – a sane person who drives, at any rate. 

               So off I went to the nearby license bureau to explain myself.  The young man behind the Plexiglas was much less concerned about my loss than I felt he should be.  He was also not very interested in my answers to the multiple questions he had.  These questions seemed a bit insipid – like “how long have I lived in Ohio?” and “where was I born?” First of all, shouldn’t the massive database have all that information?  Some facts about my life simply do not change from year to year.  And secondly, why is it important to know that I’ve lived in Ohio for 56 years?
               Ah well, he finally got through the amazing list of questions, most of which I had difficulty hearing through his mask and the glass, and got to the really awful part – the photo.  Now, this is a photo that will be on your person or in your wallet for the next four years.  It will identify you to all manner of important authority figures in important life situations. Yet, they seem to train the photographers to take the picture at the exact instant at which you are making a face that you’ve never made before and that makes you look positively loony. And there are no do-overs!

               I’m not basing this assertion on my own experience alone.  My husband – a very attractive man at any age – carried around a picture for four years that made him look like an escapee from San Quentin!

               But I got the picture – a black-and-white version on a printed piece of paper that had to be folded six times to fit in my wallet.  This is temporary until I receive my “real” license.  It will be hard plastic that fits perfectly into the designated slot.  The photo will be the same hideous one.

               Ah well, speaking of photos.  I was in the lab the other day to have routine blood work taken.  While there, I noticed a sign posted that said “ABSOLUTELY NO PHOTOS, VIDEOS, OR RECORDINGS OF ANY KIND IN THIS ROOM!”  They seemed serious about this, and I inquired about it.  I just couldn’t imagine why you’d have to tell people having their blood drawn not to photograph it.

               The phlebotomist explained that some folks enjoy taking videos or photos and posting them on social media.

               Seriously?  I don’t like watching it happen to me.  In fact, I do not watch it happen; I studiously stare at posters on an opposite wall. I sure as heck don’t want to watch someone else have blood drawn on their Tic-Tac-Toe wall, or whatever.

                It takes all kinds, I guess.  Speaking of all kinds – I went to the bank this morning and when they asked me for my ID, I pulled out my six-folded piece of paper.  Along with it, my driver’s license slipped out as well.

Of course, it’s not valid now.  But it’s nice to know I didn’t lose it – I just put it in the wrong compartment!

I do like that song from years ago, though my memories of late have been more of the “misty, water-colored” type they mention in the lyrics.  I’ve become quite forgetful the past two years, it seems to me.

               As we enter the beginning of the third year of this global pandemic (which I hope and pray is on its’ final notes), I became quite interested in the research done in the UK and other European country’s Departments of Health.  They have been finding that – not surprisingly – as a result of the pandemic loneliness, feelings of isolation, depression, and anxiety are on the rise all over the world. Even with folks who weren’t feeling lonely or depressed, however, these studies found increased problems with memory.

               Huzzah!  Oh, thank goodness!  There are a lot of reasons why my memory might be going haywire, and I’m happy to blame the pandemic for it rather than any of the others! 

               Mind you, I’m not talking about my normal memory skills.  I mean, I realize that even before the pandemic I had a tendency to do ditzy things.  For example, once I called my husband in a panic, sitting amongst the detritus of my updumped purse, sobbing to him that I couldn’t find my phone.   He calmly replied, “Honey, look in your hand.” 

               “It’s empty,“ I wailed, looking at my right hand.

               “Look in your other hand,” he said.  Well, duh.

               And then there was the time I walked past his car on the driveway, got into my car which was in front of his, and backed out of the driveway – smacking his car right in the radiator. 

               So, yes, strange brain things have not been a stranger to me.

               But this past week was something else.  First, I went to see a friend and we went out to lunch. When the bill came, I reached into my purse to pull out my wallet.  Gone.  Not there!  I took every single thing out of the purse and no wallet was present.  I went to the car and searched.  My poor friend had to spring for the whole deal – and I drove home without a license.

               Okay, maybe misplacing your wallet doesn’t seem like a big deal, but I never don’t have my wallet.  Never.  Seriously.  So that was freaky.      

               The very next day, we went to a play.  I carefully put some cash, my ID, lipstick, some readers, and my phone in the tiny cross-body bag I take to the theatre.  After dinner, I opened the little secret zippered section for the money and paid.  I also did that at the theatre to buy a drink.

               When we arrived home, I emptied the little bag to put all the items in my big purse.  The lipstick, readers, phone, and money were all there. My drivers’ license was not there!  Nor was it in the car, at the restaurant, or at the theater!  So now I get the delightful task of going to get a new license – three full years earlier than necessary.

               Joy.  These things usually come in threes, so who knows what I’ll be forgetting this week.  But whatever it is – it’s all the fault of the pandemic!  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!