Every once in a while, it’s humbling to have a day – one 24-hour period – in which you make so many ridiculous mistakes that you appreciate your own faults and failures.  Unfortunately, for me, I don’t need a full day of mishaps to realize just how dumb I can be.  I mean, after all, I’m the woman who confidently backed my car out of the garage and hit my husband’s car parked behind me.  Twice.  And a porch one time.  And the closed garage door once.  So I have sufficient memories of stupid moves to keep me humble.  I don’t need a day chock full of them, do I?

               And yet.

               Just this past week, I had one 24-hour period that was so awful I’m just going to erase it from memory.  I made so many mistakes, gaffes, and blunders that I couldn’t begin to relate them all. Let me share just the top three.

               I started my day by going to a local department store to buy new sheets for our bed.  While there, I saw the display at the end of the check-out lanes of stuffed animals and books.  They were featuring “The Very Hungry Caterpillar,” a classic book I had to have for our grandson. So I plucked one off the rack and tossed it onto the pile.

               Onto the breakfast club!  Our church provides breakfast to anyone who wishes every week day morning.  This was our morning to help distribute.  I participated and had a grand time, even though it was a little chilly. At the end of the morning, I texted the program coordinator to tell her how many meals we had distributed.

               As I was also cleaning the kitchen, I used the handy audio text feature and said to my phone, “We served 23 breakfasts, so there are 15 remaining for tomorrow.  Many of our regulars were not here.”  I pressed send and continued on my tasks.

               I finished cleaning and dashed a few blocks to the store where I volunteer.  I was going to check the schedule to find out who was working the following day so I could send them a message. I was dismayed to find that it was my name on the schedule for that day.  In the seven years I have worked there, I had never failed to record my shifts on my home calendar.  Until today, of course, when I had scheduled two appointments.

               While I was in the midst of changing those appointments so that I could work my shift, I received a text from the program coordinator of the breakfast club.  It said “I think I understand your message.  Thanks for the laugh.”

               I scrolled up on my phone to read what I had sent.  Regardless of what I had actually said, my phone decided to send this:  “We served 23 breakfasts, so there are 15 remaining for tomorrow.  Many of our regulars were not horny.”

               Good grief!  Now I was stressed and embarrassed, but fortunately, the program coordinator has a wonderful sense of humor.

               I finished my work, got to my rearranged appointment, and returned home, tossing the bag of sheets and the book on the table. The book slid out, and stayed on the table for the rest of the day.  That evening, our son came over while I was making dinner and picked up the book.  “Oh,” he said, with some interest, “are you going to teach your grandson Spanish?” 

               I looked around in confusion while my son and husband began to guffaw.  I had purchased “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” in SPANISH!  “La Oruga Muy Hambrienta.”  Geez Louise.

               A very humbling day, indeed. 

               When I was a little girl, I took piano lessons.  My lessons in elementary school were on Wednesday evenings, at Mrs. McWade’s home, two doors down from my grandparents.  I loved going to my grandma’s house and usually would spend the night (Mom would come get me in the morning for school).  But those lessons!

               My lessons were ninety minutes long. That’s right, NINETY minutes.  From 7:30 – 9:00 p.m., I grappled to survive those minutes, each one of which seemed interminable.  [Let me digress to say that both of my older brothers took lessons from Mrs. McWade, as well, and they had half-hour lessons.  Maybe mom and dad thought I’d do better with more instruction.] At any rate, about six minutes into the lesson, I’d begin to tear up, and Mrs. McWade would always say, “We’re soon through.”

               What a hoot!  Like I couldn’t read a clock and didn’t know that we had barely scratched the surface of the time I had to sit on that bench and clomp through scales and music.  But, she always said it anyway.  I guess to comfort me.

               Meanwhile, years later, my father-in-law told a joke that we loved.  He told many jokes, actually, but this is one of my favorites.  It goes something like this:  A man’s house was flooding from hard rain and he climbed to the second level of his home.  The rain and the water kept coming and neighbors called to him to leave the area with them.  He responded, “No worries, the Lord will save me.”

               When the water was almost to his second floor, a boat came by and the driver flagged him to get on board.  The man said, “No worries, the Lord will save me.”

               The water continued to rise and the man climbed out of his house and onto the roof.  Another boat came by and the man driving yelled, “Get on, get on!”  The man on the roof replied, ‘“No worries, the Lord will save me.”

               Finally, with the water level rising to the roof, a helicopter flew over, dropping a rope ladder.  The pilot said, over a speaker, “Climb on!” but the man yelled back, ‘“No worries, the Lord will save me.”

               The water continued to rise and the man drowned.  When he arrived at the Pearly Gates, the man met the Lord and said, “Lord, why didn’t you save me?”

               The Lord shook His head and said to him, “I sent two boats and a helicopter.  What more did you want?”

               It always struck us as funny, because we humans do tend to ignore things that would help us, though thankfully not often to that extreme.  I think about that joke a lot these days, because in a very non-humorous way, it’s happening in real life right now.

                As the case rate and death rate continue to climb from Covid and its variants, the Lord must be shaking his head at us. He’s sent us three different injectable vaccinations and now a pill, and yet we’re not getting vaccinated. What more do we want?

               Just like my piano lessons, the time is stretching endlessly and we’re struggling amidst it.  I’d like to think we’re soon through with this pandemic, but I fear we’re not.

I’m officially old.  I mean, I’ve reached an age that many people probably consider old (and did a few years ago). But mentally, I have realized that I am “old.”  Why, you ask?  It’s not because of stiff joints, creaking knees, general grumpiness, or being overtaken by naps if I sit more than 15 minutes.  I made this realization just recently because I am now at an age when casual conversation does not mean I want advice.  In fact, offering me advice when I have not asked for any will result in my general grumpiness becoming quite targeted.

               I’ve become aware of late how many people want to tell me things about my life.  Suggestions they feel, apparently, that I desperately need to improve my lot and am too dim-witted to figure out on my own.  These are not major things, but advice on aspects of my life that frankly, I am totally capable of figuring out by myself. 

               For example, I recently made an off-hand remark to a friend that I was going to a wedding next year and was going to be shopping for some new winter shoes that were comfortable.  Now, shoe-shopping is something that I’ve honed to a fine art in my many decades.  First of all (and most importantly), I know what I like.  Secondly, I enjoy both arthritis and gout in my feet, so I’m pretty particular in what shoes I will pick. And finally, I also have plantar fasciitis, so any heel must be, basically, flat.

               My casual remark generated a litany of advice from my friend, including something called peep-toe boots and shoes that I “must buy.” She even offered to come with me to help find these horrible-sounding things.  Since I hadn’t asked for advice, I’m not sure why she felt compelled to act as though I was an alien from another galaxy who had never purchased shoes in my life.  But she did.

               It doesn’t stop there.  We recently purchased a new antique for our dining room.  It’s a corner cabinet and given my love for antiques, I was confident that I knew exactly where to put it and what I wanted to display in it.  Another friend, seeing the cabinet, felt compelled to offer several suggestions on these matters, including “you must leave the top doors open.” Must I? 

               My husband mentioned to friends the other night that he has sinus issues on one side.  (Note:  he’s had them for years and knows exactly what to do about them).  This simple comment yielded a host of advice about which medications he “should” be taking and what tea to drink.  (He’s a coffee-drinker).

               He wasn’t asking for a medical consult, just making conversation, but got the lecture anyway.  The same pal told me I should be taking my GERD medication every day.  I replied that I take the two-week course once every three months and my reflux stays under control.  The response to that was to tell me that “taking it every day won’t hurt you and will keep it at bay.” It is at bay, I don’t want to take medication I don’t need, and I didn’t ask for advice.

               Maybe because I don’t give advice, unless it’s requested, this is starting to annoy.  But mostly, I think, I’m just officially old.  And cranky.

               And I don’t want any advice about it.

               Today my sweet husband informed me that lately he didn’t think we were on the “same page,” communication-wise.  What?  Not on the same page?  I have no idea what he’s talking about!

               Well, okay, I have a smidgeon of an idea what he means.  Just a glimmer, really. 

               It all started last week over breakfast.  We typically play along with a TV game show called “25 words or less” during breakfast.  We mute the sound and give each other clues as we play – trying to beat the contestants.

               Typically, we are really good at this game.  After all, 40 years of shared experiences gives us a lot of history from which to draw clues.  But last week, I struggled.  My struggles had nothing to do with our shared experiences, it had to do with my word choices, and my guesses, both of which were poor.

               For example, I was trying to get him to say the word “hem.”  My clue was “heighten your pants.” I realize that “heighten” is not, perhaps, as descriptive or accurate as “shorten.” But I didn’t, in the heat of game play, come up with the correct word.  So, he never did guess it correctly.  I think he had pictured a man hiking his pants up to his armpits and didn’t know the word for that.  (Neither do I, but it’s almost always funny.)

               Later, he was giving me clues and said “blank and blood.” Clearly, this is an oft-used expression and the correct word is “flesh.” I didn’t find that word in my head.  I said, “sweat,” “tears,” “platelets,”  “vampires,” and a few other words.  Even when he added “body tissue” as a hint, I was empty.

               Then (this is all the same game, so yeah, not on the same page at all), I had to get him to say the word “swipe.” So I said “Tinder! Blank right.” Which might have been an awesome clue for anyone who uses Tindr, or has heard of Tindr, or who watches Lifetime romance movies.  None of these things are pertinent to my husband.  He didn’t get it.

               So, okay, maybe this past week, our shared history and many experiences weren’t helpful in the word game, but to say we’re not on the same page seemed a bit extreme to me. Until the dog food incident.

               You see, our beloved dog is getting picky in his old age.  The vet recommended a special food, which we bought (after taking out a small loan) and he hated.  I thought maybe he was tired of chewing up the dry food mix that he’s eaten well for 12 years, so I started buying pouches of soft food.  He liked that okay, for a while, but wasn’t eating well.  So, we bought a bag of his old food, figuring maybe he liked that best.

               The back-up bag of his normal food was in the garage.  Also in the garage were two boxes of the pouch food.  In the mudroom closet, next to where we feed our pooch sits an open box of pouches and a bag with the half-used vet-recommended food.

               Typically, my husband feeds the dog.  This morning, I fed him and without thinking, I scooped out a cup of the vet-recommended stuff.  The dog ate it, and I noticed the bag getting low.

               So on the way to the car, I mentioned that the dog food was low.  As we walked into the garage, my husband said, “No, we have extra boxes right there.” He pointed (I assume) towards the two boxes of pouches.  I thought he was pointing to the big bag and I said “I thought he wasn’t eating that.”

               Afterward followed a dialogue reminiscent of Abbott and Costello about which food the dog was actually eating now.  I was confused because he ate the vet food today, but apparently hasn’t been.  I also didn’t know the name brand of the pouches, which turns out to be the same name brand as the old dry food.  So we went back and forth arguing about this dog food for about five minutes and finally gave it up.

               So, he’s right.  Sometimes we’re not on the same page.  But it’s really the dog’s fault.