Shopping like a man

     I don't know why men complain about the way women shop.  I really don't, when it's really men who are the all-day shoppers.  At least it is in my house.
     I can head out to the store armed with a list that hangs from my hand to my elbow, get all the food, medicines, cleaning supplies and other incidentals, check out, filling 4 or more big canvas bags, then stop on the way home to mail some things and maybe get a book at the library, and still get home in about an hour.
     My husband, on the other hand, will say he's going to the building supply store for a couple things and I won't see him for 2 or 3 hours.  What takes him so long?  I'll tell you, based on the times I've gone with him.  He has to look at every single thing in the store.  Every. Thing.
     If I did my shopping the way he does, I'd have to pack a bag and stay overnight!  Here's how it would go: I'd inch my way down the aisle, stopping to look at, let's say . . . bagels.  I don't need bagels, but I have to look at them, and all the other brands of bagels in the vicinity, comparing the prices, remembering what they used to cost and wondering when they might have a sale, in case I need bagels in the future.  Oh, and I have to comment on the fact that these bagels are better than the ones I have at home, but a person would have to win the lottery to pay this much for bagels. Okay, I'm done here.  I put the bagels back on the shelf and move on to the bread.  I need bread.  I look at every loaf of bread on the shelves, commenting on how expensive the good ones are before eventually putting the same kind I always get into the cart.  Wait! No, if I were shopping like my husband, I wouldn't have a cart.
     Now on to the second aisle . . .
     Maybe there are women who can make a day of shopping, but I'm not one of them, and neither is any other woman I know.  We spend only as much time in a store as we have to.  We get in, get what we want and need, and get out.  Our time is too valuable to waste it staring at a can of beans, reminiscing about beans we used to have and how little they used to cost.
     Don't even get me started on what it's like to take a husband to the grocery store with you!  You'd need an adult sized cart seat to put them in if you want to get anything done!

My Boots

     I love shoes. Sandals, dress shoes, boots. Heels or flats, I love them all. But I love boots most of all, I think. And of all the boots I have, there is one pair I love more than any other. The heel is a nice 2 inch, or more, height, but, due to the chunky heel or the way they're made, they don't feel like heels. They fit my feet like they were made for them and somehow make me feel empowered when I wear them. Magic boots!
     But they're ancient, in boot years, and they show their age, if you look closely. The leather is cracked where it has flexed countless times and the cracks have to be camouflaged with black marker. Also, the lining is pretty much gone from the inside, and if I walk through a puddle or wet snow, my feet get a little wet.  I know I should retire them, but I can't! I love them too much. No other boots make me feel quite so invincible and, try as I might, I can't find another pair like them anywhere, for any price.
     I know that someday I'll be out running errands and it will happen. My boots will retire themselves, coming apart at their seams and leaving me with only the soles amid ragged pieces of worn leather. Until that day, though, despite all my insisting I'll throw them out, I know I'll keep putting those boots on (carefully) and going out to take on the world!

Connecting with the past

     I went to my local library today. I had a couple books to return and there was a book being held for me, my email said.  While I was there, I decided to see if a book I had on my wish list was in. It was! Into the crook of my arm it went. And here was another I wanted to read! I couldn't let it stay behind.  At the desk I asked for the book being held and - surprise! - she brought two books! One had just come in that day.  Bonus!  I checked them out and as I left the library with a stack of 3 books and a book on cd, I was hit with the same giddy feeling I used to get when leaving the library in the town of my youth, books in hand, new people, places and adventures stretching out before me.
     Why did I have such a unique feeling? I'm an adult and I can, and do, get books from all sorts of places; borrowed from friends, ordered online or bought at a bookstore. And I've got shelves of books at home, just waiting to be read. But none of those aquisitions or sight of books to be read, pleasant as they may be, feels the same as the one I get I when getting books from the library. Why, I wondered.
     Maybe, it's just being at a library. People are nicer there. Quiet and friendly, but reserved and willing to let each other just . . . be. I could roam the stacks for hours, if I wanted, and no one would hover over me, asking if they can help me, or trying to get me to look at books they think I'd like, (and telling me "this would look good on you".)  I feel at home there, and it's a nice feeling.
     Or perhaps it is because getting books from the library connects me with that younger me who relied on the library to provide me with fresh books. It awakens in me the enjoyment I got searching the shelves for the newest book from a favorite author, or finding a new author to read, and going home with my arms laden, knowing I had a month's worth of friends and adventures ahead of me.
     Of course, with my aging eyes, the stack in my arms is not as large - what once took me a day or two to read, now takes me more like a week, but the kid is still in there, and the feeling stays the same.   

Childhood is not what it used to be

I had what I think of as an idyllic childhood. It was the late '50's - early 60's and I think it was the best time to be a kid. My neighborhood was full of kids to play with, most moms were at home, and on nice summer days we'd be out the door as soon as we could eat and dress. We'd play games - both traditional, like Tag and Red Rover, and ones we made up, like Movie Star, or we'd hit the swing set, swinging as high as we could go, then letting go of the chains and flying into space!  Or we'd hit the streets, strapping on those metal roller skates with the grabber things you adjusted with a key (and which never stayed on your shoes), or our trusty bikes, heading out in packs to roam the neighborhoods and have adventures our moms never knew about.  Or sometimes we'd just lay around on the grass, watching clouds or bugs, scratching our mosquito bites and discussing such deep topics as "What'll we do now?", or "If we have enough money between us, we could ride to the mall and get some candy."
Some days, we would walk or bike to the elementary school where there was a jungle gym to climb on, bigger swings, and board games like checkers (both Chinese and regular) and that beans on a board game.

Those were the days. No one worried about kidnapping or germs. We went where we wanted, drank from the hose when thirsty and ate grass and dirt. We settled our fights ourselves, wore our scrapes and scabs like badges and only went in to grab lunch, or if the bleeding didn't stop.
We'd play all day until the chorus of mothers calling kids in to dinner began. Then we'd part ways for the evening, calling our good byes and making plans to meet up the next day, because, in that perfect world and time, there was always a never-ending stream of "next days" to fill.

At least that's how I remember it.

To Journal or to Blog? That is the question.

I know, I know. I've been way too lax about writing in here. I have no excuse, other than the one I gave when someone told me to do a blog: I keep a journal. I have kept one for 42 years and I guess I'm just more used to picking up the journal when I have something on my mind than going on the computer.

But why can't I do both? Why don't I just write what I put in my journal in my blog?  Partly because I write things in the journal I wouldn't want others to read. Innermost thoughts (and not all hearts and flowers thoughts, either), petty gripes or things that happened that just don't seem to warrant blogging about. Mundane, ordinary stuff from a mundane, ordinary person. And partly because I don't feel like rewriting the same old stuff I put in my journal, into a blog. It's boring enough without doing it twice!

This blog, it seems, consists of more spur of the moment type stuff. Ephemeral things spawned by a stray thought or sight that sets my mind wandering and, unless I'm at home, that musing has often left my mind (like many things do nowadays) by the time I get to the computer.

So, excuses or reasons, that's why I have so few blog posts.  I'll leave you with a few bits of ephemera and the half-hearted promise to try to retain more thoughts to put in here.

1. I love the Fall season. Love the crisp feel of it, and the clothes and shoes I get to wear, and the colors. I don't, however, love the season that follows it, which shall not be mentioned.

2. I still believe that if a tree falls and nothing can hear it, it doesn't make a sound. Sound is just a wave until it hits something that can turn the wave into a sound. If nothing ever does that, the wave will eventually dissipate without being heard/making a sound.

3. When someone asks me where I'd like to live, if I had the choice, I never can name a place with certainty. I don't think I've been enough places to know for sure what the best one for me would be.  Or I just don't want to make a decision. Probably the latter.

The Happiness Jar

At the beginning of the year, I saw online an idea for a jar in which you put notes about the things that made you smile and at the end of the year or when you need a pick up, take out the notes and read them. I decided everyone can use some remembered joy, so I found a jar and prepared to write the things that brought me happiness and made me laugh or smile.
 
After one month, I have four little slips of paper in there. Four. And one of them I cheated and put down something that happened at Christmas. What does this say about me? Do I find so little joy in things? Am I that morose? Or am I just picky?

I choose to think I'm picky. I could put things like getting a good test result from my doctor in there - the news did make me smile - or how the sun looks shining on the new snow (okay, that didn't really make me smile, but it is kind of pretty), but everyday things like that just don't seem to warrant writing down and putting away for a later pick-me-up. I guess I'd rather make note of the really good things. The one time only, serendipitous kind of happenings. The things I know will bring back good times and good feelings and that will make me laugh or smile at a low time or the end of the year.

So maybe three or four things in a month isn't so few. Maybe it's just right - for me.

Alien thoughts

This morning on the news, a man put on a gas mask. It was an older looking mask, with a rubbery full head cover.  Do you know what he looked like when he put it on?  An alien. He looked almost exactly like the typical, Area 51-era alien. All that was needed was for the mask to be gray.

This brought to mind again the thought I've had that aliens really don't look the way they're portrayed.  Do you really believe some other race would come to Earth, land, and step out of their ship naked as the day they were born (or hatched, or grown)?  No! They'd have on space suits to protect them from our alien atmosphere.

Consider if there had been moon men and women inhabiting the moon when we landed there in 1969. Here we come in our little lunar module . . . the door opens and out steps Neil Armstrong . . . Can you imagine what those moonies would have said about us?  "They're hideous!  Puffy and white like slugs! And no face! Just one huge eye!"

Of course, those aliens would have to be very small for their space suits to be so small, but who are we to say what they really look like? They could have bodies like insects, or have arms and legs like threads. Whatever works for them, I say.

So the next time someone greets a visitor from another dimension, galaxy or planet, instead of shooting at them or running in fear and spreading ugly rumors about their looks, maybe we should invite them in and ask them if they'd like to hang up their helmet so we can get to know them better.