All Grown Up

I am officially old. 100% Geritol searching, callus pad wearing, furniture shopping old. How has it all come about? How did I morph from a certifiably weird 22-year-old to a forty-year-old woman?

It all started with chairs. The moment I stepped into that furniture store, I aged instantly. A saleswoman, in awe over my transformation, immediately scurried over and pressed her card into my hand. She followed me around as I looked at chairs, squealing over my choices like I was a certified interior designer. I sat in chairs, looked at color swatches and looked at overpriced accent tables. I had officially grown old. My aging process quickened as I cursed the traffic (damn young'uns) and searched for accent tables. Thirsty and experiencing symptoms of claustrophobia, I headed home.

As a new adult, I decided I was big enough to get the attic decorations all by myself. Upon opening the attic, I realized the folly of my ways as I received a faceful of fiberglass, dust and dirt. I was surprised a dead cockroach wasn't tap dancing in my hair. As old as I may have been, I continued the tradition by thinking I was stronger than I was. It was only sheer luck that kept me from toppling off the ladder onto my car or cement as I tried to lift down boxes that were too heavy for me. Unable to replace the Sheetrock that covered the hole in the ceiling, I took a shower. As a prissy older adult, I didn't like the sheet rock clinging to my hair and the itching that had consumed my skin like fire.

My journey into aging was topped off with being taken out to dinner and a trip out to Home Depot, where I began to contemplate what colors the paint the kitchen and living room. We measured and contemplated about what kind of chairs to get, and looked at pictures online. Having a sensible snack, we retired around 11.

Now, the Invisible Friends are rolling their eyes. "God, it's just one day," they sigh gustily. "Stop this pity party already! What is your DEAL?"

My deal is that at the grocery store today, I bought callus removers. That's right, callus removers. These removers are currently gracing the bottom soles of my feet, feeling like squishy innersoles. As I showed them off to Ben, he laughed and said the thing I feared most.

"Callus medication at 22? Getting old aren't you?"

Holidays

I've always loved the holidays. To me, it's a joyous time when you get to celebrate with your family. Holidays make people happy, make people merry.

However, as much as I don't want to admit it, the holidays always have an underlying blue streak to them. Thanksgiving and Christmas are like beautiful, cool, 70 degree weather days in which you are having a lovely picnic on the lawn with your favorite people. Every now and again, when you least expect it, a chilly wind will blow by and give you goosebumps. It makes you stop and rub your arms, even if you are laughing and the sun is kissing the top of your head.

I look forward to the preparation of the holidays. I love Christmas movies and songs, decorating the house and buying and wrapping presents. I am giddy over decorating a Christmas tree, and over hanging stockings on the mantle.

But then- there's the stress of traveling. And being fair to both sides of our family, and knowing that right now there's a lot out of our control. It might not be possible to be fair. A nagging sensation in the back of my head reminds me of my aunts and uncles, my friends from Baylor and people like Dr. Willis who gave us so much support. If Christmas lasted a month, it might be possible to reach out to everyone and make them happy. But one of the joys of Christmas and Thanksgiving is it is only 2 days. Any less, and it would be too short. Any more, and it wouldn't mean as much as it does.

I suppose part of it is my own personality. I do get very excited about any sort of holiday, and love to celebrate it. I was even giddy over the Thanksgiving party at work, and asked some women if they were excited. They glared and rolled their eyes at me. "Why should we be?" they asked. "We do this every year." It as as though an elephant sat on my chest. I felt hurt and disappointed. I may be an annoyance waving my Christmas movies about and demanding to watch them, but at least I care. At least I don't view Christmas as an opportunity to drink beer and watch football.

The whole premise behind Thanksgiving and Christmas is to be joyful and grateful. We are told to cherish what we really love and what we really care for. Too many people are jaded and bitter, including now. Whatever happened to Santa Claus? Just try to imagine, for one second, that snow could burst from the sky any minute. Dream that you will find a way to visit all your family and take long walks with deep conversation.

Bring the magic back. Holidays are wonderful because they hold this enchantment. Things happen on holidays that don't happen in every day life. For a month, we're able to celebrate this event, whether for religious or cultural reasons. Suddenly, things begin to twinkle and sparkle. The air becomes cooler and shops begin to bustle. Everyone is full of cheer and merriment as they scurry about. Now, people look at holidays as an inconvienance. They have to stop work, stress to buy presents and decorate with huge sighs of disgust. Bring the magic back!

Bring back the joy, bring back the wonderment! Bring back giving just to give, without trying to get a tax write-off. Bring back the wonderment you had as a child, the whimsy of a holiday. Imagine that an elf might pop around the corner, or take an impulsive trip to see your mother across the country so you're there Christmas morning. Throw logic and worry to the wind! If logic and worry dictate your life, what kind of life is that? A life without magic and wonder is no life at all. It's just......there.

So bring back the magic. Enjoy your holidays. Even though I wish we could see my husband's family, I know we will be holding them in our hearts. And that is what will make me enjoy mine.

Gratitude

I wrote this as an editorial for several of our publications at work....I hope you enjoy it! It should put you in a Thanksgiving mood!


Around the holidays, everyone focuses on being grateful. Movies and songs tell us to be thankful for what we have and to count our blessings. For a lot of people, this is hard to do. Being told to be grateful and grudgingly doing so is a lot different than being grateful, nor is reciting a laundry list of standard blessings.

True gratitude comes from the heart, and is expressed joyfully and freely. When a friend helps you out in a tough time, that’s gratitude. When a stranger helps you carry boxes up the stairs, that’s gratitude. When your husband sells his car to help pay off your student loans, that’s gratitude.

Sometimes, pure gratitude is one of the simplest emotions to express. There is a stray dog who lives around this office. He cautiously looks for food, but runs from any human. After giving him a colleague’s leftovers, I backed away and hid behind a car to watch. The dog cautiously crept forward and ate the leftovers hungrily, licking his lips. He looked at me and his eyes said what he could not.

It is not my place to tell you to be grateful, or to list off what I’m grateful for so you will see how blessed I am. It is not my place to make you feel guilty for wanting to watch football instead of thinking about how glad you are your mother is around to celebrate another holiday. There are dozens of stories I could tell you about mothers weeping over their sons returning from war or children clutching their grandparents as they lay in the hospital hooked up to machinery. But—I’m not going to.

Be grateful for the things you love, and for the things that are close to your heart. And whether you’re grateful for the food on your table or your crazy family, just be rich in the warmth that you know what you have. For when you feel that warmth in your chest, those tears threatening to spill over as you look around you, that is true gratitude. It is a wonderful feeling.

Big Hunks of Metal

Their shoulders slumped as they walked around the shining cars laid out provocatively on the show floor. The closer they got to the blazing red small 2- seater sports car, the closer their knuckles got to the floor. By the time they slid into the low seats that hugged their backs, their foreheads had justed forward and they were grunting and grabbing themselves in glee! They had officially morphed into drooling morons.

For two and a half hours, we looked at every curved and boxy line of metal. While I adored the VW Rabbit and Taureg, they were drooling over massive trucks and tiny sports cars. Hoods were popped, buttons were pushed and stereos were tested. The boys were in car heaven.

As a traitor to the car show, I couldn't understand the enormous appeal. It was as if a pulsing stone was sending out brainwaves that enticed them to crawl on the floor and look at every car in the room. I suppose I could compare this to women looking at shoes, but not even shoes fascinate me. Now a room full of desserts- oh lord. I wouldn't leave for days. They wouldn't be able to roll me out.

Then, I saw it. I saw the exact reason men were dragging their wife and whiney children clutching blankets and toys through enormous rooms of cars: the car babes. The car babes ranged from Car Tramp to High Priced Sexy Girl. The Car Tramp is some poor young girl who they've shoved out on the floor in something very low-cut and tight just to attract men. One girl was wearing a tight little black dress and plastic heels, while another's were wearing pants so tight they were almost painted on. Their t-shirts were equally tight, as they pushed their breasts out while handing out brochures. These girls didn't even know the name of the car they were standing next to, but weren't they cute? All they needed was a string bikini and heels.

The Mid-Priced Sorta Sexy girl is an older woman in her thirties. She's wearing way too much makeup and looks tired. She tries to lean against the cars to look sexy, but really just wants to kick off her heels and take a bubble bath. She is wearing a suit jacket and short skirt, and showing some cleavage. The Sorta Sexy girl is wearing cheap gold jewelry that she tugs on while talking to the people, wishing she could tug on her skirt. Her panty hose have funs, and she knows a few things about the cars. When a person walks up, she immediately smiles way too big and recites the speech she's been told to give from memory. She's memorized all the questions to the guide book, and is stumped if someone asks an original question. Then she unbuttons her jacket to show more cleavage and changes the subject. After all- she's not just a pretty face. She's just not much more.

The highest level of car girls, the High Priced Sexy Girl, knows how to play the big dogs. She sits on a stool in a pose, looking down at some of the "undesirables" looking at cars. She only talks to well dressed older men, and ignores anyone under the age of thirty. She works for an exotic car company like porsche or ferrari, and haughtily brags about the cars. She is around her late 20's, and really just waiting on her promotion to go through so she can quit doing this. She wears a tailored black suit and thick perfume. She reeks of pretension. This woman looks bored whenever talking to you, unless you mention money. Suddenly, her entire attitude changes. She purrs like a kitten as she leans close to you, flipping her hair and showing her bright smile. Her eyes stare into yours, and she laughs at your every joke. This girl is sexy, and she knows it. Her job is to fool you into thinking if you buy that car, you can have her. For a steep price.

So, that is the psychological draw of car shows for men. Not only do they get big hunks of metal, they get boobs! It makes you wonder what's next for women. Art and craft shows with male models posing as sexy plumbers or emotionally fragile firemen? Is the world ready for this? We may never know.

Bring in the Clowns

Lately, I've been noticing there's a lot of unhappy people in the world. However, there are three that really get to me.

The woman behind the counter at the gym looks like a Forgotten Poodle. Her blond hair is teased and perfectly coiffed, her eye-liner carefully applied in a thick line. She's an older woman who wears a turtleneck under her company polo shirt, even when it's 110 degrees outside. She walks on the treadmill every morning, staring at the T.V. Sometimes, she'll talk to the person next to her. When she talks, she looks down and smiles slightly as the woman talks about her husband and children. Every step is a heartache, a weary journey that will never cease. She sits behind the counter, her sad eyes staring up as people enter. When she thinks no one is watching, she looks wistfully out the door. She stares throughout the day, watching the happy shoppers and cars whizzing by. Each child that walks in the door digs a deeper hole in her heart. Sometimes she leans her head on the counter, the weariness reflected in the glass.

One man is perpetually happy. Always cheerful and smiling, he stops to say hello to everyone. He spouts poetry about how days should not be wasted with anger or bad feelings, and how one should live every day to it's fullest. With crisp shirts in bright colors and ties that can be seen a mile away, this man is a Clown. Everybody loves this man, and girls crowd around him to giggle and tease. His only bad habit is smoking, which he does in a group. He is, of course, the center of attention, telling jokes and listening as the laughter washes over him. When he thinks no one is looking, his smile drops. His eyes are filled with worry and sadness, and he holds his head as he holds his cigarette. His hand trembles slightly, from nerves and worry, and he steadies it. Whether he worries about love, a mortgage or a mountain of debt, he never talks about it. He takes a few breaths, and paints his face with a smile before walking inside.

Another woman at the gym is desperate for interaction. She talks to anyone who is next to her, driving away annoyed women who want to tune out and burn off last night's pizza. Other women are only polite, and she knows it. She desperately reaches out, desperate to have someone like her, someone want to talk to her. Once someone is interested, she ignores her routine to follow them around the gym. She tells about her past, her family and her health problems. When she talks about her youth, disappointment creases her eyes. She sighs when she remembers her slight figure, her pouty lips and lushcious hair. She pretends to be adjusted, and laughs weakly. "Cie la vie!" Still, when she thinks no one is watching, she daydreams about how things used to be. Her face takes on a longing look as she wheels slowly on the bike. Her eyes are sad, and her mouth is pulling down and looks as though it was drawn with charcoal. In her mind, she is young, careless and free. She briefly grasps happiness, remembering past loves and a whirlwind of years. As the machine beeps, her smile disappears. She stares at her body, large, flabby and ridden with diabetes and disease and tries not to cry.

The only thing I wish, if I could wish anything in the world, is to make these people smile. Not just for a minute, an hour, or a day- but a lifetime. Let's just hope that someone will help them have happier lives, for no one deserves to be sad.

The Bug Killer

"Oh my God! They're everywhere!" Ben stood staring in horror at the flies that had flown through the screen door.

"Well, it's your job to kill them," I said, as I continued to fix dinner.

"There's one!" Ben leaped to the side to bat at a bug. The flies whirled around the kitchen, looking for away to escape or food to land on.

"There's another one!" he slapped at one with a piece of rolled up paper. The fly fell to the ground, and Ben pounced on it like a hungry cat.

"Got him!" he said triumphantly. He dramatically strode to the garbage disposal and dropped the fly in there. I stared at him in disgust.

"Eww," I wrinkled my nose. Ben's eyes were wide with excitement as he purred the fly. "Bye bye," he sang.

For the next thirty minutes, my maniacal bug killer was hopping and storming about the kitchen. He slid from one side to the other, spraying windex and wielding his trusty rolled up paper. I would look up from preparing dinner to find him silently stalking a fly, a single finger on his lips.

"Shhh," he would whisper quietly. "AHAHAHA!" throwing himself at the fly, he'd quickly beat it to death with the paper.

As I continued to fix dinner, the warzone erupted around me. The dreaded paper would slam next to my shoulder or on the opposite counter. Windex would hit the back of my leg. I became concerned that if the fly landed on my leg, that it might be an innocent bystander to the paper of justice.

After the flies had been purred, dunked in windex or faced even grizzlier deaths, Ben triumphantly sat on the couch, where he demanded peanuts.

"You know, the flies are out there because that trash bag is out there," he said, staring at the T.V. "You should put it in the can."

"Why don't you do that for me?" I asked, forgetting he was already on the couch. Once on the couch, only a hundred dollar bill or hot fudge brownie sundae could lure him away.

"Because," Ben said smugly, smiling at me. "I am the bug killer. That is my job."

"Your Husband"

I don't understand why people refer to other people's spouses as "your husband" or "your wife". It has an emphasis that doesn't need to be there, and honestly doesn't make a lot of sense. I understand the need for possessive nouns because if we didn't have them we would all go around shouting husband or wife and thousands of confused heads would pop up.

What gets me though, is when people know the name of your husband or wife, and still say that anyway. It's always stuck in my brain, and I'm beginning to believe it's driving me a bit nuts. For example, if we're with our friends they're talking about someone's actions, I'll naturally ask who, since I haven't been paying attention because there was a shiny piece of metal on the ground. Instead of replying, "Ben", they'll reply, "your husband." It really drives me nuts.

I am guilty of doing this to other people, but at least I admit it. My reasons are simply I don't remember anyone's name so it makes sense to address people as "your wife." I'd rather give a generic statement than risk offending someone because I don't remember their wive's name.

I just don't understand the logic of calling them a "your spouse" when you know their name! I don't call you "The Blonde Duck's goofy friend" around people, so why would you address me as "your wife"? I really can't comprehend when people do that while I'm standing three feet from them and Ben. It's like they're simply going through a list of roles in their head.

"Ok," they think to themselves. "I've already called her the Blonde Duck. Check. I've just called her "your wife". Check. I suppose next it's "the blonde thing hopping about in the corner and whining for cheesecake."

I think what really drives me nuts about this utter laziness is simply that it's dumb. If we all went around describing ourselves all the time, it would be a lot more entertaining if we were more creative about it. For imagine, can you introduce a teacher introducing themselves as, "I am Teacher duck, otherwise known as 'your wife', 'mom' , 'paranoid neighbor', 'cookie fiend', ice cream addicted' and 'drowning in debt crazed woman.' I will be your teacher."

If we all gave introductions like that, we'd probably run away from each other as fast as we could. The world would have a shortage of normal, boring people. It would be a lot more interesting sure- and at least we wouldn't be "your wife".

Melting

Duck Update: I saw Stranger than Fiction this weekend, and it was absolutely glorious! Ben took me to the late showing of 10:30! We're younger than we thought...

The Blonde Duck Solves the Mystery of Breakroom

I believe someone melted in the break room. There is a pile of clothes around a puddle of water on a table next to a box of donuts. The clothes are followed by a pair of shoes that sit next to them.

Now, these clothes aren't fashionable clothes. These are polyester stretch creations in bright colors and obnoxious patterns. This of course, means that the person wearing these clothes had to be a witch. Why a witch? Well obviously, the witch was in disguise. Why else would you wear obnoxious clothing that doesn't match? Of course, it was a terrible disguise, which is why she was trying to ditch it before she melted.

Consider this: my purell is dried up. It is my belief that the witch snuck into the offices in the early morning. She was not pleased by the grime on her hands, and helped herself to the purell. Witches have thick green skin which gathers bacteria easily (that's why the smart ones wear gloves), so she had a use a lot to get that freshly clean feeling. When she saw what she'd done, she simply left it on my desk. She is obviously not a polite witch.

After the witch had cleaned her hands, she slunk to the breakroom. Witches can't walk normally. They can slink, slunk, scurry and creep. After slinking to the breakroom, the witch discovered the box of old doughnuts. The old doughnuts are a favorite of the Water Cooler Ants, who were anxiously climbing up the table for some crumbs. The witch swept them off the table with one hand and laughed as they fell towards the tile covered floor. Luckily, their parachutes from the cubicle spiders saved them. The witch hovered over the donuts and selected one with her long red nails. Opening her mouth wide, she inhaled the entire doughnut in one swallow. With a satisfied grin, she turned to the coffee machine.

That was the object of her demise. As she lazily leaned over the table to reach for a cup of coffee, her stomach touched the puddle of water. The water was not just plain water, but contained salt as well. This only accelerated the melting process. The witch shrieked high pitched noises, but to no avail. The rest of the office simply thought it was the fax machine and turned up their headphones.

Now, the witch has melted away, and only her obnoxious disguise is left. Even the Water Cooler Ants find it unfashionable. And how do I know all this, you ask? How did I figure out this mystery and come up with this farfetched scheme?

I forgot to mention there was one long red fingernail on top of the dress, curled under many times. And of course- only witches have fingernails that long.

Distressed

Due to the fact that a) someone lied to me or b) I misinterpeted the movie lady, we did not get to see Stranger than Fiction. We got there promptly at 7:30 to discover there were no seats. Apparantly, many people got these passes, not just my company. I was quite distressed and almost burst into tears. I had to hold on to my last shred of reserves while we walked out of the theater. I am depressed and disheartened, and determined to see it this weekend.

Stupid people.

The Menopausal Ghost

There is a menopausal ghost that lives over my head.

It follows me to work in the mornings after a certain point in my daily commute. My car, which has been freezing for 20 minutes, suddenly becomes hot and stuffy. It's the feeling of being stuffed in a sweater in a room with tepid air and that has been stagnant for years. I claw at the window and flip on the air conditioner. For the rest of the ride, my faze is freezing and my armpits are sweating.

After I get to work, things aren't that bad. The ghost dissapears until around 9:30 when she's back with a vengence. While everyone else is wearing cardigans, I am flapping my hair and skirts trying to cool down. The ghost makes reappearances throughout the mornings, and settles in to stay around 1.

She sits over my head, hot flashes emmitting from her warm prescense every thirty minutes or so. Sweat pours down my back and my face feels greasy. I can feel my oily skin turning my makeup into a mask that could peel off on it's own. My cheeks are rosy and I am complimented on my glowing skin. I tell my co-workers that the heat is about to crush me. While others pile on sweaters and whine about the air-conditioning, I dip a towel in water to cool the back of my neck. I've threatened to come to work in a swimsuit, and was met with mild looks of confusion.

The menopausal ghosts that lives around my head does not like four o'clock. Suddenly, the room temperature shoots up about ten degrees, and people finally begin to peel off their cardigans. The ghost's hot flashes make the edges of my computer screen damp and my fingers sticky. The constant ringing of the phone severely annoys the ghost, who has been known to throw pens.

The hot flashes send me to an afternoon freshing up. I reapply my deoderant, blot my face, and re-fill my strofoam cup. The menopausal ghost causes me to drink eight glasses of water a day, which leads frequent trips to pee.

I am hoping the menopausal ghost will dissapear and quit following me home, like she has started doing recently. She always dissapears at the same point, but it is still quite disturbing. If she continues to lounge over my head, sweating and sighing in great pains of discomfort, I will have to move. I shall move inside the air conditioner and live in an igloo. For it seems the only way to escape the menopausal's mercurial moods is to satisfy her craving for a cool place. If that's what it takes, I am prepared to do so. I may soon be the Frozen Blonde Duck.

I am not amused

Dear Invisible Friends,

First of all, thank you so much for the darling messages. They make me wiggle with joy!

Secondly, something is wrong with the program I blog with. It keeps putting my information at the bottom. I have no idea why. I am not amused.

Thirdly, I must brag about getting to see Stranger Than Fiction in a premiere for the media for free! (My company gets passes). I get to see it a full three days before everyone else. Hooray!

Fourthly, there is an upcoming post regarding the menopausal ghost that follows me around. Prepare to be amused. You will be as delighted as I am annoyed that my information is at the bottom of the screen (it's taunting me rudely.)

Love,

The Perpetually Perplexed Blonde Duck

Back in the Fields Again

The butterflies are back!

As I was taking one of my daily strolls through the parking lot, in order to clear my head and escape the menospausal ghost that lives over my desk (more on this later) there it was.

A tiny orange and brown butterfly gently opening and closing his wings on the ground.

Oblivious to the workmen staring at me, I squatted in the parking lot.

"Hello, little one!" I cried, extending my finger so he could climb on it. "I'm glad some of you are back."

The butterfly looked at me sorrowfully, opened his wings and closed them with a sigh.

I was confused. "Why are you not excited? Where are your words of wisdom? Where are the metaphores, the confusing statements?"

"My body is dying," the butterfly said. "I feel weak and tired. The cold pavement makes me want to lay down and sleep. Once my fragile wings touch the surface, I will sleep forever."

I was shocked by this. "What?" I exclaimed. "No, no, you can't do this. This isn't happening. Your a butterfly- full of light and happiness. You don't talk about despair and death."

"You are upset," the butterfly calmly replied. "Your thoughts reverberated of weariness and the desire to escape. Why can I not feel this way? You are a creature of light as well. You are known for being funny and cheerful? How are we not the same?"

"Because it shouldn't be this way," I said desperately. "Look around you. I come outside for the beauty of the sky, the feeling of warmth when my sun hits my skin. I walk around this field to feel the grass touch my feet. I talk to the bluejay by the fence to learn about why he sings. There's so much beauty everywhere. Climb on my finger and you can rest in a field, where you will be safe."

"How are you able to be perpetually happy?" he asked, closing his wings.

"Why should we be perpetually sad?" I countered. "What's the point of that, when there's so much more that is good?"

With that the butterfly suddenly lifted and landed on my shoulder, his wings whispering in my ear.

"You did it!" he said. "I knew you could."

"Did what?" I asked, confused.

Suddenly, butterflies surrounded me.

"We wanted to see if you could return what we gave to you," they said. "All love is give and take. Like us, you can love. You helped us when we were down, just like we will help you now."

"How are you going to help me?" I asked, as their wings brushed my cheeks softly.

"Like this."

The butterflies suddenly lifted into a spinning column above my head. They took off flying, creating a swirling pattren of gracefullness. They flowed around the trees, danced around my extended arm and one gently alighted on my finger. His feet touched my hand in a brief kiss, then took off again.

"Thank you," I whispered. "Thank you."

As they floated away, I heard a faint reply in the cool breeze.

"Thank you."

What's in Your Cart?

The grocery store in the pond is a fascinating place. I like to go and glide through the aisles, looking at all the colorful boxes and bags. The most fun I have is by watching the people though. Just like the forest, the grocery store has many different types of species.

The first rare species is the single female. She usually carries a basket instead of a cart, and fills her basket with fresh fruit and lean cuisine meals. She may toss in some cottage cheese and a few yogurt's, with some bran flake cereal. A little deli meat, low fat cheese and wheat bread and she's in the check out line. She throws three or four magazines on the conveyer belt, and a few chocolate bars. Occasionally, there will be a pint of double fudge ice cream and a fresh bottle of chocolate syrup. Those are the times the cashiers flirt a little more with the single female, which she responds to by laughing with her mouth open to show all her teeth, shaking her hair back. It's similar to the baboons mating ritual.

The second rare spices is the single male. This is different then the bachelor. The single male is generally unkempt and bored. He throws as many pizzas and frozen meals in his basket as possible. Realizing he should have gotten a buggy, he just grabs another basket instead. He loads up with chocolate and regular milk, chips and sour cream dip, pork rinds and beef and hamburger buns. He grabs bacon and eggs, and has to get a separate buggy for the beer and soft drinks he hauls home. A few cans of peanuts and beans, and he is set for the month. In the check out line, he brags to the cashier that he can crush a beer can on his forehead. The big event of his weekend is watching the football game on his buddy's big screen TV.

The third rare species is the bachelor. The bachelor tends to get a buggy and select a few bottles of wine and freshly baked Italian bread. He tends to fill his cart with pre-mixed meals in a bag, along with pasta, chicken and several types of fancy meats. He only eats expensive deli meat on rye or sourdough bread with his own specialty mixed mayonnaise. If it is a special occasion, he might create a dip with crackers. He stares blankly at the cashier, wondering if the minimum wage worker in front of him is smart enough to put all his cold things together.

The sub-group of the bachelor is the lonely bachelor. This man has a look of sadness in his eyes as he slunks around the grocery store. He buys alcohol, soda and bread with a package of hot dogs. When he stands behind you in line, avoiding your eyes, you wonder if he actually eats. The image of him sitting in a ragged armchair watching a rabbit-eared television, drinking cheap beer in a paper cup pops in your mind. It makes you want to touch his arm, tell him it'll be ok. However, it wouldn't help. Whether it is a broken family or a job that has slowly eroded his soul over decades, one touch won't help him. All that can help him is love, and the kind you can't give.

The next group is the Old Ladies. The old ladies shuffle around the store in what looks like a pink housecoat, looking confused. They buy a lot of cat food and fresh fruit. They tend to buy colorful packages, not really looking at them until they've gotten home. At every sample cart, they stop to chat for several minutes before going through their routine list. Since they've been fixing the same menu for decades, they don't have to think as they walk blindly through the aisle, pulling things off the shelves. However, at the baby aisle they stop and inform everyone within sight that their grandchild is the most brilliant baby ever. They follow their chosen prey through the store, waving photos and chattering wildly. Before they leave, they select a few motivational books to read for the week. Then they donate them to a local shelter.

The next group is the young married/ living together couple. This couple dances through the aisles, giggling and kissing. They get in fights over what kind of chicken to buy, and what percent milk. After sulking through the cereal and soup aisle, they passionately make up in the fruit section. They squabble about different cleaning products and bread types, but leave with a full cart stuffed with enough food to feed an army. One side of the cart is stuffed with health food, while the other is overflowing with chips and ice cream sandwiches. They'll be back the next week.

The subgroup of the married couple is the older married couple. This couple is either childless or their children are grown. This couple has begun a cooking class and spends an hour arguing with the meat market over the different cuts of meat. They cook exotic meals, and buy fine wines and breads. The majority of the time they eat out, so the major shopping is done when the kids come in. However, they always keep a supply of snacks on hand for last-minute home visits. They usually have a puppy or a kitten, and fill their cart full of dog food and toys.

The final group is the family with kids. This group varies and is the most populous of all the groups. Whether it is the parents with the children or just the mother or father with the children, it is a moving ball of chaos. The children hang from the cart shrieking, arms extended as their grubby hands grab everything down the aisle. They throw candy and rip cereal boxes open to pour into open mouths. At the slightest discipline, they fall onto the floor in a tantrum that shatters the overhead lights. The parents respond through threats and grim faces as they grit their teeth and charge through the aisles. Snapping at the cashiers, they pull their children from the toy machines and head to drop off groceries before the afternoon soccer game.

Grocery shopping is an adventure in itself, and it does make me wonder. What do people think when they look in my cart? Do they see a cute Blonde Duck, or do they see a matter of mass confusion? I guess I will never know.

Dear Invisible Friends,

I wrote this when I was in college for a project, and I actually sent it off to a magazine to see if it would be published. I haven't heard back, but with the cool wind and the fall days, it put me in the Thanksgiving mood. I hope you enjoy it!

Sincerely,

The Yellow Duck

“The Day after Thanksgiving”




It was the day after Thanksgiving, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. My father was sitting in his big leather chair, hoping that my mother would let him stay there. All the turkey had been eaten, all the relatives had gone, and now it seemed like no one could smile, just groan. I was six years old with nothing to do, with no cousins to entertain me, not even a friend or two. I walked up to my Dad who was glued to a football game, and asked him, "Daddy, what can I do today that's not lame?" My dad said, "Go play outside," without ever taking his eyes off the TV. "I'm much too busy watching football, as you can plainly see."

So I bundled up and put my dog on a leash, and Princess and I set off down the street. We passed a few houses and I was happy to see, old Mr. Ritter was sitting on his porch as his son hauled in a Christmas tree. I scurried up the sidewalk with Princess by my side, and said "Hey Mr. Ritter whatcha doing? Isn't it kinda cold outside?" Mr. Ritter just smiled and said to me, "I'm happy watching my son and grandkids buy and decorate a Christmas tree. I'm grateful for my family and that I get to spend one more Christmas with them, before I head up to heaven." "Are all people grateful on Thanksgiving?" I asked curiously, and old Mr. Ritter said, "Well if they aren't they should be!"

So I waved good bye to old Mr. Ritter and skipped down the sidewalk to visit my old babysitter. "Hey Leah," I said to her when she opened the door. "What is it that you’re grateful for?" Leah looked shocked at my question and said to me, "I'm grateful for my friends and my boyfriend Ben. He cheered me up when I was blue, and my friends are coming to get me to go to the zoo. Love and friendship are very important to me, and I'm grateful I have both in my life, don’t you see." Just then a car filled with teenagers pulled up to the curb, and the blaring music had the neighbors looking disturbed. Before old Mr. Wayne could yell "Turn that down ruffians!"; I waved and skipped down the street as the old man started fussin'.

A few houses down and what to my curious eyes should appear? The Smiths loading up a moving van, and not even shedding a tear! "Mr. Smith," I asked him curiously, "What are you grateful for? And why are you moving? Is it because of me?" Mr. Smith smiled and shook his head, "Child, it's nothing you've done or said. We were evicted from our house, so we must find somewhere else to live instead. I'm grateful we have some money, and plenty to eat, but I will miss living on this street. I'm grateful I have my wonderful wife, so I know we'll be ok in life." "You can live in my tree house," I offered. "There’s lots of room when you live high in the trees..." Mr. Smith laughed and said, "I don't know if I'd quite fit. But it's quite a nice offer, and I'll think about it." I said, "I understand, and I'll miss you as well. I hope you find a home that's for sale."

I waved goodbye and skipped down the block until I ran into my dad, who didn't look happy but rather looked mad. I skipped right up to his glaring eyes, and when I said, " Dad, what are you grateful for?" I really took him by surprise! He said, "I'm grateful for you and your mother, and for my parents and brother. I'm grateful I have a job and a home, and I'm grateful I'm not alone. I'm grateful for my friends and I'm grateful for my wife. If you break it down, I've got a great life. And you're the best part of all!" he said as he swung me over his head. "No one else could have had such a great kid!" "So you're not mad I went on a walk?" I asked when he put me down. My dad just laughed and said, "I was mad but I guess you turned me around."

Be grateful for the things you have and cherish it- if you don't it will surely perish. Be appreciative for your family and your friends!

Ode to Rice Krispie Treats

Ode to Rice Krispie Treats and Why I Love Thee

Oh Rice Kripie Treats,

How I love thee.

Your crispy exterior crunches,

oh so satisfyingly.

With the marshmallow creme

draped gracefully around you,

creating a bond that can only be broken,

by the crunch of molars.

Late at night or as a mid-morning snack,

you're the perfect remedy.

The sweet taste and light taste,

keeps me coming back.

The best rice krispie treats are homemade,

With the nutritional information far, far away.

Somehow the crunch is much sweeter,

when the amount of calories is no where near.

For dinner or lunch, at night or at noon,

Rice Krispie treats are the perfect solution.

These treats are an utter addiction,

it's easy to inhale and entire batch in one session.

Though my thighs and tummy may not agree,

I think Rice Krispie treats are perfect for me.

Oh, Rice Krispie treats, how I adore thee,

Your crispy exterior crunches oh so satisfyingly.

I think I shall have a treat tonight,

and perhaps another this evening.

Maybe another for breakfast,

and surely- I could have another for a snack. Just this once.

Halloween Festivities

On a dark night on October 29, I came into the world. The chilly air caused the candles in my belly to flicker, as they burned brightly. With my gap-toothed smile, I grinned happily throughout the night.

The next day wasn't too eventful. The plastic skeleton was whining about being in the cobwebs and arguing with my friend Yaak, who was named after a hockey player. Yaak was a lot taller than me, and spoke in a fake British accent.

"I'm tangled in these stupid cobwebs," the plastic skeleton whined. "I don't even have a name. How horrible is that? I just spend my time wrapped up in cobwebs like a fly. There's not even a spider. If there was a spider this would make sense but no- there's just me, in the cobwebs."

"You are a whiner," Yaak said haughtily. "As the premier pumpkin-"

"You're not the premeier pumpkin-" I said.

"Really?" Yaak laughed. "I'm taller than you, my smile is larger, and I don't have goofy gap teeth. I believe I am the premier pumpkin."

"You're just an arrogant twit," the plastic skeleton shot back as a bird landed on a tree. "Don't poop on me. Excuse me- oh no. Put your tail feathers down. Don't do it. I said- DON'T DO IT! I can't get away! EEEWWWW! Ah man, it's in my mouth!"

And it went on like this the rest of the day, Yaak arguing with the plastic skeleton and the plastic skeleton whining about his position. The butterflies ignored them as they flew by, much to the skeleton's dismay. He was convinced if enough butterflies flapped their wings at the same time, it would create enough wind to blow him out of the cobwebs. He was never able to convince the cobwebs of this.

After another cool night with the flickering candles in my belly, it was the Day. It was Halloween! All day I felt the anticipating anxiousness in my shell.

"I wonder what trick-or-treaters we'll see!" I said excitedly.

"Trick-or-treating is sooo childish!" Yaak said disdainfully. "We'll be lucky if we're not crushed by teenagers."

"Crushed?" asked the plastic skeleton.

"Yes," Yaak said. "Teenagers tend to smash pumpkins in the streets. You can hear their screams throughout the night. They lay in the streets, sobbing- it's the most terrifying thing in the world."

I was petrified. What if I became a smashed pumpkin? What if my blueberry candles covered the insides of my belly? What if my warm glowing face became the last image anyone saw before I exploded into chunks, only to coat the bottoms of tires? Suddenly, I was not looking forward to trick-or-treating.

Night fell, and the candle burned in my tummy. I braced myself for the trick-or-treaters, terrifed of what would come. If I could have squinched my eyes, I would have. Instead, I just grinned at the world with my gap-toothed smile.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps. They were coming. The people that were going to destroy my hope were making their way towards me. Could I run? Could I hide? Suddenly I heard-

"Trick-or-treat!"

They didn't want me after all! They just wanted candy. Delicious, sweet candy. They didn't want me after all! I began to laugh happily! My gap-toothed grin got even better.

I saw pirates, fairies, vampires and football players. But my favorite part of the night? Grinning happily into the night. After all- I was a happy pumpkin.

They Don't Understand

I have come to the conclusion that the majority of people in the world have no idea what to think of me.

The Invisible Friends are wholeheartedly agreeing, saying, "We don't understand what she's talking about half the time anyway!"

Between people looking at me like an idiot when I talk about the plans I have going on at work, I'm truly starting to believe most people are fascinated by me. It's like adults who have no business being around small children who get stuck babysitting for a night. They want to put the toddler on a couch and have it watch movies, and are baffled when it tries to make a fort out of their plastic champagne glasses.

Ever since I began writing more, I've become a lot more creative. I've also become a lot more expressive with the stream of random thoughts that goes through my head.

For example, John and Kurt, friends from college, invaded this weekend for the Weekend of the Boys. I couldn't have been more delighted for my husband. However, I quickly realized they had no idea what to do with me from conversations such as these:

"Kurt, why do you hate me?"

He looked startled. "I don't hate you."

"Kurt, you know I brighten up your life."

"See, look Kurt! You're smiling! You can't help it! HOORAY!"



In my bubble, I tend to see things in different ways. For instance, I interpret animal's actions differently, as you've obviously seen in previous posts. Traffic and crowds gives me hives and fills me with an intensely irrational anger, particularly when dealing with malls. Even more annoying for most, I walk around in a perpetually happy perky state. People can't help but call me cute, but I wonder if they really think I'll just grow out of it. I don't think I will. It's rather like being caught up in a dance where I'm constantly spinning. Everytime a new song comes on, I can't help but keep moving.

And I like it.

It stares at Me

It stares at me. It stares at me day and night. I can feel it’s eyes on me while I work, watching quietly, judging me. It never speaks, never moves- it just stares. If it would even leave for a few minutes, go off to the corner to take a nap, I could breathe easily. However, he is ever vigilant in his post, never wavering.

There is a spider staring at me.

It’s a cute spider. He has big, button-like black eyes that shine down at me. His fragile golden body is thinner than an angel hair pasta. Looking at him, you can see the outline of his spindly legs as the light passes through.

And the spider doesn’t do anything wrong. He doesn’t harass the Water Cooler Ants, he doesn’t spastically run around my desk, he’s not building a web. He just stares. All day long.

I am not that interesting of a person when I work. The most I do is talk on the phone a lot. The phrase most people hear out of my mouth is my name being spelled over and over. Pike was much simpler.

My friend, the spider, is not even interested in my peanut butter. If I was a spider, the first thing I would do would be to leap into the vat of creamy goodness. Not this spider- he turns his nose up at the peanut butter. He would rather stare some more.

Then I thought he might be dead. So I gently poked the area next to him. He scuttled over a few steps, still staring. He obviously was not bothered by my red pen.

What could make this spider stare at me? I thought to myself. Does he think I’m a giant bug? Does he think I’m a mountain? Is he simply a bit slow in the head?

So one day, I asked him.

“Why are you staring at me, Mr. Spider,” I whispered, trying not to alert my co-workers to my insanity. “I don’t understand.”

The spider just stared at me. There was no movement, no flickering of understanding.

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll stare back.”

Squinting my eyes, I pushed all my mental power towards the spider. I made faces at him, I glared, and I stared. The spider did not move. He just kept staring. Frustrated, I threw up my hands and went back to work.

At the end of the day, I organized my best and turned off the computer. After I left, the spider blinked and crawled back to his corner.

“I win,” he said to himself contently, exhausted from staring. “I won. She blinked.”

The Water Cooler Ants Take a Swim

The Water Cooler ants generally spend their time around the Water Cooler- hence their name. They're smart enough to have realized that coffee-sucking, doughnut-eating people dwell over there. These people shed a lot of crumbs as they laugh about sport stats or tell interoffice jokes. The ants wait under the the protection of the cooler, watching. They ignore the rantings of the cranky Noisy Cricket. After the traffic has died down and people have chained themselves to their desk, they strike.

"Hurry!" they squeal, scurrying out onto the tile. "Move Move Move Move Move!"

"Oh for God's sake, it just got quiet," the Noisy Cricket groans. "Do shut up."

Hauling their prized crumbs onto their backs, they take off running towards the counter where the Pools of Coffee sit. The Water Cooler Ants reach the edge of the Water Cooler. The textured plastic walls seem to stretch up forever.

"This gets longer every time we do this," one of the ants grumbled.

"Hopefully the crumbs aren't stale," another ant grumbled. "The cheap crumbs are always stale."

"Keep going!" the leader bellowed. "We're almost there!"

As they made their way up the cooler, the cooler seemed shorter and shorter. Suddenly, one of the ants shouted.

"Look! There's a ocean!"

"An ocean?"

"An ocean!"

"Let's go swimming!"

"We can't go swimming," the leader ant argued. "We have crumbs!"

"We can put the crumbs on the beach," one of the ants said.

"That's not a beach, that's a ledge!" one of the ants shrieked. "A ghastly ledge! We could tumble to our deaths."

"Weeeeee!" yelled one of the ants, jumping in.

"Holy crap, he jumped in!" the leader shouted.

"He jumped in?"

"He jumped in!"

"And it's cooolllddd!" the now shivering ant said as he retreated from the water. "It's bad, it's cold! Cold is bad! Retreat!"

"It's cold! Retreat!" All the ants yelled in unison, scurrying up the side of the water cooler with their crumbs.

"For God sake's, of course it's cold," the Noisy Cricket grumbled. "You're swimming in the run-off from the cold facet. Do you know how many diseases there are in there?"

"Ants can't get diseases," the Water Cooler Ant leader argues.

"Fine," the Noisy Cricket snaps. "When you get a cold and you start sneezing, and blow off your crumbs, don't ask me for help."

The Water Cooler Ants sat quietly, chewing on a few of their crumbs. The ant who went swimming is shivering and huddling up to the others for warmth.

"Should we go swimming later?" one asked.

"No," the leader said. "We must protect our crumbs. It'll be lunchtime soon. We just have a few minutes left."

Suddenly, the door swings open, and people begin coming in.

"The CRUMBS!"

"The CRUMBS!" they all shriek.

Suddenly, swimming is forgotten. All that matters now is protecting the doughnut crumbs.

The Pants Rant

Now, here at the Pond, the Invisible Friends don't want to hear about clothes. They've made it very clear that they would prefer to discuss the Water Cooler Ants, flowers and the ever popular butterflies. However, rather than discuss and embarrass the male Invisible Friends by talking about how the bra industry is out to screw me by making torture devices I either fall out of or fall into, we're going to talk about pants.

"Pants?" the Invisible Friends groan. "We don't want to hear about your issues with pants. Unless you sat in something? Did your pants get paint all over them? Did you get glued to a chair? Is it interesting in any way?"

Unfortunately, this is a rant about pants. Particularly, a rant about the pants at Express. When I was in high school, Express sold decent, non-skank clothing. Button down shirts, cute lacy tops, and normal fitting pants were the norm. I lived at Express. My college sophomore year, they morphed into a clothing line that catered to the wanna-be-heroin-addict-twenty-something-that-goes-clubbing-every-night-and-is-a-waiter-during-the-day-but-really-they're an-actress person. Clothes were slit, shirts became long and tight and necklines began to waver all over the body. The only people who look good in this clothing are either hot dogs, or really really skinny people. If you have hips or a chest, just buy a paper bag. Otherwise, you'll look like a hot dog stuffed into a green polyester wrapper.

My mother had bought me some pants in college, when I was a freshmen and two sizes larger. I had a gorgeous pair of khakis with the tags still on them. This afternoon, I returned them to Express. I told the openly gay clerk that I just wanted to exchange them from a smaller pair. Terrified I would touch his perfectly lined up piles, which he was using a ruler to measure, he handed me a size six. I scurried off to the dressing room.

Normally, I wear anything from a 4 to an 8, depending on the store. I'm normally a size 6. I assumed I would try the pants, twirl around, and be out of the store and off to the grocery store in mere minutes. Was I ever wrong.

The size 6 khaki stretch pants were skin tight. Painted on. If I ate a dorito, you would be able to see it. It would stick out of my butt, telling the whole world, "Oh my God! She ate a dorito! Look at me! She ate a dorito!"

"Is she done yet?" the Invisible Friends yawn. "Does she fart noisely at least?"

Peeling off the pants, I emerge and ask the hovering clerk to get me another pair of pants. The way he gently caresses the pants as he hands them to me makes me a bit nervous.

Back in the dressing room, I pull on the pants. These are an inch too big around the waist and baggy in the hips and crotch area. This is not making sense. The other pants are so tight in the hips, crotch and thighs they could easily be mistaken as pantyhose.

I emerge in the pants to examine the three way mirror, trying to convince myself they'll look decent with heels. At this point, I was so distressed by the idea of having to come back to the mall I was willing to do anything. Then the dressing room girl pounced on me.

"OOOOH!" she squealed, coming over. I looked around, praying she was squealing over someone else. "Those are too big! You need a smaller size."

Nope.

I explained my situation and I was simply between sizes. "Put on the six," she instructed. I changed and came back out.

"They're too tight," I said, rubbing my thighs. I looked in the mirror. My phone book butt now looked like a bubble butt, and you could see the pattern of my underwear. These were definitely not work pants.

"Do you have any other styles?" I asked.

"Not in that fabric," she said, eyeing my figure. "Try these." She pulled out some wool trousers. I pulled them on. Not only did they itch, but I now looked like a Barbie doll. You could see every dimple and line in my skin.

After a convention of three salespeople (two gay) and the unsolicited advice from curious watchers, I pulled my lounge pants back on. I handed the pants back to the disappointed sales girl. My eyes were filling up with tears and my voice was catching. I was so frustrated that I wanted to rip the pants in two.

"Did these not work out?" she asked.

"No," I said. And with that, I sailed out of the store. The mall was swimming with people, making me more angry by the second. I began to watch legs, and everybody had pants! Some were a bit tight, some were a bit looks, but no one looked like they were painted on. I could not believe I lost control and was in tears over a pair of pants. I couldn't tell what frustrated me more- the fact I now had a $100 credit to a store that was rarely carrying anything I liked, that all the other stores were carrying very expensive but gorgeous pants, or now that I was going to have to brave the chilly week with three pairs of black pants. All I wanted was some variety.

The worst part of it all is, I have to go back next weekend. For I desperately need bras and work clothes of any kind, which makes the mall seem much worse. I'm just so frustrated I can't find a simple pair of khakis and dress pants that don't make me look hippy or like I'm drowning in fabric. I just need bootcut khaki and grey pants that look elegant, some nice skirts and shirts that aren't t-shirts. All without being long for hot-dog people and so loose or tight that I just look normal. Is that so much to ask? When did shopping become such a chore?

But I still think that this is all a conspiracy of the designers for the skinny people without hips and boobs. Mannequins, perhaps?


And for the Invisible Friends who have now turned this off because they're bored- I did fart so bad I stunk Ben out the other day. There.