Monthly Archives: September 2022

It’s the Car’s Fault

My driver’s education teacher, Mr. Doom, began our first session saying, “I don’t like women drivers.”

Neither did my license examiner, because I failed my first driver’s test. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

I’ve never felt comfortable with cars.

One friend, however, described his potential purchase’s power seats, mirrors and door locks with the tender awe he would a forever love. I asked if they had set a date.

Me? I’ve felt more excited about sump pumps.

Cars complicate my life. No parking space ever stretches wide enough. Cars hide from me. If I stop at McDonald’s, I know upon return, I finally will find my car sulking behind Kohl’s.

My cars overreact. For example, I was taking my son to a birthday party when I ran over a large box flattened on the road. My minivan resurrected this cardboard roadkill. It fastened onto the transmission, which emitted strangulation noises. (Have you ever tried to explain tardiness because a killer box attacked you en route?)

My cars also exhibit marked attention deficit disorders. One ignored big rocks lining a business’s driveway, catching its underbelly on them. As its wheels spun helplessly, I wondered if we would grow old together there.

Fortunately, the omnipotent secretary assured me of help forthcoming and rang a bell. The eager help, who thought she had summoned them for doughnuts, received the high honor of carrying my minivan to freedom.

I told them, honest, it was the car’s fault. Guys! They always believe machines first.

For years, I tried to understand their inner workings — both guys’ and cars’. But whenever I crossed a garage’s sacred portals, the Gods of Grease inevitably inquired if the right troyer rod’s connection was causing me problems. Had I brought the car in to have its emulsifier de-linted, and did enough air reach the cogschain?

I was more comfortable posing on a car than driving one!

Or something like that.

Finally, I found a repair shop that doesn’t lock up when I drive in.

I simply say, “Please winterize the car,” and they take care of it. Even if it’s July.

Some people are comfortable with women drivers, Mr. Doom. Even if the ladies are uncomfortable with cars.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Are you a car fan?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: No-Temptation Birthday Cake

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OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: No-Temptation Birthday Cake. O Lord, thank You that this pineapple upside-down cake turned out well for my husband’s birthday. And OMG, thank You that though it is his favorite, I can walk away from this cake without a pang.

But if it were chocolate. …

Hair We Go Again

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Bad hair days didn’t exist during my childhood.

If my hair dripped from swimming, I solved the problem the way our spaniel did: Shaggy and I stuck our noses out the station wagon window and let God blow slimy locks dry.

My mother, however, used brush rollers that jammed into her cranium like a medieval iron maiden’s spikes.

She tried to teach her daughter well. By federal law, every grade school girl experienced two Toni Home Permanents per year. Little did we know “Toni” was an acronym for Toxic Onion Nuclear Inhalant. We’d inherited the ancient First Principle of Hairstyles: if it’s natural, if it’s easy, then it’s all wrong.

Even in fifth grade, I wore curls like everyone else.

Afterward, though, I liked wearing curls like everybody else’s. I cried, however, when my brother’s wavy blond hair was whacked into a crew cut — like everybody else’s.

During the 1960s, thousands of young people, including my brother and myself, freed ourselves from hair oppression. Away with Toni Home Permanents! Away with crew cut wax! Death to hairspray!

The Establishment fought us, comb and scissors. They excommunicated us from schools, football squads, and church quiz teams. We sang our “Hair” anthem with noble defiance.

My mother pleaded, “Honey, your hair’s already straight. Why set it with orange juice cans?”

I gave the obvious answer: “Because soup cans won’t stay up.”

Poor Mom. What a square.

At a pajama party, hip friends and I made a radical discovery: wearing younger siblings’ underwear on our heads would keep soup cans up all night.

My clueless mother didn’t “get” my soup cans. Nor why my friend Linda fried her curly locks on an ironing board. You’d think Mom, who’d suffered years of brush roller agony, would share our vision for hair that defined a new dawn for all humanity.

Decades later, we of the “Hair” generation are mostly thankful to have some.

We highlight our gray, lowlight it, blow-dry, messy bun and shave it. We color it pink, green and purple, hoping we’ll look like … our grandchildren.

Hasn’t worked. Maybe I should try soup cans again — with underwear on my head.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What did/do you endure to maintain trendy hair?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: No Marching Choirs

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O Lord, such a treat to watch our oldest grandchild march with her college band on Family Day. But after the director invited visitors to a practice workout with our kids, OMG, I’m glad I’ve always been a singer!

The professional and the amateur. Can you tell who’s who?

Nothing like full uniforms on a hot day!

The Day I Faced Facebook

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Scrolling through Facebook, I read family and friends’ posts. Accept friend requests. Delete one from someone who addresses me as “Warm Infant.” Perhaps the correct translation is “hot babe”?

Fourteen years after surrendering to Facebook, I sometimes wonder why.

When MySpace and Facebook first invaded our world, I imagined techno-geeks had invented one more way I could crash my computer.

I asked my children, “What is this ‘My Face’?”

I should have known better. They’d let their mother think an MP3 was a World War II jet. Why did I think they’d explain social media?

Through the Moms’ Grapevine, I learned my grown children communicated with each other on Facebook. What?! When we lived in the same house for 25 years, I sometimes had to pay siblings to talk to each other.

What were they talking about now?

I learned they were displaying cute pictures of my grandchildren on Facebook.

I leaped into the 21st century … and accidentally signed up for Space Bookies.

Eventually, though, I became a Facebook member and read my daughter’s post: “When my mom joins Facebook, the world will end.”

My children had felt so safe. Bwa-ha-ha-ha!

And they’d had no idea their mother was a warm infant.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your social media story?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: Feeling Old and Ugly

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O Lord, this feline and I agree: mirrors should be banned forever.

But a photo of my 102-year-old Aunt Lurline — lovely in every way — reminds me age doesn’t limit Your work in our lives. OMG, will You make me like her when I grow up?

Laboring to Understand Labor Day

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When did Labor Day first appear as a holiday on your childhood radar?

For many, it occurred at school registration the Friday before Labor Day. Registration required rising early, cleaning up, and filling out cards. Labor Day didn’t rate a party — not a single piece of candy. We didn’t color smelly, mimeographed pictures, as we did even on St. Patrick’s Day.

Labor Day returned us to summer sanity. We picnicked and swam. However, at dusk, we were scrubbed in bathtubs, then sent to bed early.

Labor Day began as fun, but its ending? Not so much. Worse, we’d drag out before daylight the next day. The next 12 years!

Labor Day marked the onset of hard labor.

Image by Stefan Schweihofer from Pixabay.

Image by Ruslan Gilmanshin from Pixabay.

Once I grew accustomed to school mornings, though, Labor Day portended excitement: I’d play with kids besides my (yuck) siblings. I’d wear “new” hand-me-downs. Color with unbroken crayons. I’d get down to the business of learning and discover a world far beyond the cornfields.

No one explained how Labor Day began. Unions weren’t strong in my rural area. Labor Day parades consisted of Boy Scouts, tractor convoys, and bands with wavy marching lines and wavier tones.

Other than my giving up white shoes, Labor Day’s significance remained tied to school’s beginning — for me, then for my children.

Gradually, I learned the holiday was rooted in injustice, power struggles and political turmoil. I won’t attempt to untangle shame and blame. Instead, I’ll get down to the business of gratitude. To simply say, “thank you” to workers who make a difference in our lives.

Thank you to the courteous, young server whose efficiency made me want to vote him in as President.

Thank you to factory workers who — despite repetitive, uninspiring work — care about quality.

Thank you to store greeters who offer real smiles. (You don’t think that’s work? Pretend you’re in a wedding reception line for eight hours.)

Thank you to housekeeping personnel who keep restrooms clean.

Thank you to all who labor with excellence when nobody’s watching.

I doubt the above would appreciate my coloring a mimeographed picture in their honor, but I hope my small tributes appear on their radar.

Though dedicated work may not be a picnic, it’s certainly something to celebrate every day.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Have you thanked a worker today?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: Labor Day Controversy

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Father, You, too, remember when our former neighbors faithfully kept their annual Labor Day tradition: working hard in their yard. Working. HARD. I suppose it seems consistent to labor on Labor Day. But today’s a holiday! OMG, instead, don’t You think we should rename it “Loafing Day”?