Today was an errand running day. I thought it was going to be sunshine and warmth, so I donned shorts and a t-shirt. Turned out to be gray and cloudy and fairly cold.
I haven’t been out since last week. Since then I see daffodils are blooming in yards. Trees are flowering. Grass is growing.
But I don’t dare start my gardening frenzy now. Oklahoma weather is too fickle.
I’m almost finished in the kitchen. Maybe I will be done tomorrow or Saturday. Then I will show you how I’ve transformed it into what I call my “cottage boho” kitchen.
I’m going to have to rest some today and get my feet up though or I won’t be worth spit.
While I was in Target at the checkout (Walmart makes me want to run for the hills. I imagine it does that to most everyone), the clerk was sacking my groceries and talking to the clerk in the next queue over.
Said the only thing she missed about teaching was spring break. (See, had I known it was spring break, I would have snacked along until next week.)
I asked her if she made more money working in Target. She said at least she wasn’t hit every day. What grade did you teach, I asked her.
Seems it was fourth and fifth graders, special education. I could see her point.
You know, I think back to grade school, and I never, and I mean never, saw or heard of a student hitting a teacher. It just was not done.
So what gives? I don’t get it. Teachers were to be respected and honored.
The craziest thing I remember from grade school was when two boys at recess ate a bunch of ants. I think it was third grade. Guess they thought it was cute.
Well, there was this one incident in seventh grade that I recall. We had a rather bald and rotund music teacher. And one day it’s quiet and we’re all sitting looking down at our desks at what, I don’t recall.
Suddenly there’s this loud crashing noise. Our music teacher had passed out and fallen to the floor, taking his chair with him.
We all sat at our desks and looked at one another. We had been told not to get out of our seats. And back in those days, if you were told to stay in your seat, you did so.
So there’s this middle-aged man lying crumpled on the floor, and a classroom of seventh graders are stunned into total silence and afraid to move.
I don’t know how long he laid there. But finally one of the braver boys got up and either went to get someone or did something to alert the adults that something bad had happened.
I was the child who just tried to blend in and not say much of anything. I wouldn’t have dared get up out of my seat. So for a time, a whole classroom sat and stared at our music teacher, who has suffered some medical calamity. I guess we’d have let him die had that one boy not taken action.
The world is so different now. I’m walking around in Bed, Bath, & Beyond (per usual, I think I need a few things, then end up putting them back, frugal shopper that I am.) This well-dressed woman kept whipping and darting in front of me.
She was talking on her phone. I don’t know if you’ve seen the video someone took of what appears to be a doctor’s office waiting room, where a woman is irritating everyone with her loud phone antics. When suddenly another rather meek looking woman grabs the phone out of the woman’s hand and throws it to the floor.
I found the video for you. Watch and please turn up your sound to listen. The sound is very eventful.
I have watched that video several times, and I take great satisfaction out of watching her crash that phone to the floor. Because I’ve wanted to do the same thing so many times.
I get tired of being walked into, having people just stop in the middle of an aisle and holding you up.
What on earth is everyone talking about? First of all, I don’t think I’m capable of doing two things like shopping and talking on the phone at the same time. So in a way it’s like watching a circus act. Someone walking a tight rope with relative ease.
Believe it or not, there was a time before all this magnificent technology when you didn’t carry phones everywhere you went.
If your car broke down, usually someone was kind enough to stop to help you. And unless they exited from their vehicle with what appeared to be a broken arm and a handsome face, you typically rolled the dice and hoped for the best.
If this man had what appeared to be a broken arm, then you’d just pushed the hands of fate and Ted Bundy stood before you, all manner of ugly deeds twisting around in his head.
I don’t know. Somehow we survived. It wasn’t the end of the world for your car to break down, unless it was out in the middle of nowhere. I never changed a flat tire.
I didn’t even learn how to put gas in my car for a long time, because in the olden days some nice young man did it for you, then washed your front window until it was clear as day.
I remember driving this huge white boat of a car. I think it was an Oldsmobile, but I can’t recall. Boy, it had soft seats and hummed so beautifully and it was really l-o-n-g.
I loved that car. I could go grocery shopping and buy for two weeks for our family of four, and after the young man (we had young men whose job it was to push your cart to your vehicle and store your groceries away for you) got all the groceries in, I still had lots of room. Felt like you were sitting on a cloud driving that huge car.
These days you pay $50,000 dollars for a car that folds up like an accordion if it gets hit.
Speaking of being hit. When I moved to Oklahoma three years ago, I didn’t have a scratch on my 2006 Pathfinder. Now it looks like a drunk drove it and lived to tell the tale. People are always hitting my car in parking lots.
I come out of the store to a new dent and I wonder why they can’t leave their insurance information under my windshield wiper?
Heaven knows I’ll probably never be able to afford another car, and I’ve tried really hard to keep this one in good condition. But park in a store parking lot, and you are suddenly a magnet for people who don’t have the common decency to feel bad about smashing into your car. They don’t leave their name and write “I’m sorry. Call this number.”
For all I know, they were carrying on some mundane conversation on their cell phone or texting, which you will never see me do in this lifetime.
I’ve been hit on all sides now. For some reason this never has happened to me before. This city is three times bigger than the one I moved from. No one ever hit me in the parking lot. And naturally back then I could have paid to have it fixed.
Now I drive around in a dented vehicle and I no longer frown when I see cars with their back windows covered in garish cardboard and tape. Or car doors wired shut so they don’t fall open. And when they go through a drive-thru, it’s like watching a magician pay and get their food.
I have now entered the world of people who get all manner of dents and continue to drive around with them. Because heavens, it would cost a lot to actually use the insurance I pay a small fortune for. I don’t dare call them and say I want my car dents to be fixed.
I think I’ve told you that car insurance in OK is the highest in this country. We have hellish roads with pot holes you could hit and bite your tongue off they’re so deep. We pay state income taxes. We pay taxes on food. And they can’t even build a decent road to drive our very expensively insured cars on.
It’s common knowledge that it’s easy to know when you cross the state line from Oklahoma into Texas. The highways and roads are suddenly smooth as silk.
Guess I’ve prattled on long enough. Got to get my foot up, and maybe I can move a little closer to showing you that kitchen in the coming days.