Sorry Wrong Number

I had decided I wasn't going to date anymore. No more Dateme.com.  You know, looking at photos of men who pretty much lie about their height, age, weight and post a picture that is at least ten years old when they had hair. After all, dating for me seemed to be a steady stream of "one" dates. That was me, the queen of "one" date. I could go out with a guy for one date and realize very quickly that home would have been a much better place for me to be. I had decided I'd just work on a few home improvement projects. I had decided that I'd just stay active with the singles group at church. I had decided I'd just be the best "me" I could be. At least, that was my plan. Little did I know how a few weeks could change my life forever.

It was July in Georgia.  A sunny hot and sultry Wednesday afternoon.  The oldest daughter and I made a trek for freshman orientation to Shorter College in Rome, Georgia.  It was a great time to explore new things.  After two days of orienting we left Rome headed for home and vacation on the Gulf of Mexico.  The younger girls were awaiting our return packed and ready to load up for a week of long overdue vacation.  Friday afternoon we drove to Columbus and made a pit stop with the good Sheila and her girls.  Up early Saturday morning headed for the gulf coast, the Palmer chicks.  Happy times.  My life was full, my heart light.  Being a single mom was a great thing.  The wind was changing direction and I was unaware.

Upon my return from the beach, low and behold there was a message in my inbox from Dateme.com.  Someone calling himself Golf Guy had contacted me.  Hmmmm.  Golf Guy.   I'd seen his profile.  I remembered.  He sounded, well, nice.  And cute.  But remember, I had made that decision . . . you know the one.  I looked at his profile again.  Still, nice and did I mention he was cute?  What's a girl to do?  Respond! And QUICKLY.  Totally forgetting I had decided not to date.  I decided to respond.

There was a catch, a hiccup. The email he'd sent me was received on Wednesday, the day I'd taken college freshman for orientation.  Way before seven days at the beach.  Eleven days earlier.  Eleven days is a very long time in cyber dating world.  Lots of thoughts were going through my mind. What if he'd forgotten about sending the request?  What if he'd already gone on to the next girl?  what if, what if . . . What did I have to loose?  Within a few seconds I'd responded with something like, "Not sure if you're still interested.  I've been out of town on vacation.  Bla bla bla,  let me know."  Remember, he seemed nice and cute.  Little did I know how this quick response would affect the rest of my life.

He was still interested. It took a couple of days for him to respond.  His response was something like, "I'm on vacation now, will get back with you when I return."  Well, all rightie then.  He didn't tell me he'd be on vacation for three weeks.  Life continued. Eventually, he returned and emailed me again.  We bantered back and forth with email for several days and finally he gave me his phone number.  Told me to give him a call.  It took a few minutes but I did call the number.  Several times and for a few days.    I kept getting this  - very strange - voice mail.  Some guy with a weird voice.  Could I date this voice?  I was not at all sure.   Sounded like he was in a tunnel maybe a research lab.   My imagination went wild.  What kind of lab?  A hospital lab?  A research lab?  Were there white mice?   Ewe.

After I couldn't reach him for a day or two he prompted me, via email, to try again.  He was me teasing me relentlessly that I was not successful at reaching him.  Told me to get one of the girls to help me dial the phone. Surely one of them could teach me. Finally, I emailed him that I'd just called him and gotten his voice mail.  Again.  Then miracle of miracles.  He said something like, "I've been here all morning and haven't missed any calls.  My number is 404-245-2300."

Wait.  404-245-2300 is NOT the number I'd been dialing.  You remember, the guy at the funky research lab?  The correct number was only a digit off.  I'd been dialing the wrong number all along. So, I held my breath and dialed the new number.  He answered immediately and with an attitude of  it's about time.  On the other hand I was relieved to hear that he sounded normal and not in a research lab kind of normal.

We had a very nice conversation and arranged a face to face date the next week.  We didn't wait that long.   He phoned me Friday morning and asked if I'd join him for lunch.  As I was agreeing I was also thinking about how this would be it.  You know me, the "one date queen."   Imagine my surprise when lunch lasted a little longer than my 'hour' that was allowed.  We set up date two.   My one date streak had been broken.

Date two was an all day event which lead to date three, four, five and eventually a proposal of marriage.  Twelve years later I search for words to tell of this relationship.  It's a lot of fun.  There is love, laughter, children and grandchildren.  I can't imagine how different my life might be if I had kept that "no more dating" decision.  How ridiculous.   

Date Two Hot August Sunday Afternoon

Senior English

And I don't mean senior as in senior citizen.  I mean senior as in high school senior.

It was a rite of passage to endure Mr. Clark's tough senior English class back in the day.  I remember well the Harbrace Handbook.  Stupid handbook.  I also recall the number of my error(s).  It was 16.  Now I'm not sure if it was a letter or number came after that 16.  It could have been 16-A or maybe 16-7.  I just remember my grammatical errors we in section 16 of that dreaded handbook.  Obviously, I did not learn from my mistakes.  I received notations on every paper to check "16" such and so.  Why didn't I get it?  Could it be I wasn't paying attention?  Or dreaded writing?  Did I just (gasp) not care?  I know I cared, but probably not very much.

What I learned in that class was that I was not a good writer.  That I was a bad writer.   I could never be good enough for an "A". It wasn't perfect.  OK, so what is perfect?   I've searched for perfection and only have found it in a bar of chocolate.  Or Chocolate Stuff from Barbara Jean's restaurant on St. Simons Island.

Today I chose to write because I like it.  It's fun.  It is an expression of how I feel and what I think.   It's my effort is to make people laugh, reflect and enjoy life.  How can we instill wanting to write in our children?  How can we encourage them?   How can we make it fun?  In my opinion, everything we do should be as much fun as possible.  Let's face it.  Lots of things, well, just aren't fun - unless we search to find the fun in the task at hand.  

All those years ago, I remember John for encouraging me.  John was so smart.  He still is. Maybe I thought some of his "smart" would rub off on me.  NOT! He did help me put things into perspective.  For that, I am grateful and thanks to John, I got one good grade in Senior English.  It was for TALKING though.  Now, THAT's something I'm good at . . .


Just Bebe

Which Way To The Playground?

A couple of days ago I read an article on the internet about children being injured on playgrounds.  The title grabbed my attention immediately.

Danger on the Playground: Riding the Slide with Your Toddler in Your Lap Could Break Her Leg

What grandma wants that?  Of course, I clicked on the link and quickly read through the advice the author mentioned.  Seems if you ride with the child on your lap, their leg could get caught and could be easily broken.    So, don't do that!

You know in this internet age there are people that post comments on every article they read.  After reading the article, it was like a huge vacuum drawing me toward those comments.  Sarcasm.  I love it.

The first was a quip about being amazed that he survived being a child.  What with sliding down slides and hanging on bars and climbing flag poles, all without the benefit of a helmet, shin guards or elbow pads.

The next comment went further and mentioned riding a bike without a helmet, shoeless and having a sister or brother on the handlebars.  Again, how did we survive?

I posted a comment on my facebook page about the article and mentioned our elementary school playground.  Seems there were quite a few memories about the merry go round.  "Best scar ever" was what one of my friends had to say.

Later in the week I had the pleasure of attending recess at a local elementary school.  Yes, contrary to popular belief, they still have recess.  (Remember, I said I loved sarcasm.  I think there should be a font especially for sarcasm.)  What I noticed on today's playground was a lot more "stuff."  Brightly colored things for kids to climb on, slide down, climb through, shimmy down and balance on.  Lots more to play on than our selection of metal gray/brown slides, swings and maybe a monkey bar or two.

Despite all of the brightly colored slides, swings and monkey bars I couldn't help but notice that most of the kids went to the open field and played kick ball.  Funny, all these years later kicking a ball with your classmates is the first choice.   Oh, for a repeat of 5th grade.  On second thought, maybe not.

Just Bebe

Sooner Rather Than Later

We think we know best, right?  Well, I am in a weird place.  Not exactly where I thought I'd be.  Not what I planned.  Planned.  That IS the key word here.  What I PLANNED.  I guess in this life we can plan all we want.  Just thinking that makes me laugh.  We plan and plan then plan a little more.  It has come to my attention that we are not in control.  At all.  I mean, we are responsible for ourselves, what we do, say, think.   But, that's about it.

The desire of my heart was to be in a sales job.  I got one. It was telephone sales. 

I love talking.  Just ask my mom.  I got a C in conduct in Miss Buckner's first grade class.  I was in big, I mean REALLY BIG trouble. I love talking on the phone.  How hard could this be?  Dialing and talking and dialing and talking.  So, I made 100+ calls a day trying to find the right guy to buy my company's cleaning chemicals.

The part I loved the most about this job was talking to great people.  Some of them even bought from me, most not. Hence, me not lasting at that job.  But that's another story.

One of my customers and I had a very long discussion. (Sales plan: Make them your friend and listen to them, then give your sales pitch.)  This YMCA manager shared with me that he'd left a high stress career and landed directing the Y.  His new job was a much slower pace for him.   He shared with me he was writing.  I mentioned that I'd always wanted to write.  But where to start?  He encouraged me to get started. I believe the words he used 'sooner rather than later.'

Is a year sooner, or later?  I'm thinking more later.  So, I'm a slow starter.  This is no surprise to me. What was I waiting on?  I know.  I want everything to be perfect.  And I'm laughing again.  You know it will never be perfect.

Perfection is not for this side of heaven.


Just Bebe

But I Don't Want To!

It's Thursday.  The sun is not visible to me.  I know it's there but there's a heavy cloud cover. 

I have a really bad case of the "I don't want to(s)". 

I have no energy.  What zapped me?

There are Cheerios on the floor where Hayes put them.  Someone needs to pick them up.  But I don't want to.

My house looks very extra cluttered today - it usually is - and I just don't want to put anything away.

I don't like feeling this way.  I like having energy and 'want to' and getting things done.

The way I feel makes me, just, blah! 

I have appointments made for real estate.

I have prom dresses that need my attention, but you got it.  I don't want to.

Several years ago I was in a preschool room.  The children were 4. There was one very busy boy and as teachers do, we kept re-directing his activities.  Eventually, he was sent to time out.  In his very best voice of whine and in a very southern accent he gave us a sing song version of "BUT I DON'T WAAAAAANNA GO TO TIME OUT!"   He may have even stomped his foot.  Today this makes me chuckle.  Of course, after we ignored him for 25 seconds he was in control and interacting with the other children.  All was well.

That's me today.  You think someone will send me to time out?  Maybe send me to take a nap?  I want more than 25 seconds.  Please, pretty please.

Just Bebe

That Yellow Cat

What can I say?  I love him.  Stupid yellow cat.

As far as I know he's only had three homes.  You know, places he's lived.

The first one I know of was the parking lot outside J. C. Penney at Arbor Place mall.   He was a tiny little thing covered in dusty, greasy, parking lot remnants.  The little bit of fur between his paws was matted together.  His yellow color was masked by a coating of that same parking lot dust.  Oh, and he had this huge oil spot on his right side.

It was July.  Remember, we live in the sunny south and July is hot, hot, hot and humid.  Kitty, not the yellow cat, and I went to exchange some items we'd bought earlier in the week.   It was all her fault that we found him. She chose that particular parking spot.

The sunlight beat down on the asphalt parking lot.  Heat bounced like a ball upward away from the pavement.  Leaving the comfort of our air conditioned car we saw a little blur.  It was scampering toward a family that was leaving the mall.  It trotted toward them and gave a tiny 'meow'.  Kitty's immediately response was, "Mommy!"  I shook my head knowing we would take this kitten home with us.  Quickly I gave her instructions to catch the kitten and wait in the car.  Be sure to turn on the air conditioning so you two won't melt while waiting.  Kitty and I took turns sitting in the car with our new pet, air conditioning blowing on high and the coldest setting.  I'm sure the yellow kitten thought this was a great improvement over the hot parking lot.

Jake, the master of the house, was lounging on the sofa taking his Sunday afternoon nap.  I was so hopeful that we could sneak this small, scared, flea infested kitten into the house undetected.    Jake lifted his head and demanded, "WHAT IS THAT?"   I answered in a calm, soothing sweet tone, "It's a kitten. He was in the mall parking lot. We're only going to keep him until we can find him a good home."  This was a lie.    The master of the house bellowed back at me; "I want that cat gone by Monday."

We took him downstairs where all 5, yes, 5 children gathered as he got a bath in the sink.  The bath revealed a pretty yellow kitten, big blob of oil and all.

Fast forward seven years later.  We've moved from that house to another.  And you know we moved that yellow cat as well.  He is king of the castle coming and going as he pleases.  He is a great warrior in the fight against keeping the ground squirrel population under control.   He prowls and protects our yard.  He greets us at the car when we come home.  He thinks he's part dog.  He's a nosy neighbor watching from the inside out twitching his tail as he dreams of catching one of those pesky gray squirrels.

Chico is a small handicapped dog that lives next door.  He has a wheelchair for his back legs. (You can't make this stuff up.) Yellow cat loves to lounge around in view of  Chico for pure aggravation.  He is also a sneaky brat.  A couple of weeks ago we had a dark and stormy night.  I couldn't find him anywhere.  I wanted him safe, warm and dry inside.  I called and called.  He never came.  So I just prayed for his safety.  Yes, I prayed for a cat to be safe. I  found him the next morning in the downstairs closet.  He was warm safe and dry and asleep in the house. My prayer was answered.  All that worry for nothing.  Still, I love that yellow cat.

So, our cat that was supposed to be "gone" by Monday is mostly referred to as Gone.  But he isn't. 

Just Bebe

And let's dedicate this today to Jan who loved hearing my yellow cat and dog stories.  She is resting in Heaven today. 

My Favorite Melody

The first memory I have of her was in the fall of our 9th grade year.   We had Mr. Askew.  Some sort of history, second period.  She dashed in every day just as the late bell was ringing.  Then proceed to clean grass off her shoes.  Who knows what my first class of the day was, but I can sure tell you what her's was.  Band.

No, she didn't play an instrument.  She was on the glamorous flag corps. Or, as we called them, the Silks.  You see, the flags were nylon, satin or 'silky' material, hence the name, Silks.  One of the sponsors also called them the "flaggetts."   Mr. M made up that word.  He was probably so aggravated and wanted to use another name but Flaggetts came out instead.

I digress.  She spent her first class session marching on the field.  Yelling commands over the music at marching band members.  Counting for them, telling them to start now, stop here, turn in one more line, etc.  All done in preparation for the BIG, Friday night halftime show.  Ah, those were the days!  Our band was HUGE and our football team great.  Always. 

Oh, back to the cleaning of the shoes.  Every day they were covered in freshly cut grass.  Remnants of marching and practicing on that wet football field.  So much fun.  Such great memories.  Before I knew it, I was asking her how I could become a Silk to.

Fall became winter then winter to spring.  At the end of our Freshman year we both completed a workshop and were successful in obtaining a coveted spot on the Silks for the upcoming marching band season.  That was the beginning.

Flash forward - Thirty (cough, cough, wheeze, giggle) some odd years.

Today we met for lunch.  An early lunch.  A lunch that lasted for hours.  It was great.  I think we solved most of the world's problems.  Or at least our part of the world.  Now if we could only get the rest of the world to listen.

Thank you Melody D for your inspiration.  Love to you.

Just Bebe.