SERENDIPITY OR FAITH?

Last night I was blogging (defined as Hope's late-at-night randomings) about my truck and bumper stickers....

... and then this morning at least eleven of those gummed labels need to be replaced.

As well as the passenger door of my truck.

But that, of course, is secondary.

The accident was almost poetic - a little old lady (literally - probably in her late 60's or early 70's) drove out a church parking lot directly into the side of my truck.

She wasn't hurt, I wasn't hurt, but of course we had to have the police come and make a report - and because of her age, I asked that the EMTs also come and make certain she was okay.

Know what? We've got a lot of cute fireman, EMTs and cops here in Sierra Vista.

The only problem, really, was that the one car rental place in town closes at noon on Saturday... and the accident happened at 11:50 a.m.

The truck made it home -- but only after I made certain the insurance company wouldn't have any problem towing it if we couldn't make it all the way.

Rental car on Monday - what fun!

EYE DON'T HAVE IT

"Look me in the eye, boy!"  "He met my gaze unflinchingly."  "Their eyes locked the moment she walked in the room."  "All eyes turned obediently to page 56 in the textbook."

So why don't people want to make eye contact anymore?

I tried one time to explain to a friend the difference between looking and staring, and it really is just a matter of time. So when passing another shopper in aisle A28 of Target (cosmetics, by the way), a glance is fine, a nod of the head is almost forward, but actually LOOKING STRAIGHT AT THEIR FACE.... OMGNO!!!!!

I have a couple of theories as to why. We as women have unwittingly allowed ourselves to view each other as competitors in some sort of ultimate Survivor episode, vying for attention from each other, scouting out others' weaknesses, and inwardly laughing at women who dress unfashionably. And this happens regardless of is we  are happily married, content with our present boyfriend or enjoying being single - - 'other' women are our enemy... at least in casual, public interactions.

So I, of course, am a source of immense satisfaction for almost all women I pass - I'm usually in baggy jeans, an old sweatshirt torn (not tastefully) at the shoulder, no makeup, and my old-lady reading glasses perched on my nose, and my hair looks like I just rolled out of bed (which 95% of time is true).

And since I am the grandmotherly age now, it's easier for me to strike up conversations because "oh, this nice confused old lady is talking about something; I should be polite and pretend to listen to her."

What's that expression, age over beauty, right?

So, the whole reason I am babbling about this subject is I am constantly bewildered by the number of people who walk by my truck when it is parked, glance at it, obviously notice it is literally covered headlight to tailgate by 153 bumper statements (well, maybe they can't tell at one glance that it's 153 unless they are some sort of math savant).

But then, just like in the store aisles, they immediately look away and walk past it without another glance.

Now, I could be much more accepting of this behavior except that when I am on the road, driving my moving billboard, without exception EVERYone reads the stickers. People driving behind me - people who get right in my blind spot to read - in my rear-view mirror at traffic lights, I can see their lips moving (did you know a whole lot of people do that when they read?).

I wonder if it is because someone might notice them reading, and they are afraid they will get beaten up by association - could anyone think I put them on as secret bumper stickers that no one else is supposed to read?

It confuses me - and I already am more than enough confused.

A WEE TINY ONE FOR AN HOUR OR SO

Tonight I held a baby for about 45 minutes. Mainly because I remember all too well how exhausting it is to have a three-month old full-time, and wanted to give the young mom a little bit of a break.


But each time I have an infant in my arms, it seems to be the first time I can smell that distinct baby/clean/blanket/almost-sweet odor. The complete abandonment of their body when they fall asleep. And the just wisp of breath that comes softly from their parted lips.


It makes complete sense that we as mothers find these little creatures so enchanting - otherwise humans would not survive one generation.

And I have absolutely no desire to become a mother at my quite-a-bit-beyond-middle-age age (I mean, honestly, how could I expect to live to be 108 years old?). I am ecstatic that my grandchildren have two exceptionally capable parents that are not drug-addicts, homeless, and/or incapable of raising them - in other words, I am very grateful that I am NOT obligated to raise my grandkids at my age, as several of my friends at church are currently.


But they are nice to hold... for just a little while.

PANDORA RESCUE OPERATION

Well, I had one week cat-free.

I thought I had found a permanent home for my allergy-inflicting, dog-abusing puma/feline with a very nice ex-NCO (imagine a 50-ish drill sergeant with permed red hair and a remote control) who operated an interesting menagerie of dogs, cats, birds and at least two reptiles.

However, one of her dogs attacked and caused the death of two of her other dogs the day before yesterday.


I have a sworn statement from the cat that he had nothing to do with the incident, although the investigation into his clairvoyant powers are still underway, as well as any radio transmitters in the area.


He has been very nice about it, chalking up the week as time in a somewhat unusual kennel, and has openly forgiven all of us.


I guess I'll just keep taking my allergy medicines and try not to breath much around him.

ORIGINATED IN CALIFORNIA - WHY AM I NOT SURPRISED

My relationship with Denny's has been permanently damaged, I fear.

Denny's was an amazing experience of culinary mediocrity when I was in college and it was the only place back in the 70's which was open at 3 a.m., which is when I normally got off work and/or had friends to hang out with in the wee hours of the morning.

I have been forced back into a kinship of sorts with Denny's over the past ten years by my second daughter's adoration for huge cholerically-overburdened breakfast plates and our local franchise being a few short block's from her apartment.

But last time I visited, I requested French Toast.... and received French Fries.


Today I ordered French Toast (certainly they couldn't get it wrong twice in a row), and got the smallest piece of bread I have ever seen dipped in batter, fried, and almost overwhelmed by the one scoop topping of fat lard... er, sorry, it's called butter in polite circles.

From now on, it's gonna be McDonad's Egg McGriddles or nothing - sorry, Denny's, you had your chance.

AUTHOR OR ANNOYANCE?

I have always loved writing, but I think it is mainly because I do so badly at articulating my thoughts.

Although that has never stopped me from expressing my opinion, I must admit.

The only reason this blog has had over 600 entries (wow, 600... isn't that just a little bit scary?) is because I can pound out one random bit of lunacy and easily follow it up with 527 more words.

Wow - that's even more frightening.

Anyway, we have one little local paper for our county. Our whole county, which is slightly larger than the state of Delaware.


And I live in Arizona, which is the state that elected Barry Goldwater and John McCain (although it also carried Bill Clinton in 1996 - funny, eh?) - yes, you can call us red.

So the majority of public opinion expressed around here is a little bit right of center of right... on the right-handed side on that. And then even more a little bit to the right.


But only occasionally does something written in the newspaper make my make-your-opinion-known-through-a-letter-to-the-editor twitch and spasm.

Tonight was one of those, however.

And although it is certainly due to the small population which this particular newspaper reaches, my letters always seem to get published.


Does that count as being a published author? I mean, this letter and the classified ad I placed for my cat together - do you think I can add that to my resume now?

BEING WRONG... AGAIN

After years of living with an antisocial, ungregarious and oft times socialpathically unbalanced spouse, I have gotten out of the habit of attending less-than-mandatory-but-you're-gonna-feel-guilty-if-you-weren't-there gatherings.

Tonight was one of those meetings.

I had already driven 18.76 miles to and from our church today. I had been in my warmest pajamas and favorite bunny slippers since I had come home. The sky was serious in its threat of snow at 4,986 feet, not just on the mountains, promising slick conditions and (of even more of a deterrent) the prospect of meeting on a narrow, two-line highway with a speed limit of 65 mph retired Southern Californians who congregate in my area of southern Arizona and have never driven in anything worse than a prolonged sprinkle.

(NOTE: I make this statement as a past Southern Californian who until the age of 19 had never driven in anything worse than a prolonged sprinkle)

I wanted to stay home.

I was extremely pessimistic about this particular meeting. We as youth leaders had already been promised an unreasonable amount of additional work in coordinating this temple dedication cultural events practice times, costume construction, and song and dance instruction. In addition, this event and a great number of the rehearsals would be taking place a TWO HOUR DRIVE north of us. So transportation of our significant number of teenagers would be four hours in addition to however long practice time might be.

I just couldn't see our particular group of teenagers showing any enthusiasm for this. We have a fair share which hold jobs, are involved in multiple school and non-scholastic groups, have homework, family chores, and require internet and 'down' time... and hey, so do I.

But I was wrong.

At the prospect of being FILMED, broadcast to every single stake center in the United States, and doing dance moves similar to step competition (at least I think that's what it is called - listen, I'm an old lady, I still do the chicken dance), and practicing with a significant number of young persons of the opposite sex.... WOW! Let's DO it!

I in particular must acknowledge a Bro. Lunt, a balding, older man who did an INCREDIBLE job of psyching this kids up. My hat is off to you, young man - you did it.


These kids are ready... and so am I.