Point/Counterpoint...

Yesterday Googie, Trouble and I decided to take a car ride half way around the free world. We were in search of some shoes for her size 4/5 miniature feet.

DSW the world's largest shoe warehouse here we come.

She found one pair.

And they were over priced.

Oh, well...we had our backs against the wall, flip flops have no place with a skirt in Googie's new work place.

Back in the car and ready for our big ride home Googie and I started talking "dinner".

"I'm hungry for spaghetti" she said.

"Okay, spaghetti it is" I said.

"I'd like to make a special request" Googie said "can you please PLEASE cut the onions real BIG so they are easier to pick out?"

"I'll put them in the blender" I offered "and you'll never even know they are there."

"NO, NO!!... if you put them in the blender then I'd be eating tons of them" she yelled.

"But you'd never know" I rationalized.

"They'd be all mushed up beyond recognition...you'd never even know they were there" I explained.

"They'd be spread ALL over the spaghetti and I wouldn't be able to get them off" Googie countered.

"I don't like onions MOTHER,

I don't like them, and I don't want to eat them!!!

Iiiiiiiiiiii... doooooooon't.... LIKE .....ONIONS...what don't you get about that?"

Googie was beginning to get a bit hot under the collar.

The debate raged on...and on.

Googie can be a stubborn little thing.

Especially when I am not getting her point of view.

"MOTHER, can't you just CUT the onions in BIG PIECES? Googie asked.

PIECES LARGE ENOUGH FOR ME TO EASILY PLUCK OUT?

Maybe I like the flavor, but I don't like them in my mouth!" Googie ranted on.

"I guess I could just put in some onion powder instead" I offered weakly "but it wouldn't taste the same."

"Or maybe I can just peel an onion and toss it in in one big ball?"

"That would be easy enough for you to pluck out (monkey girl)!!!"

"BUT it wouldn't taste the same, just so you know. The sauce would not be the same!"

"If I put it in the blender, it would be squashed into oblivion and you'd never know it was there" I offer again.

"The blender will turn it into onion water" I continue.

"M-O-T-H-E-R!!!!! Can you please just cut the onions into big pieces and not make onion mush for the sauce? Can you do that, can you make the onions big mother?"

"Big so that they are easily pulled from your sauce?"

"Pulled out so those who don't like eating them don't have to eat them..."

"And no mother, I don't want them turned into onion mush so that I am eating a whole bunch of onions!"

"I don't like onions mother. I don't like them. And even if you mush them up there will be white onion stuff all over the sauce and I will be eating it."

"Can you make the onions big mom, can you do that?"

"Googie, cutting the onions big is like asking me to smear lipstick all around my lips...it just doesn't feel right."

Trouble uncurled himself from the fetal position he'd assumed when our "little discussion" rolled into its 25th minute, he perked up, trying to understand my analogy.

"WHAT!!! Googie screamed " what are you talking about?

How are lipstick and onions at all connected?"

"Eric...do you hear her?" she hollered to Trouble.

"This is what I have to put up with!"

Our verbal tennis match went on and on until we pulled onto our street.

"Wow, I feel invigorated" Googie said as we drove toward our home.

"Me too" I laughed.

Trouble looked feverish.

I made the spaghetti and quartered a large onion.

The onion looked horrible that big.

It looked like floating flower petals.

"How is the sauce Googie?" I asked later at dinner.

"WHY? You mushed one up didn't you? You mashed one up and you tried to trick me ?"

"I respect you too much to do something like that!" I replied.

(Our blender is broken)
 

The grapes of wrath....

How many times do you think of your own death?

Right before you jump, parachuted, out of a plane?

Right before you rush into a burning building?

Right before you eat my mother's cooking?

(Mom, I SWEAR TO GOD, I'M KIDDING)

Of course if you do any of that kind of stuff, you probably think of the death of you more often than the average person.

I on the other hand, am one that doesn't do risky.

I mean I do text and eat a taco (simultaneously) while driving.

But doesn't everyone?

(Mom...put down the phone, I'M STILL KIDDING).

And even though I really try to avoid risky, I'm somewhat preoccupied with thoughts of my own death... (and ways to prevent it).

While pondering my demise I've dreamt up many romantic and exciting endings.

Laying in a beautiful canopy bed, draped in satin and lace curtains surrounded by my huge family and about 1000 of my closest and dearest friends.

A classy exit....

Or, I will be 106 and Daddio 107 and we will go to sleep one night and that will be it.

Just like in the movie "The Notebook".

(Man, I love that movie)

I'd like to think that I'm totally normal in pondering my own death.

But something tells me I'm not.

Lately, in dealing with my own personal war against my own personal terror(ism), and borrowing the National Homeland Security Advisory System I've placed myself at the Warning Level Orange....

Which is HIGH.

The most recent enemy....

an ordinary purple grape.

I've become addicted,

and eat them by the hands full,

every day.

One recently purchased bag had bunches of grapes with really tough skins.

And eating them I became conscious of the possibility (probability...remember the Orange level) that I could choke on one.

Cause one is all it would take...right?

One to block my windpipe.

Then I wondered... could the Heimlich maneuver dislodge a determined grape?

Then I thought about where I might be and who would perform the heroic deed...?

Then I remembered that I heard once that people throw up when they get the Heimlich.

So not only would I suffer the indignity of having the maneuver done in order to save my life....I'd more than likely puke on the table or the floor.

Puke... in front of people.

I'm still eating grapes.

But I chew each one really well.

And I'd advise you to do the same.

(Disclaimer #1: I really am kidding about my mom's cooking, she makes a wicked New England boiled dinner, awesome Spanish Pork Chops, and the best Chocolate Malt Milkshakes the world has ever known, to name a few. Disclaimer #2: I'm not making fun of choking deaths...I've actually very fearful of one.)

My Golden Girls.....

Friday morning usually finds me hanging out with my Old Dolls, a group of women who live in a private senior home close to me.

I go there to do their hair.

So for five years..

for five whole years,

this is my Friday morning....

"HI MISS JOSIE " I say, greeting my first client.

"Oh hi" she stares at me.

"Are you here for me?" she asks.

"YEAH, I'M HERE TO PULL ALL YOUR TEETH" I say "I'M THE DENTIST".

"HUH???...what's wrong with my teeth?" she asks.

"NO, I'M THE HAIRDRESSER, REMEMBER ME, I COME EVERY WEEK TO MAKE YOU BEAUTIFUL". I remind her.

"Oh yeah, where do you want me?"

I begin waving my hands like they do to guide an airplane into the hanger.

She follows my lead, pushing her walker.

"Where do we go? she asks.

"IN HERE, FOLLOW ME, BACK THIS WAY, FOLLOW ME, FOLLOW ME" I wave her toward the shampoo area.

She makes her way into the small room and up onto the big black shampoo chair.

"Do you want my glasses?" she asks, every week for five years.

'YUP" I say.

"My hearing aids?" she asks.

"YUP" I say, holding out my hand.

"My sweater?" she asks.

I let her fumble with the buttons of her sweater, and take it off herself.

She is, after all, a grown up.

"Anything else?" she asks, sounding a bit tired of giving up her things.

"IF YOU'RE NICE, I'LL LET YOU KEEP YOUR UNDERWEAR" I tease.

And every week for five years she laughs at this same corny joke.

"This paid for?" she asks before I lay her back to shampoo her pretty white hair.

"YEAH, YOUR SON PAID FOR IT" I answer.

"HE'S A GOOD SON" I add.

"Yeah" she says " a good son."

"This paid for?" she asks while we wait for the water to heat up.

"YEAH, DON, YOUR SON, PAID FOR IT" I answer.

"My son paid for this?" she asks.

"YEAH, DONNIE PAID, YOU'VE GOT A GOOD SON" I answer.

"Yeah" she says "a good son".

"I don't have any money" she says.

"YOU DON'T NEED ANY MONEY" I say.

"This is paid for?" she asks.

YEAH, ALL PAID FOR. YOUR SON PAID ME TO DO YOUR HAIR...BUT HE USED YOUR MONEY" I say (as her family instructed me to).

"He's a good son" she says.

I agree and for a moment she forgets that she forgets that her hairdo is paid for.

"That's enough" she says when I scrub her head a bit too long.

She was an independent woman who did her own hair, she remembers that she doesn't like it being done, but she doesn't remember that she used to do it.

'LOOK HOW NICE YOUR HAIR LOOKS" I say, spinning her around to look in the mirror when I've finished combing it out.

"Yeah, that's nice" she says " but I would like it better if it wasn't so white".

"YOUR HAIR IS BEAUTIFUL" I say "BUT IT WOULD BE EVEN BETTER IF IT WASN'T SO WHITE".

"You took the words right out of my mouth" she says, laughing.

"SEE YOU NEXT WEEK" I say.

"Thank you" she says, then turns back to ask...

"Will I see you next week?"

"YES, I'LL SEE YOU NEXT WEEK. STAY OUTTA TROUBLE, OKAY!"

"That won't be hard to do" she says as she maneuvers her bulky walker around the corner.

Suddenly she stops...

"What do I owe you?" she asks.

"YOU ALREADY PAID ME, IN KISSES...DON'T YOU REMEMBER?" I yell to her.

"Oh good" she says and walks toward the dining room for lunch.