B*tch!

Someone called me a name this morning. It caught me off guard on this sunny, happy day, when I was headed to the gym for a quick visit and then back to my home office. Parking is scarce, so on my third trip around the lot I saw someone leaving, rolled yoga mat in one hand, keys in the other. I followed her and waited with my blinker on for her to pull out...and another driver, coming from the opposite direction in full view of me and my peppy little turn signal indicating "that's mine, mine, mine," sped up and tucked herself into my space. Just. Like. That.

I don't engage with mean people - it's not worth it, especially these days, when anyone can be a "gun enthusiast." (Yes, there are quotes around it for a reason.) But I was annoyed, and I waited for the parking-space-thief to get out of her car, and said, reasonably, "You know, that wasn't very nice - you saw me waiting for that space." And she, totally understanding my even tone and the practicality of my statement, said, "I'm so sorry. You're right. Let me move my car."

Nah, that's not what happened. When I gave her my "wasn't very nice" line, she screwed up her face and hurled "B*TCH!" at me, and walked off.  There are a few things that went through my head:
- How can someone be that mad and mean early in the morning?  
- How can they blatantly take something meant for someone else?
- If I see her in the gym and say something else to her, will she beat me up?

First I seethed, then I settled. It's too bad that we can be feeling great and loving the entire universe, and one person can change the mood in a second or two. But releasing some endorphins helped. So did my trip to Target afterward, where I was filling a prescription and was told I had to wait 30 minutes, and I'm pretty sure I heard the pharmacist say, "Go get some new makeup." So I did, and then I retrieved my prescription, and when I got home I tried out my new cosmetics, and I must say that after I took a look at myself, I really AM quite the b*tch today.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

The Talking Stick

My sisters and I used a talking stick this weekend to have a chat with our aging dad. Oh, it wasn't as pretty as this picture. In fact, it looked a lot like a cell phone with the speaker function turned on.

Talking sticks were often passed around in tribal circles, so that everyone present had a chance to speak. One description I read also noted that it was particularly helpful for "those who may be shy." (Not an issue with me and my sisters - most of the time, we're all speaking at once. If you translate the word "speaking" generously. We're Italian, after all.)

Three of us were with our father in the tiny dining room of his Maryland house, and one was in California. We agreed that for this important talk, we weren't going to interrupt each other, so whoever was holding the talking stick/phone would have the floor, and we looped in the sister on the phone with each round.

We're worried about our father lately. He's always been remarkably able, even as he's grown older, even after surviving bladder cancer, losing that organ, and having his kidneys fail so that he undergoes dialysis three times a week. But we're seeing some changes, and we want him to consider living with my oldest sister in Phoenix. That means selling his house and giving up driving (even though he's a steady, careful driver who's never had an accident, and I, on the other hand...well, let's not go there). It means letting go of even more of the independence he's lost through aging and widower-hood.

We can see how painful it is to him that we view him this way, our strong, smart dad. The dad who was so handsome when we were young he would turn heads. The dad who worked so hard to keep his five kids safe, but lost his only son in a moment he was helpless to prevent. The dad who has spent some focused time in the last few years clearing out and repairing his home, documenting his accounts, and planning his funeral, to save us from those tasks. I can't visit him these days without tears sneaking up on me. If he does move to Arizona, I won't see him much, making the 20-minute drive I have to his home now seem like an instant.

Damn that talking stick. We had to say things, however lovingly, that hurt my father. We just want to keep him safe. And better a small hurt now than a big one later. But it doesn't feel very good, no matter how noble our intentions. And when we finished, he said, head low, "I'll think about it." It's a start.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

In Praise of Small Hardware Stores

Christopher's in Olney, MD.

I have always loved hardware stores, and there's something about a mom and pop establishment that brings out the handyman (uh, rather, handywoman) in me. Sure, the big stores are great for buying grills and outdoor furniture sets and circular saws, but give me a compact, family-run store every time for the small stuff.

I like walking in the door and smelling something earthy. (Peat moss? Do they still have peat moss?) I like the fact that the aisles are short, and you don't have to scan a mile's worth of five million kinds of doodads to get the one thing you need. I like knowing that at least some of the fresh-faced and very friendly workers are part of the family behind the name on the sign.

Even though all I needed today was a $5.00 flapper for my toilet, I was treated like a valued guest. Which made me buy two sets of chargers for my iPhone at the checkout. And some Dubble Bubble gum out of a big glass jar. And ensured that, like Arnold Schwarzenegger long before he got all creepy and we found out he had a secret kid, I'll be back.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie