If you are growing out of my head and you decide, for whatever reason, to turn gray, I will not automatically pluck you out.
If however, you decide -- for whatever reason -- to stick out at an odd angle from the rest of the group - say straight out of the top of my head, waving your silly little gray self in the air and singing "pick me! pick me!"
I will pick you.
The name of the game in this woman's army is uniformity. Retention is based entirely on your ability to blend in and obey the rules. If you do this, you will be washed, gelled, cut and generally taken care of. If you break the rules, you will be plucked and cast out of the garden. You don't have to be a Bible expert to know that being cast out is bad. With any luck I will cast the root out with you, and sonny, this is no relocation program. You will join the other castaways in the ceramic wilderness of my bathroom sink. Don't even think about escaping.
You folks have been living with me for the last 43 years so you should know how serious I am on this subject. Lest you forget, let's remember a time, not too long ago, when I happened to catch my reflection in a department store mirror only to discover a shocking interloper: a black hair sticking straight out of my sexy little beauty mark. I plucked that sucker out with my bare fingernails right there in the store. Beauty mark hair has longer and more tenacious roots than silly head hair, so don't test me.
I understand that turning gray is something you may be doing against your will. It is certainly against mine but I don't want to punish you for doing what comes "naturally." That said, this event is not something to be celebrated. Standing out, waving, curling and other non-standard behavior will not be tolerated. You should know that I am not ready to go steady with Miss Clairol yet so the best thing -- for both of us -- is for you to lay down with the rest of the crew, do what you're told and stick in whatever direction I gel you into.
Do that and nobody gets hurt.
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Growing up in New Jersey I had an acute awareness of, if not always an appreciation for, the changing seasons.
Summer = no school. Riding my bike all day and not coming home until it was time for dinner.
Fall = Back to school clothes, Halloween and Thanksgiving. Really just counting the holidays until Christmas.
Winter = snow and the rare snow day. Christmas and New Year's. Loving, and then getting really sick of snow.
Spring = hope. Crocuses and short sleeves and the end of school in sight.
Now I am grown and living in California. Before I had kids the seasons were summarily shortened to Rain or Sun. Now I have the added complexity of School, No School but even these things put together don't approach the happy rotation known as Seasons.
Today I am in Idaho. Well, actually I woke up in Idaho, spent an hour or so in Montana, the bulk of the day in Wyoming and then back to Idaho in time for dinner. Yesterday the unthinkable happened: I felt rain on my skin in August. In the morning I left to go fishing in my usual (California-based) summer fishing attire: shorts, sandals and a long sleeve fishing shirt (to protect my delicate skin), only to find that it was freaking cold in the morning and I had to buy pants - which I wore for the entire day - along with my rain jacket. Today the weather was beautiful. But having been fooled by yesterday's rain, I went to Yellowstone in jeans and a shirt and fleece jacket. Only to come home hot, sweaty and with a sunburn (I have the nicest triangle burn on my chest).
It seems that all of these years in California have dulled my sense of seasonal awareness and I literally don't know how to dress anymore. I am fly fishing again tomorrow and on my chair I have shorts (ha), my fishing shirt, fleece pants, fleece jacket, waders, wading boots, socks, hat, SUNTAN lotion, the kitchen sink and anything else I can think of. I'm sure the guide will be amused. Those California people.
The guides in Idaho are pretty traditional and adhere to a strict guide uniform: long pants and button down fishing shirts, hat, waders and boots. They have to wear waders because unlike any other guide I've fished with, instead of rowing the boat, they PUSH it. That's right, they walk the river and hold the boat in areas they want us to fish. Oh yes, they are all thin and in amazing shape.
They are also planning on leaving soon. For them, this is the end of the season and after a few great weeks of fishing in September they will hightail it to other climates. California has the luxury of fishing year round, but soon here there will be inches of snow and ice and no tourists to push around in boats. It will be Winter.
I don't know from winter.
I do know that my girls start school in less than a week and we will reluctantly have to return home in time for that. This is my next season: Back to School.
After that will come the rain.
Me: there are two roads we can take to get from here to Bend, one way is to take this road straight up and then connect to Highway 20, or we can take 252, also known as the scenic route, which looks like a short cut to 20 but probably isn't.
Him: But both roads go through Bend?
Me: No. Both roads connect to 20 above Bend and then we take 20 to Bend.
Him: So no matter which road we take, we go through Bend.
Me: No! This road, if we don't get on 20, will go somewhere else, as will 252, but both connect to 20 which will take us to Bend.
Him: Baby. I am asking a very simple question: it doesn't matter which road we take because they both go through Bend, right?
Me: I know you want me to say yes, but neither of these roads go to Bend, they do however both go to 20, which will take us to Bend.
Him, now getting upset: I repeat, both go through Bend, right?
Me: Yes. They both go to Bend.
And this is how you stay married for 21+ years without actually killing each other.
Ps. We stayed on the road we were on, which was a good thing as we are anxious to get to Idaho early tomorrow and the "scenic route" would have added hours of fun to our trip.
Pps. Since you never know what will happen tomorrow, I should put in a good word for the girls who are really behaving wonderfully. They haven't fought much at all even though I'm not letting them watch any DVDs ("look out your windows and watch the scenery!") until very late in the day.
Tomorrow: Craters of the Moon
Our fly shop is looking for part time sales help. I've posted the open position on craig's list, and if you know anyone who is passionate about fly fishing and interested in working in retail, please point them in our direction!
The other day, I deposited three checks into my bank account. Money I would soon need to pay my mortgage, bills etc. Rather than use the ATM, I went in to the branch (ok, the grocery store) to talk to a real live person. People are better, right? If you hand your money to a person and they hand you a receipt, you should be able to count on the transaction as having been successful, don't you think?
Surely there would be no need to verify that the deposit was made.
I went online and checked anyway.
No deposit.
No deposit!
Call bank.
Give all my information to the non-human robot so that it may help me find the "right person" to talk to. After a very long wait (where is my money!), I am transferred to a live human being. Or so he claimed.
The first thing he wants to do is verify that I am, in fact who I say I am even though the robot has just verified this.
"Ma'am do you have your account number?"
"No, but I have my ATM number"
"Please give me your ATM number."
I do.
"And what is the name of the card holder?"
My name. I spell it.
"Ma'am that does not match the information in my system"
I beg your pardon?
I have had this account for over 20 years, I say. I use this card all the time. In fact, this is the only card I ever use.
We play the please verify your identity/card number name game again.
I lose the round - and the match.
"Ma'am I cannot give you any information about this account."
Is my husband's name on this account?
"I cannot give you any information about this account."
Brain quickly runs through my worst case scenario list and decides that my ATM number has been stolen. Someone is stealing my money RIGHT NOW.
Is there money being withdrawn now? I ask.
"I would strongly recommend you go to a branch and talk to a teller."
Panic.
The bank is only minutes away.
Inside, I try not to fly down the throat of the cute guy representing the bank that has lost my money and my identity. His cuteness is almost, but not quite wasted on me. In truth, it protects him. The cuteness charm has been shown in field studies to be effective against the dangerous fury known as Raging Mother of Two. I hand him my ATM card, my deposit receipt and tell him my tale of woe. I am literally shaking. Chill out girl. You're in the bank now. It's all Going To Be Alright. No one can steal your money while you're standing in the bank (er, grocery store) can they?
He looks at his screen and shakes his head. No, you're right here, see? Right here. Then his manager comes up behind him, takes over the mouse and clicks on something else. She opens her eyes wide and they both start saying "oh" repeatedly. Not the "oh, we have a wonderful surprise for you" kind of oh. No, this is the "you are totally screwed" oh.
I hate that oh.
Long story short (I know, it's already too late to be saying things like that): the bank updates their computer system every six months or so and somehow along the way, who knows exactly when, don't bother us with the silly details, they lost some of their client information and now my family trust is solely in my husband's name. And to make things even more fun they made it so that while my physical ATM card (AKA the card I held in my hand) had MY name engraved in it, the virtual version of the card that shows up in their system shows my husband's name as being engraved in the card. Which makes him the Official Card Holder. Which is why they don't match.
They look at me with pity. Clearly I am not the first person to be erased by The System.
A few waves of the magic mouse accompanied by an offer to refinance my house, and I exist again.
Until the next upgrade.
Oh, and the deposit? That was accidentally deposited into our business account.
