Wild Bill -- Part II

Last night, the huband was playing the piano and I was lying on the floor with the dog. She had a big whacker of a bone that collided with my eye. Nothing serious but I walked around with an ice bag in a cloth for an hour or so. I considered a piece of tape to put over my eye. Yep, for that time, I was Wild Bill.

Last week, I went to a movie with my mom and my aunt. Aunt Judy's sense of humor is amazing and contagious. She is a combination of Lucille Ball and Wild Bill.

On a recent night, the husband had a business dinner and other commitments. I spent lots of time on the phone. (Hello, Wild Bill.) He was a huge phone junkie -- or as my mother likes to point out, "He was a great drunk dialer." For the record, I was not drunk. But I do tend to spend a lot of time on the phone.

The dog does this weird thing with her tongue -- kind of lolling out sideways and it always reminds me of Wild Bill. He used to clamp his tongue between his teeth when he was thinking or concentrating on something.

I swear to you. I catch myself doing it everyday.

Looking in the Mirror

I can't figure out when I started avoiding the mirror. It's been several years. I can actually do my hair and put on a slight bit of make-up without ever seeing my reflection. If eye liner is required, I can do it in 5 seconds, minimizing the mirror time.

I'm not fat and I'm reasonably toned for my age. Those three-way mirrors in the department stores are depression on a cracker. That's probably why I don't shop. I have a full-length mirror in my closet and I avoid it like I avoid birds. It gives me the creeps.

I'm not afraid of aging -- I just don't want to watch. I've earned every line. I laugh and cry often and those are the lines I'm most proud of. I could pack a lunch in my forehead but I tell myself that it just means I'm expressive.

God willing, I've got some time to go. I'm terrified of needles so I don't see any plastic surgery in my future.

Some people tell me I look exactly like my mom. They're wrong but I'll take the compliment. Sometimes, people tell me I am the female version of my dad. Ok, he's darn cute so I'll take the compliment. Once I took my Uncle Ken and Aunt Cess to the husband's office. She's my dad's sister. Everyone said, "You look so much alike. This must be your mother." I'll take the compliment.

The oldies have one of those magnifying mirrors. Can you imagine?

Stashing

We live a life of abundance. Our home is warm in the winter and cool in the summer. There's a roof over our heads and food in the pantry and refrigerator. There are cars in our garage and we come and go as we please. I think about the soldiers serving our country or the many situations in the world that are heart-wrenching.

Yet, I've become a stasher.

My mother shared her homemade chocolate chip cookies the other day. It was a big container and they were fabulous. The oldies ate them three times a day. The husband and I enjoyed them once a day. Then, I got a little nervous as the supply was dwindling.

The husband came home the other night and was frustrated that there were no more cookies. I got to be the hero and say, "Yes, there are. I have a stash!"

Our State Fair

The husband hates the state fair. He refuses to go.

I'm somewhat of a snob but I love going to the state fair. My mother and I try to go every year. It's like the airport -- great people watching! We have our favorite foods and our favorite displays. We watch karaoke and we ride the train. Sometimes others go with us but it's a special time for us. We take a couple of hours and admire the bounty. Plus, we make fun of people. We don't do the midway or any of the barns.

I tried to convince the oldies to go last year. There's lots to see and do. "No, thank you."

The reputation of Hoosier Hospitality is well-deserved. A couple of years ago, my mother fell at the fair. I was not calm. Multiple people came to our aid. (She was a little scratched and bloody, but otherwise fine.) We can laugh about it now. Actually, we laughed about it on the way home.

Our state fair starts next week. I need to make a date with my mother.

I'm Bored with this Conversation

This is another case of different memories. My aunt tells a story of a luncheon where she's relaying an important story. She notices my mother's eyes wandering and calls her on it. My mother says, "You're boring me." In all fairness, my mother has a completely different recollection of this conversation.

The husband loves to tell me about his golf game, his golf swing, etc. I don't care. One year, he won a big tournament and wanted to brag. He put half of his winnings in my palm and said, "There, I just paid you to listen." These days, I try to defer it. I told him in March that he could have an entire evening in October to tell me about the season. Whenever he starts in with, "On the first hole ...," I respond with, "It's not October."

I'm guilty too. He doesn't care about the puppy walks or some trivial thing in my life. I keep talking and he zones me out.

The Unabomber tells the same stories over and over. The mother-in-law is rapt with her attention. It's kind of like watching political wives. When their husband gives a speech, they look at him like he is splitting the atom. I do not have this talent. I take my brain to Sheriland; I nod occasionally. I do not ask questions. This would prolong the conversation.

One of the quirkiest (and funniest) things about my mother is that when she's bored, she just hangs up. I call her back and say, "I was still talking." It's not subtle but I know that she is bored.

Passing Notes

School was hard for me to sit through. My work was done and I was easily bored. So, I spent my time writing notes to my girlfriends. My report cards constantly had some version of the remark, "Talks too much" or "She needs to stop sending notes." In high school, we had this down to a science. We could pass in the hallway or the lunchroom. There was always a note.

About 12 or so years ago, the Golden Girls were together for one of our trips. One of them had saved many of our notes from high school. We spent countless hours reading them and belly laughing.

The other day I was in church. My mother passed me a note. Then, she passed one to my aunt, sitting in the pew behind us. I sent my mom a note back. (Yes, we did participate in the service.) I want to contact every teacher that ever corrected me. I come by this honestly. I can't help it.

Becoming My Mother

Doesn't every girl/woman go through this? You look in the mirror -- you're your mother. Some expression comes out of your mouth -- you're your mother.

Many, many years ago, I was going through a box of old family photos. There I was in a photo, in a bathrobe, in our kitchen. I said to my mother, "I don't remember this." She said, "It's not you, it's me."

She's a beauty to this day. That's pretty intimidating as a daughter. I spent many years wondering when I would be as gorgeous as my mother. Then I spent a few years being annoyed that it wasn't going to happen.

(An aside to my family and friends -- you don't have to send me emails to boost my self esteem. I know I look semi-ok for an old broad.)

My body type comes from my dad's side of the family. The women are short and small boned. We can dress it up. Unless someone lofts me on their shoulders, I'll never have the stature and presence I long for.

In her younger years, my mother looked a lot like Elizabeth Taylor. Men used to stalk her. She even has a beauty mark above her lip. I called her last year and said, "I may not have your beauty but your genes are in there somewhere. I've developed that beauty mark on my upper lip."

Yesterday my dad was in my kitchen talking to my goddaughter. We were looking at her prom picture and I said, "Girls didn't look like that when I was in high school." My dad said, "Your mom did and she's still gorgeous."

My mother thinks I am the most beautiful girl in the world. Here's the thing about daughters. There is no one else I would rather be compared to than her. Even when she hangs up on me.