The town crier

I'm so mad I could spit. But before I explain why, I need to tell you something: I cry. A lot. About all kinds of things. I cry when I see something sad ... or joyous; when I hear stories of huge emotion -- happy, sad or otherwise; when I listen to songs that make the heart swell ... or break; and when I tell someone of such things.

Yep, I'm a crier. Not because of PMS or any other hormonal horrors; it's just who I am, always have been. Everyone in my family knows it, understands it, no longer even skips a beat when mom's a little verklempt and needs a moment to collect herself.

That's the backstory. Now the story:

I was at Walmart Wednesday, picking up items I needed for Bubby's visit: diapers, baby wipes, Danimal yogurt thingees, frozen waffles and more.

Of course while I was there, I just happened to pass the toy aisles all the way on the opposite side of the store and ended up throwing into the cart all kinds of things I didn't need -- but that Bubby would enjoy during his visit: sandbox toys, Matchbox cars, a rug printed with streets for those Matchbox cars to traverse. I even got a pair of pint-sized swim goggles. Not that we'll be swimming while Bubby's here (Grandma can't swim to save her life, much less his) but I bet he'll enjoy wearing them around the house anyway.

So I'm in line with my cart piled high with things I don't really need, things Bubby doesn't really need. There's three people ahead of me, the one at the register being a young mom in her early 20s with a baby in a carrier and a five- or six-year-old boy waiting patiently at her side as many of her goods are being scanned ... in the opposite direction, removing them from her bill. She's holding a handful of cash while produce and school supplies and a little boy's backpack are stacked to the side for returning to the shelves. She silently picks through her cart, deciding whether she and her little ones really need the grapes or the toilet paper, steering clear of the baby formula. The formula's a necessity; other things aren't. Like the little boy's backpack. To which he simply, quietly, watched move out of his grasp when the cashier placed it in the return pile. He just stood there, silently waiting as Mom searched for more ways to pinch her few pennies.

The two people in line between the mom and me -- with my big ol' cart of unnecessary items -- huffed and puffed and shuffled and moaned.

As they shuffled, I looked from the backpack to the boy, back to the backpack, to the mom. I desperately wanted to step forward and tell Mom that I'd pay for the rest, to hand over my debit card for her remaining items, including the backpack. Especially the backpack.

But I didn't. I just stood there. Because I felt the tears coming and I couldn't live with myself if I broke down in tears at Walmart. Even if I overcame the humility and moved forward, the poor young mom wouldn't understand what the cuss I was saying because when I'm verklempt I'm hard as cuss a teensy bit difficult to understand.

So I watched ... then stared down at my cart, scrunching up my face to keep in the tears. I said nothing, did nothing, as the mom finally reached a grocery bill she could afford. Then she and her little ones quietly wheeled away to the parking lot. Without the backpack.

The parking lot! That's what I'll do, I thought. I'll hurry and find her in the parking lot and give her some cash. I quickly looked in my wallet, found $6 and determined to give her it when I headed to the car, to tell her to go back in and buy the cheap little backpack for her son.

But I didn't do it. For when I finished paying -- fighting tears the entire time -- I got to the parking lot, watched the mom buckling baby into the car ... and felt tears and blubbering threatening to erupt. I couldn't approach her. She'd think I'm crazy. And I'd likely offend her -- and scare her little boy -- with my bawl-baby antics over their situation.

So I wheeled right on by and filled my trunk with my junk, just as the tears started down my cheeks.

Then I got in my car and kicked myself all the way home. I was so mad at myself I wanted to spit. But instead I cried. And hid my face when I passed the neighbor. And continued crying while unloading Bubby's bags o' fun.

Then I sat down at the computer to write this because I simply had to let someone know how very mad I am at myself for being a cussin' crier. For taking no action because I'm a crier. For not doing the right thing, the thing that would have made a world of difference to one little boy and his cash-strapped mom. Because I'm a crier.

I just needed to tell someone that. But I couldn't tell it to someone in person.

Because I would cry.

Today's question:

What is something you do despite hating that you do it?

Waste not, want not

Because of a recent trip to the grocery store followed by a patio party in which lots of people left lots of stuff, today I have the following fresh produce in my house:

• black grapes

• red plums

• cantaloupe

• watermelon

• lemons

• limes

• tomatoes

• cucumbers

• onions -- red and white

• zucchini

• summer squash

• leaf lettuce

• carrots

• celery

• bananas

• green peppers

• green onions

• cilantro

• mint

Ugh! All that for just me and Jim!

With Jim not being much of a fruit or veggie eater, looks like I'll be making a visit to Crunchy Betty to come up with ways to use some of the goods on my face and body -- not just in it -- before it all goes to waste.

Today's question:

What fresh produce do you have in your house right now?

The grandma I will never be

Jim and I went to see the Leonardo DiCaprio movie Inception yesterday. The movie looked intriguing (and proved to be that and more!) but the prospect of sitting in an air-conditioned theater during the hottest point of the day was the true lure for us. We needed to escape the heat of our NOT air-conditioned house.

Ironically, things heated up quite a bit inside the air-conditioned theater as we waited for the show to begin. Especially for one grandma who grew unreasonably hot under the collar when two women -- late arrivals seeking seats in the packed house just before the previews started -- dared to ask Grandma to scoot down a seat.

Let me stop right here and say that Jim and I always arrive pretty early to see a movie, just to be sure we get end seats, on the aisle. Jim likes to sit on the end; we plan accordingly. So any time one of the theater staff come into a packed house and ask everyone to scoot toward the middle to create empty seats for late arrivals, we don't budge. We got there early; they got there late. Next time maybe they'll better manage their time.

So yesterday, Jim and I were situated in our end seats, with an empty seat between myself and Grandma's movie-watching partner. There was one more empty seat in the row, about five people beyond Grandma.

"Would you mind scooting down a seat so it would open up two seats for us to sit together?" one of the late women -- a 50-something, clean, well-spoken woman -- very politely asked our row of folks.

"Sure, sure, no problem," pretty much everyone mumbled as they started gathering their goodies and preparing to scoot down one. Everyone, that is, except Grandma.

"I like to sit here so I can put my feet up," Grandma said.

"Pardon?" the polite seat-scoot requester said as the 20-somethings next to Grandma leaned toward her to see if they, too, heard Grandma correctly.

"I like to put my feet up," Grandma reiterated in clipped tones as she white-knuckled her seat and refused to move.

Incredulous, the woman requesting the musical chairs simply said, "Real nice ...." and motioned to her partner that they would need to proceed to the front-row, neck- and eye-straining seats.

Most everyone else in our row clucked a "tsk, tsk" and shook their heads as they resumed their original positions. All while self-righteous Grandma faced forward, ignoring the head shaking.

The sad thing is, if Grandma had simply taken a moment to assess the situation rather than being hell-bent on staying in the seat she'd chosen, she'd have realized that all she and her friend needed to do was scoot down one seat in the other direction, toward me, and she'd still be able to rest her feet on the bar in front of her -- saving face and her tootsies while providing two seats together at the other end of the row, leaving everyone happy and cool and things right with the world.

But no, she refused the consideration, sat strong and firm. She was going to get off her butt for no one, no time, no way. In her own mind, I'm sure, she figured she sure taught that late-arriving woman and her companion a lesson in getting someplace on time in order to get what you want.

What she really did, though, was teach those of us witnessing the rudeness what a real inconsiderate cuss looks like. A real inconsiderate cuss of a grandma, at that. A grandma I will never be. I will never be that rude, never be that cold, never ruin the experience for others simply because I jump the gun and refuse to consider other arrangements and staunchly, indignantly defend my position.

Of course I can say that because Jim and I always choose the aisle seats at the theater, so scooting in just one wouldn't make a difference for a couple or crowd. If anyone were to make such a request, we'd have to refuse ... politely ... and kindly wonder aloud what good one seat would do for two or more needing a spot.

Now if there were an empty seat next to me and one late arrival asked us ever so politely to scoot in and let him or her sit on the end ... well ... I gotta admit that we'd still have to refuse.

But we'd do it politely and -- unlike the Grandma at Inception -- consider other options, offering the lone movie-goer the seat right beside me. No, not on the aisle, but, yes, here is a seat, no scooting required.

And no snottiness necessary. Unlike yesterday's cuss of a grandma, the grandma I swear I will never, ever be. Unless ...

... unless a fellow movie-goer talks or texts during a movie. If that's your thing, I'm warning you now: You better simply shut 'er off and slink away. I still swear to not act like the non-scooting grandma. I'll be worse. Way worse.

For sometimes a grandma's just gotta teach folks a lesson or two. Politeness be cussed.

Today's question:

Where is your favorite spot to sit in the movie theater?

Dear Southwest Airlines

Dear John Southwest,

You've been so good to me all these years that this is really difficult for me to write. To make it a little less painful for us both, I'm just going to say it up front: I believe it's time to cool our jets, for I've met someone new.

I hoped to keep my new dalliance secret, to not have to admit my loyalty no longer lies with you, but Thursday's press conference announcing $29 introductory flights and more made it impossible for me to pretend any longer. I've found a new love, a new best friend, a new way to fly to see my beloved grandson Bubby.

Yes, dear Southwest, you probably guessed it. It's Allegiant Air. They're back in town and I can no longer go on seeing you when it's Allegiant who has my heart, my bags, my flight to an airport near Bubby.

Me love you long time, Southwest, and you were oh-so good to me during that time. You carried my bags for free, offered up peanuts and pretzels at the same time, provided the most interesting airline publication of all, and even introduced Jim to Sky Mall ... and we have the replica of Mount Rushmore at the top of our backyard waterfall to forever prove Jim's appreciation for that serendipitous introduction.

Most importantly, though, you were my first, Southwest. You were the one to carry me relatively turbulence free to visit my brand-new grandbaby for the very first time, just days after his birth. And for that I will always love you.

But sometimes even the strongest of loves can't make a relationship work. Unfortunately, this is one of those times.

Please don't take it hard, as it's not you -- or your treatment of Kevin Smith -- it's me. I just need less. Less time driving to the airport; Allegiant will pick me up 10 minutes from my house whereas you required me to drive a minimum of 90 minutes to reach you. I need less time riding the parking lot shuttle, less time standing in the security line at the international airport where you're located, less time lining up in my designated slot to board. Oh, and less time scrambling to check in exactly 24 hours before flight time in order to make the A group.

(Which reminds me: I've always wondered who it was you were playing favorites with, who made it so that even though I checked in at the exact millisecond I was allowed, you granted me an A36 -- or worse! -- boarding pass. So maybe it is you, just a teensy eensy bit.)

But I won't hold that -- or the comment from the pilot on my last flight about how "gooood looooooking" the flight attendants were -- against you. Because despite a few questionable practices here and there, I hope we can still be friends, hope to still get together occassionally. For as wonderfully appealing as Allegiant is, they can't offer me everything: For one thing, they provide service from my town to Bubby's only twice a week and sometimes a long-distance grandma needs a little more flexibility than that. Those are the times, sweet Southwest, that I'll most treasure our long history and book some time aboard your wings.

Thank you, Southwest. I've been honored to be your passenger, to be part of your Rapid Rewards Club. And I hope you will, in return, honor the idea that the skies are indeed friendly, that you won't turn the other direction and pretend you don't see me when we pass one another as Allegiant carries me back and forth between the mountains and the desert, between my home and Bubby's.

You'll always hold a special place in my heart, Southwest. Don't ever forget that.

Friends forever,

Bubby's grandma, aka Rapid Rewards #248817951

Today's question:

What's your favorite airline and why?

Grandma's creepy wallpaper

I live in an unusual house. It was built in 1974 by a husband and wife who immigrated from Poland. They built the house around many features they collected from prominent local buildings and homes of the late 1800s that had been demolished for a variety of reasons. We have fireplaces, windows, staircases and more from the bank, the opera house, a doctor's home and other long-gone structures.

Overall, it's a pretty cool and interesting place to live. But there are some bizarre touches here and there, things I've gotten used to for the most part and usually no longer think too hard about them. On most days.

Yesterday was not one of those days. For some reason the wallpaper lining the hallway to the laundry room caught my interest once again and I thought you all might be able to help me solve the mystery surrounding my creepy wallpaper.

From what I understand, the wallpaper is one of the touches from the homeland of the original owners. It appears to be illustrations of cautionary tales, much like Grimm's Fairy Tales, but of a Polish bent. The illustrations are fine and good and understandable when considered as part of an old-time nursery book. We all know fairy tales and such can be, unfortunately, weird ... and violent. Which is exactly what the illustrations on my wall are. But why would such images be taken from the page and placed upon the wall?

Take a look:

Creepy, huh? That is what I see every time I do laundry, every time I use the ironing board, every time I change the litter box.

And every time I show people around my house, I have to explain the creepy wallpaper and why I don't remove it.

I don't remove the paper because it's antique. I think. If nothing else, it's unusual. And like all the other unusual features in my house, there's a story attached to this wallpaper; I just don't know what it is. I'm pretty sure it was put there by the couple from Poland, but that's it.

My biggest question about the wallpaper, though, the real mystery to me, isn't why the builders of our home put it there, but why anyone -- no matter where they lived in the world, no matter what period of time -- would think these pictures might look great on a wall, why they should qualify as print for wallpaper, why that wallpaper was ever manufactured in the first place. Did people in Poland line nursery walls with these images? Were resident children better behaved when they had these constant reminders of a horrible fate that might befall them if they misbehaved? Was such wallpaper used in places other than nurseries? Did anyone and everyone who ever saw it have nightmares?

It's a mystery I'll likely never solve.

Unless, of course, one of my dear readers has knowledge of Polish fairytales, the ones featuring drunks who fall in the lake or drag kids through the forest by their hair. If so, please enlighten me. Give me the "rest of the story" to regale the next group of visitors to my home and provide me with details on why these wacky illustrations figured so prominently in a culture that people adorned their walls with them.

Then maybe -- just maybe -- I can move on to seeking assistance with yet another mystery of my home: the one involving a discoverer of sunken treasure who has seemingly gone missing and I think just might be buried in my front yard.

Like I said, I live in a very unusual house.

Today's question: (If you read this early, yes, it was a different question. I like this one better.)

What's the creepiest feature of your house?

White rabbits

Long, long ago -- okay, about 25 years ago -- I read writing advice from a popular writer about capturing fleeting thoughts that may possibly be the spark of something intriguing, an idea worth writing about or adding to a story or article. Paraphrasing (because I don't really remember the exact quote), the writer advised all novice writers to immediately write down random thoughts, wherever you may be and whatever you may be doing, as those random thoughts are like wild white rabbits that hop away, never to come 'round again, gone in the blink of an eye.

So long, long ago I started writing down all those fleeting "white rabbit" thoughts I had, jotting them on Post-It notes, the backs of old business cards (a great use for the hundreds that remain once you move on to a new position), wacky notepaper, whatever was handy. For the longest time, I filed those thoughts away in a decorative tin I kept on my desk, just in case I was ever in need of inspiration or ideas.

My snippets of white rabbit thoughts eventually filled the tin to overflowing. So I purchased a nifty decorative wooden box that looks rather old-fashioned and unique (even though it came from Hobby Lobby), moved all my thoughts into it and placed it atop my desk. Other than stashing a note here or there at the front of the box -- never having the time to place it correctly into the index-card-divided categories of the type of writing that may come from the idea: picture book, greeting card, general interest, etc. -- I've not looked at my notes in several years.

Until yesterday.

As I sat doing my very important computing for the day, I looked up, saw the box, and decided to peruse those snippets of paper to see how deep those years-old white rabbit thoughts may run. Here are a few examples of what I found within my nifty box o' thoughts:

"People naturally steer clear of others with obvious yet harmless psychological problems (ie Bruce Harper and his inability to be himself and his Elvis impersonations)."

What? I have no idea what that meant. Worse yet, I have absolutely no recollection of anyone named Bruce Harper ... who does Elvis impersonations.

"I've never seen an animal talk with its mouth full until Sadie just did tonight."

Sadie was the coolest cat ever and has been gone now for nearly 10 years. But did it really matter that my prim and proper Siamese once talked with her mouth full?

"I used to be a mountain goat when I was younger, grandma said."                                      

Did I overhear this? Did I imagine this? What is this?

I get what that well-published author was trying to get across to newbies all those years ago, but has she ever gone back and read some of the snippets she so carefully jotted down and honestly found a nugget of a novel, a smidgen of a spark of a successful story or article?

I don't know about her, but from the looks of things deep inside my box o' thoughts and all the inspirational good it's done me, the majority of my white rabbits would have been far better off remaining wild, left to hippity-hop away, never to be seen again.

Today's question:

What is the most important thing you'll do today?

My answer: Refill my dog's estrogen prescription.

Do-nothing days

I get a daily dose of awesomeness from the 1000 Awesome Things website. It's an upbeat, positive site and an upbeat, positive way to start my day. Check it out; I don't know how anyone could not like it.

One of the "awesome things" this past week was Do Nothing Days. I do think Do Nothing Days are quite awesome -- in theory. Thing is, I have trouble doing nothing. I feel guilty when I do nothing.

It's not like I'm an incredibly productive person, especially since I have virtually no one to account to but myself. (Well, there's Jim, but he's pretty much okay with anything I do or don't do; for some odd reason he continually thinks I am awesome.) So I could easily take advantage of do-nothing days, those days when there's nothing pressing on the schedule, no meetings, no deadlines, no demands other than those I place on myself.

But that's the problem: I place plenty of demands on myself, things that absolutely must be done, even on do-nothing days.

For one, I must write a blog post every day. Yeah, I know that not everyone who has a blog posts daily, but I told myself from the outset of this venture that I would post every single day, and I'm determined to not let myself down. And believe it or not, sometimes posting is a real chore. Those of you with blogs understand. I love Grandma's Briefs, but sometimes it sure would be nice to not have to post ... or do all the other things that go along with maintaining a blog. Yet I feel obligated to do it, even on do-nothing days.

Then, of course, I really should walk the dogs every day. That should be considered a "do-nothing" activity because it's supposed to be soothing, relaxing, enjoyable. It is, to a certain degree. Kind of. On days when I don't have to worry about rabid fox roaming the neighborhood -- which isn't really all that crazy since there have been reports this past week of rabid fox charging dogs. Which scares the cuss out of me because we have lots of fox in our neighborhood ... and my dogs have lots of power behind them and it would be LOTS of ugly if the two were to tango or tangle or tussle or interact in any way whatsoever. So walking the dogs is a chore, one I feel obligated to do, even on do-nothing days.

When there's nothing major on the schedule, I see those open hours as hours of opportunity, hours that could be filled with writing and editing and cleaning out closets or organizing drawers or practicing piano or sewing up something summery or catching up on all the books I need to review or weeding the entire yard again ... and watering it extra heavily since I have the time and it's been so dry. So many chores, so many things I'd feel obligated to do, especially if I faced a do-nothing day.

Ultimately, I say cuss it! Do-nothing days are not really all that awesome after all. At least not to me. They just make me feel guilty ... and unproductive ... and insane for being so conflicted about something so inane, something most folks would relish.

I'm thinking maybe I should just unsubscribe from 1000 Awesome Things. That, or learn to simply -- and silently -- appreciate the awesome.

Today's question:

What's your most awesome thing from the past week?