I have a friend named "Lisa A." who, when you first meet her, you can't take your eyes off of her. She has this way about her - the way she wears her hair, her clothes, the way she smiles and, in doing so, even her eyes seem to smile. Lisa is good for me because she is my complete opposite. When she enters a room, she does it smoothly, and with finesse. I, on the other hand, rush in like a whirling dervish and create a mind blowing current before falling, exhausted, into a chair, leaving anyone who has come into contact with me feeling bewildered, befuddled and ... scared. Or scarred (what a similarity an "r" makes).
Lisa speaks calmly and deliberately and can soothe anyone with the sound of her voice and an attitude that says, "everything will be just fine." I tend to be neurotic (NO!!! Really?), quick to speak (I never knew that about you!), and reactionary (you must be joking). With that said, right now some of you are seeing a neon light flashing while you try to remember if you gave me your phone number or, even worse, your address and, as you are thinking and rethinking, and saying, "Oh, please God....please...," don't worry - chances are I can't find your phone number OR your address and even if I could, I am mostly harmless.
This is not to say that Lisa is all prim, proper, pink and posies, by the way. She's a tough attorney who negotiates for her clients with nerves of steel and a deep commitment to GET HER WAY. I should know; I used to work for her. And the beautiful thing that came out of that job was a wonderful friendship, born out of her putting up with little Miss Cuckoo taking up space in the office at the end of the hall. I'll never understand it, but she took an interest in me. Perhaps the same kind of interest one who is driving by a very bad accident takes, when she just can't help but slow down, look, stare and wonder. Maybe even pull over and offer to help amidst the chaos swirling all around her.
The other day, Lisa's mom, Rita, emailed me. Rita is a big fan and supporter of my soaps. In fact, I have gotten more clients because Rita not only uses my soaps and loves them, but she gives them as gifts.
In her email, Rita told me she was going to be on my side of town for a hair appointment on Saturday and wanted to know if she could stop by and pick up more soaps. Of course she could!!
I told my husband that Rita was coming, which was a good thing. Because my being 51 years old is equivalent to some sort of neurological entropy where my mind is collapsing in on me and the neurons just aren't communicating like they used to. Granted, I take care of an almost 3 year old child at least 80 hours a week. I run two businesses, and have to put up with a crazy neighbor. I still work very very hard on perfecting my voice due to my desire to be a singer in a rock and roll band, which means that when I'm all by myself, I sing The Yellow Rose of Texas at the top of my lungs, killing off a few thousand brain cells during the high notes. I am obsessed with my hair and what it will NOT do for me despite repeated attempts, some good, some bad, at changing it to various shades of red, brown, blonde and, an unfortunate green and a twice bright pink (huge error and shrieks coming from the bathroom that woke my crazy neighbor). The most recent fiasco was an attempt to turn my dark hair red which I screwed up royally and haven't yet fixed because I DON'T HAVE TIME. Where are we going with this, you wonder. We are going down the road that talks about the fact that I can't remember things to save my life.
Fast forward to Saturday, the day Rita is supposed to arrive. I had the soaps ready for her and was creating some new labels on my computer when the doorbell rang. I stood up and, through the prism-like glass in our front door, I saw the outline of two women. One looked like she was holding something. "Oh great," I breathed. "The Rapture Women are back." I yelled up to my husband (who was in his office working on a grant), "We're not answering that - there's a couple of holy rollers at the door."
Just so you know, I AM a church goer. I believe in God. But I absolutely canNOT stand it when Bible beaters come to the door. I have read the Bible from cover to cover and have come to my own conclusions, but I do NOT appreciate someone else pushing their branch of religion on me.
The doorbell rang - again. I couldn't believe it. "Those two are tenacious," I say. "Next they're going to start knocking!" And they did.
My husband came downstairs and headed for the door. "You're answering it?" Well, be nice then," I say.
He opens the door and I hear, "Is Maggie here?" I walk to the door, and it's Lisa and Rita! Which totally threw me and then, in my whacked out state of mind because I hadn't been expecting them, even though I was expecting them, but forgot about it, I started rushing all over the place talking in double sentences and asking them questions they didn't even have time to answer before I raced off to grab the soaps. I came rushing back, handed them the soaps and said, "Hold on!" I started to scurry off and turned and said, "Look at my hair!" I bent my head forward and parted my hair. "A failed attempt at coloring it red! Oh my God!" I ran off.
I came back and gave Rita a lotion bar and ran off again to get one for Lisa. When I came back, we chatted for another minute before I said, "Hold on, let me get you a bag for all of these things." Lisa said that wasn't necessary, even though it was necessary because they couldn't carry all of those soaps and the lotion bars without a bag! I heard Rita explain to her why they needed a bag because the poor dear thing was so confused about what she thought I might be getting next that I'm sure she blacked out for a minute.
Several hours after they'd left, my ever adoring husband burst out laughing. "What?" I said. "You were running around making so much noise when they came in that I high-tailed it to the bedroom. Then, when you came flying into the bedroom looking for another lotion bar, I ducked. Into a fetal position. I felt like I lived with Edith Bunker."
I emailed Rita and Lisa, apologizing for my personality. "Can you imagine what it would be like if I did cocaine?" They both wrote back and told me they like me just the way I am and that's what makes me me. It's kind of like what nurses in the Psychiatric Hospital say to their patient who is swinging from the rafters thinking he's a lemur in heat. "Oh, you're fine, dear. It's just what makes you, well, YOU."
Copyright 2011 liamsgrandma
