Detours

I've been away from this space for a long time.

Too long.

That blur is morning dew streaking down my dirty windshield ... or is it a tear?

People - some I don't even actually know - have asked if I'm still doing the blog.

Yes.

Kinda.

But, yes.

The actual living of life sometimes gets in the way of writing about living life.

Since early spring, I've had to do, do, do -  this project, this deadline, this priority, this issue, this thing - and little time to write about the doing. I'm not one of those bloggers whose job it is to blog. I have a full-time paying gig that has nothing at all to do with this space and that, along with the rest of my life, has been the focus of my efforts and attention.

But I like it here and I'm glad to be back. Thanks for joining me. And thanks for missing me. I missed you, too.

Actually, I'm glad to be anywhere these days. It seems as though I've spent a lot of time trying to get places, but I keep hitting detours. Literally.

Sometimes, it's all I see.

My already-cumbersome daily commute has gotten a lot more tedious and, well, at times, crappy, as of the last few months. They are building a bridge and reworking all the roads around it, including the ones I take every day. And they're fixing an overpass bridge near my home. And closing part of the road I live on to lop off a couple of hills and widen the road.

All at once. All this summer. All the time.

A new interstate bridge rising out of the Ohio River and stretching toward shore to take its place alongside its established kin.

That's how they make a living - building and fixing things while the days are long. It's hard work and it's dangerous. I totally get that and respect it.

I am, after all, a lover of paved roads.

I am not, however, a lover of how my complexion looks in the soft glow of brake lights.

So for me, getting from Point A to Point B so I can make a living has often been a painful point in the day.

But when you really, really like where you work and love where you live, well, you make concessions. It's temporary, even though it feels like it's going to last forever.

Especially when your bladder is full and the gas tank is near empty.

Little orange bastard.

Still, it's ok.

Besides, life's like that. Sometimes, we speed along, zooming from one destination to another. Sometimes, we can just cruise by. Sometimes, we have to slow down.

Sometimes, we come to hard brake; a jarring stop.

Sometimes, we run on empty.

... and seriously need to wipe down the dashboard ...

Sometimes, we have to take an unplanned detour.

The important thing is to get back on course.

Because the road ahead - however winding or twisted - ultimately leads us home.

* Please note: most photos were taken through a dirty car windshield while at a complete stop, usually with the car in park. So, don't be a dumbass who takes pics while driving.

What it is

This is my cat.

This is also an outfit I had planned to wear - a pair of jeans and what is obviously a very comfy sweater, both of which are covered in cat.

It is what it is: a cat doing what a cat does.

Granted, cats can be assholes by nature. I could be mad at her snuggles. I could be inconvenienced at having to add the extra step of full-body lint roller to my morning routine. I could choose something else to wear at the last minute.

Or, I can just accept it for what it is (cat on clothes) and deal with what it is (roll it and wear it).

That's what I did, of course, when this happened a few weeks ago. I moved the cat, rolled the sweater and jeans, and went about my day. That's what it was - no big deal. It was amusing, actually, because I chose to see it that way.

It is what it is. I use that phrase a lot, especially in relation to relatively harmless scenarios like the one above. It's a phrase of acknowledgment and acceptance. It's not necessarily approval; in fact, it most often isn't. Still, when I find myself saying or thinking, it is what it is, I am choosing to tolerate imperfections (crabby people, for example) or situations that are less than ideal (asshole cats on my clothes, for instance).

Gosh, I've been saying it is what it is a lot lately. Too much.

I've been saying it in relation to a lot of things, a lot of aspects - personalities, requests, tasks, situations, obligations, all kinds of randomness.

Sometimes, there comes a point when it is what is is less about acceptance of a situation and more like resignation: What it is sucks and I am being taken advantage of, misunderstood, used, manipulated or otherwise mistreated in some way ... and I am expected to accept it because it will not change.

Here's the thing: Sometimes we have to decide if the what it is warrants the time, attention, loyalty and devotion being put into it.

I've been doing a lot of evaluating lately.

Sometimes it's worth it. Going back to my earlier example, I love my cat and accept that she can be a jerk who will sleep on my clothes.

Sometimes it's not. Negativity can be a poison, suffocating us until we break free and gasp fresh air.

We have choices. We have some measure of control over what we tolerate, perhaps more than we care to acknowledge. We can prune our lives much a like a gardener does weeds, extracting the aspects that stunt our growth and steal our nourishment. That may be what it is, but it's not for me ... and I will move on.

Sometimes it's hard to tell the weeds from the flowers. After all, a dandelion is a weed, but with one breath, it is a wish.

Obviously a dreamy stock photo. My world is covered in snow and ice right now.

And a terrible source of allergies.

But it is what it is.

So then we ask ourselves the tough question about weeds/wishes/sneezes or any other aspects of our lives: Acknowledging what it is, is it right for me? 

I don't offer answers, just this reminder that we all need guidance in discerning our best course of action: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference." -  from The Serenity Prayer.

A look around

Gosh, it's been awhile since I've been in this space. I've been busy and blogging has not been a priority in this girl's life.

Don't take that personally; I love you.

This fall has been full. My schedule doth overflow. I'm not bragging and I'm not complaining. I'm just busy.

I don't know a single person who, when asked, "So, things been busy?" would answer with anything other than an exasperated affirmation. We tend to fill our time. Being busy - especially for women - is often a brag-y kind of badge of honor: "I'm so busy" = "I'm so important/needed/essential etc." To admit otherwise makes us seem somehow less in a society that constantly compares.

That said, I have no problem admitting I've experienced profound boredom.With that came a heaping portion of depression and loneliness. Idle hands/devil's workshop sort of stuff.

No thanks.

And so I will always appreciate being busy. Even if I feel as though life will swallow me right up at any moment.

Work commitments, pressing deadlines and a lousy construction-laden daily commute swell my weekday calendar. Outside of that, there are community and church volunteer commitments on an almost daily basis.

Plus, lest we forget, I'm a wife and mom. Carving out family time has been a challenge, but we did manage a fall break family vacation to Washington DC.

My son's high school marching band season is in full swing and so we are up early and out late every weekend. My butt is in the bleachers a lot - at home football games on Fridays and at contests almost every Saturday.

I love it. I really do. 

Oh, and I've been sick ... like four-rounds-of-antibiotics sick with various maladies since August.

So there's that.

Low energy and an overwrought schedule have been my challenges this fall. It's hard to stay on track. At times, I wonder if am I veering without noticing, like a sleepy driver behind the wheel.

That's why it's good to hit the brakes and take a look around.

Get your bearings.

Remember where you've been.

See where you are.

Bask in the moment.

Look at the road ahead.

My truth is this: my life is hectic. It is overwhelming.

And it is infinitely blessed.

I took one of the photos in Washington DC of the Washington Monument, and all the rest here in Indiana at a band contest in Greenwood, at Mount Saint Francis, at Perrin Park in Jeffersonville and along the country roads of Floyd County. These are my photos, unedited, no filters, no Instagram.

This is what I see when I stop and take a look around.

The walking dread

Oh gosh! My hands!

I looked at both hands in disbelief.

Contaminated.

My stomach sank. I'd just polished off a breakfast sandwich  ... with my hands ... the contaminated hands. And now it was in me. There was no going back.

Let me explain.

It all started yesterday ...

I was having a bad day. Just awful. A hectic morning was building up to a midday mental meltdown. I was out on my lunch break just wanting to grab a quick bite, but nothing sounded good and everything, everywhere was crowded.

I settled on a soup-and-sandwich kind of place and was in a long and not-moving line when I got a call on my cell. It was of a personal nature and I didn't want to miss the call, so being courteous to those around me, I stepped out of line to take the call. It was disappointing news and I was not happy.

I was also no longer in line.

Approximately 4,000 other people got in line ahead of me.

Approximately.

I decided to take my disappointment and sinking mood elsewhere. As I was backing my car out, another car zoomed passed and almost clipped me. Startled, I decided this was definitely not the place for me.

I was trying to process the news I'd received in the call and also trying to decide lunch. I hadn't been feeling well and was now feeling worse, at least emotionally, and so I wanted to make a food selection that wouldn't ruin my day physically.

I opted for a sandwich shop that was in a gas station near my office. The thing was, everyone else was there too (crazy crowded) and, yet again, my car was nearly bumped by another car with a distracted cell-phone-talking driver.

I ventured across the street to a fast-food grill, hoping for some reasonably healthy fare, but instead was cutoff by another car for a parking spot and nearly rear-ended by another who was also going for the spot. I tried to maneuver out of the way of the way, and was met by another car that was going the wrong way.

It's like cars were falling out of the sky and trying to land on mine in some sort of divine video game.

Also? People were lined up out the door at the restaurant.

I was rattled to the core and considered just going back to the office and eating Twizzlers - you know, the ones with the filling. Yum!

But I was shaky and needed more sustenance than that. So I got out of that cramped parking lot and headed down the parkway toward a chicken place that sells good salads.

The drive-thru line was 10 - yes, 10! - deep and the parking lot packed.

I pulled into a neighboring bank parking lot and cried. I just wept. For my frustration. For my disappointment. For my rattled nerves. For my growling tummy. For the wasted gas. For knowing that if I had just gotten back in line at the first place, I would probably be eating my soup now. I cried.

Once I got my cry out, I wiped the smeared mascara from my now-irritated eyes, and headed back to the gas station sandwich shop near my office. Lunch rush over, the parking lot was clear. There was no counter line. Things were looking up for me.

And then it happened.

My hands were full. I was balancing my bag of food, an open drink, my purse, a handful of dollar bills and coins, all while standing at the drink station trying to get a lid on my soda. The full soda started to slip from my hands and I turned to catch it - and dropped all the coins into the trash.

Seventy-one cents fell out of my hand and into the countertop trash bin. And, with nary a thought, I reached in and picked 60 cents of it back out ... of the trash.

I reached in.

I reached in the trash.

I reached in the trash in a fast food restaurant.

I reached in the trash in a fast food restaurant in a gas station.

And then I realized what I'd done.

Oh gosh, I reached in the trash in a fast food restaurant in a gas station!

Horrified and completely baffled by why I didn't just donate 71 cents to the landfill, I shuffled everything to my clean left hand and hit the door. I managed to get in the car and basically just drop everything into its rightful place while retrieving the hand sanitizer from the console.

I popped the sanitizer's lid, aimed for my right hand ... and the lid shot off, dumping the entire container all over me - my slacks, my blouse and thankfully, my right hand.

Back at the office, I washed my hands - more than once - and finally settled at my desk to eat. I was shaking with hunger. With my very first bite, I took out a chunk of the inside of my mouth.

Not a pinch to the cheek. It was a flesh-spittng chunk.

I was hungry, with mascara-smeared red eyes, a bloody mouth, and covered in antibacterial goo. Add my hazmat hand to that, and I could have been a zombie from The Walking Dead mindlessly ambling about the office.

My afternoon got better. I recovered from my disappointment, pulled myself together and drove home unscathed.

... And then today ....

In the back-to-school rush of the morning today (yes, we started school already yesterday), I stopped off for a quick breakfast via drive-thru. My total was $2.60. Hey, what do you know ... exact change in the console.

Exact change.

From the trash.

From the trash in a fast food restaurant.

From the trash in a fast food restaurant in a gas station yesterday.

And now the change had traveled ... from the trash ... to my hand ... to the console ... to my hand again this morning ... and without thinking about it until it was too late ... to my food ... to my mouth this morning.

Hey - I'm ok.

Despite my freak-out this morning at the realization that I had not entirely escaped my rotten luck of the previous day, I got through today just fine without triggering a zombie plague.

Some days are like that and we all dread them. It seems like the universe is out to get us at every turn. But we gotta walk through the messy days, past the dread. Just when we think we've conquered our demons, they rise back at us to take another turn.

We have to face our challenges and get our hands dirty - in the parking lot, in the trash bin, in our own minds. Avoidance just drags out our worries, distracts us, makes us linger on the negative, keeps us from focusing on the right things.

[And wastes a lot of time and gas during our lunch break.]

Just remember, life's ick isn't the end of the world. Shake it off. Wash it off - literally - if you have to. 

Eventually, a fresh start awaits.

And then there was the sun

The screech of the alarm this morning at 5:50 was greeted with a hearty smack of the snooze button.

It was dark.

Too dark.

Without the orange-pink slips of burgeoning morning light dancing between the slats of my bedroom blinds, there was no real incentive to get up. Dark + cold = night = sleep. It's math.

Math is power.

Unfortunately, it was daytime. A gloomy daytime.

Bleh.

Overnight, the temps had dipped all the way back into the 40s. Egad, it's March all over again! I cuddled further into the blankets, hoping to stave off the chill and inevitable "eh eh eh eh eh" of the alarm a little longer.

Breezy and damp, the highs only reached the upper 50s today. Multiple jolts of caffeine couldn't keep the yawns at bay. The afternoon dragged on. All the way home, I consoled myself with, "I'll curl up on the couch in sweats, watch Supernatural on NetFlix and take a nap."

My evening was planned.

And then the craziest, most unexpected thing happened ...

The sun came out.

Okay, maybe it wasn't so crazy or unexpected to those who had watched local weather reports. I had been ensconced in season 6 of Supernatural (Sammy got his soul back!) and hadn't caught the forecasts.

The sun tugged at me. It pulled me off the couch. It whispered, "Come out and play."

Creepy, whisper-y sun.

I ventured out, abandoning my Winchester boys to NetFlix and hit the dirt. I planted my veggie garden, pulled weeds, cleared mountains of helicopters discarded by the maples, and took in the blissful kiss of lilac on the soft evening breeze.

I also stepped in dog poop.

All in all, a good spring evening in the garden, thanks to the invitation of the setting sun.

Falling apart

That mailbox? The one attached to the post via electrical tape?

That's my mailbox.

This long, cold, snowy winter sucker punched it. Seems a snow plow took it out while scraping our road. The mail carrier was kind enough to hand deliver our mail to the front door and inform us of the assault. My husband fished the battered box out of a snowy ditch.

It was cold. It was icy. Hand delivery of our bills, my Entertainment Weekly and the occasional American Girl catalog was a one-time thing (side note: no one - no one - in this house is in the market for American Girl dolls and yet we have received that catalog for more than 10 years, despite repeated unsubscribes).

So hubs did what any middle class, educated man would do in front of his suburban home: he got a roll of tape and stuck that dented beast back on the post with a promise to fix it in the spring thaw.

It's not embarrassing at all.

[it's possible I am lying]

This?

Now this embarrassed me.

You see, our 15-year-old washer would thump and jiggle like a tiny nightclub each time the load was unbalanced - which was every. single. time. we ran it. Eventually, the thumping shook the front panel loose, adding a percussive element as it moved away from its set placement, much a like Stevie Nicks twirling on stage with a tambourine.

Hubs would balance the feet, tighten the panel ... until the next load. Eventually, it would rattle and shake into a boot scooting line dance of sorts.

Then one day, it made like a stripper on dollar beer night and dropped the front panel completely.

You might say, "Who cares? It's just the laundry room. You're the only ones who will see it."

Naturally, this happened the week we had a guest who needed to use our laundry facilities. Our dirty shame (literally dirty - the inside of a 15-year-old washer is nasty) was not hidden; it had a witness. And I was embarrassed by it.

My husband is a handy guy. He can fix stuff. He's good at it and I am not going to lie: I dig this quality in a man. It's downright sexy. He fought this machine for more than a week and let me tell you: there was some unusually foul language flying about from my normally sweet, polite guy. I thought it might best him. I had duct tape anxiety, knowing he might choose to tape it shut or worse yet, just leave it open. Buying a new washer is not an option financially.

But he conquered it. Tape free. Our shame concealed ... at least until the next unbalanced load.

Life is like that. Sometimes it seems our world is falling apart physically, mentally, spiritually, literally. We get knocked down, rattled loose. We swear, we fight to keep it together, to hold on and stay useful. We peel back the layers of fear, anxiety, embarrassment. Sometimes we conquer it, and sometimes we need to patch ourselves together a little while longer and hope for a better day; a better way.

"Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try one more time." - Thomas Edison

  

The save

 

While waiting at the allergist's office today for my weekly allergy shots, I noticed a curly-haired little boy of about 4 or so staring at me.

His mother was reading a magazine and oblivious. I didn't think much of it, as sometimes kids just zero in on stuff when they're bored, so I continued reading a very important article on People.com on my cell about how grown up the kid from Modern Family has gotten (here it is if you're dying to know). That piece of literature now properly store in my brain, I glanced up to see the little guy still agaze in my direction.

I smiled one of my adorable dimple-laden beauties.

He smiled back.

"You're pretty," he said.

Heart = melted.

"Thank you," I replied, all aw-shucks. "I think you're very handsome."

Blank stare.

Followed by scrunchy-nosed confusion.

A head tilt.

Then a frown.

"I'm a girl."

Oh.

Yep, I was having one of those days.

It's been one of those days for several days now, actually. I am off my game.

My week has included two cancelled school events for my son: one cancelled because of heavy snow and the other cancelled a few days later because of the threat of tornadoes. Welcome to the Midwest. We've gone from super busy on those days to ... well, nothing ... in a blink. Schedule = chucked

I've had a  Bob Costas-level case of pink eye. Because at nearly 45 years old, I have the immune system of a toddler in daycare.

Twice while I was composing a text containing the word slushy - as in, the roads are slushy - my cellphone autocorrected my typo to slutty ... which is way more interesting, but not at all accurate.

I put my bra on inside out yesterday and even managed to close it (don't ask).

In addition to offending the little girl in the doctor's office - whose mother might want to consider tossing a bow in that mess of curls or at least not glare at strangers making an honest mistake - my day also included near theft in the form of nail polish that fell into an outer purse pocket instead of the cart at Target. The misdemeanor was averted when I found it while checking out - though again with the glaring, this time from the cashier.

I blame the season. We're in that in-between time of the year when you can sense spring is coming. It's in the buds on the trees, daytime highs that pop up into the low 60s for a moment, and ever-lingering evening sun. And then like a rubber band to the wrist, winter snaps back and reminds us it ain't over. The senses are unsettled, bouncing about, trying to land in a happy, familiar place.

Or maybe I'm just a middle-aged spaz.

Anyway, I've had some lucky saves this week: messages received in time to reset plans, keeping conjunctivitis limited, catching autocorrect errors, making like Houdini in a straitjacket to fix undergarment errors, and even pulling unpaid merch out of my purse like a rabbit out of a hat.

Except, of course, for the little girl in the waiting room today.

I stammered, realizing my error, and babbled something like, "Did I say handsome? That's not what I meant. I was looking at a picture of my handsome son," gesturing at my phone.

Liar.

"I meant to say beautiful."

Not buying it.

Finally, resolved to the fact there was no excusing me, I sighed, and said in all sincerity, "You know, you really are adorable."

And with that, I got a smile from her.

And the day was saved.

Wardrobe functions

In case you are wondering what that is pictured above, I can confirm that it is in fact, not the world's saddest hand puppet.  It's a dingy, hole-y sock. With my hand in it.

The saddest thing about that sock?

It's on my foot right now.

In the lottery of late-in-the-week clean clothes, this guy and its mate (equally hole-y, by the way) are the winners.

They are the king and queen of the sock drawer prom.

I would like to mention in my defense that the gross dinginess of these socks may be attributed to the fact that I have worn these outdoors without shoes already this morning ... and not solely due to my lackadaisical housekeeping.

A little bleach and they will be good as ... well, they will be bright and clean.

Before you tell me to go get some new socks, for Pete's sake, let me tell you about another incident this week: 

I was speaking at a work-related gig to an audience of about 30 or so professionals when I felt the slightly distracting creep of my pants' zipper heading south. My part at the podium was brief and so I discreetly tugged at my sweater set (of course!) to cover any possible offending revelations and stepped away. But make no mistake: the barn door was open.

You see, my fly had been inexplicably doing that all morning. A check in the ladies room revealed that one of my two trouser buttons had gone missing, thus making way for the repeated opening of said barn door. These were my favorite black slacks; the ones that go with everything and look great on me. They fit great (loose at the waist!) and so I would be determined to save them. Thankfully, I still had the other button to hold my dignity in its proper place.

Until I didn't.

That remaining button flew to destinations unknown as I stepped out of the car at lunchtime. The only things holding my pants up at that point were my child-bearing hips.

... Which brings me to my next point ...

My teenage son has grown about 10 inches in the last two years. He's pushing 6' 2" and still moving upward. Last Saturday evening, his dad and I raced out to buy him a new pair of black slacks to wear to honor band the next day when we saw the ones he was wearing to a church function that night had popped up to the top of his (new, larger) shoes. Just two weeks earlier, those pants had fit him just fine.

At some point this weekend, father and son will go tux shopping for the kid's required concert band attire.  That nice suit I bought him last year? Ridiculously small now. That goes along with a steady stream of jeans, shoes, and socks right now flowing through our house.

And so, Mom (and Dad) will make do in the wardrobe department in order to make room in the budget for more urgent needs. 

That's what parents do.

Back to my black pants ... I got through the remainder of my day thanks to a safety pin. The zipper was actually broken and so they had to be retired, and other black pants I already owned called into active service.

As for my sock situation ... I was at the doctor's office recently in socked feet and mentioned that I was embarrassed by the worn condition of my footwear (though not nearly as bad as the ones pictured above). The doctor laughed, kicked her right shoe off to reveal her big toe peeking through a hole.

"I have kids too," she said.

Disappointed

I need new shoes.

Normally, that sort of revelation gets me excited because that means I have a legit reason to go shoe shopping. (I often have un-legit reasons, like "I'm bored. Pretty color. BOGO.") 

Shoe shopping inspires puppy-like enthusiasm in me. If I had a tail, it would wag and I would turn circles at the front door at the prospect of going bye-bye … I mean, shoe shopping.

But not this time.

My legit reason for this purchase is so I have a comfy pair of shoes for a scheduled vacation next week during my son's fall break. We plan to do a lot of sight-seeing on this trip and I need something practical for walking. Something boring. I hate to spend our limited resources on a utilitarian purchase when what I want are super cool boots. 

It's disappointing.

Resigned to this chore, I dropped my son off at taekwondo Monday night and headed to a retail area.  My hopes were to avoid athletic shoes and maybe score some not-horrible loafers. My first stop was an outdoor sporting goods retailer - not exactly a bastion of girlie shoe delights - but certainly of the practical nature I was seeking. 

A less-than-helpful clerk tossed a box of loafers at me and then promptly disappeared. As in, the shoe department was empty. No customers, no staff. She just … left. 

Crickets.

Seriously - it's a cricket chirp that's piped in over the sound system to go with the whole outdoors-y feel of the place. So yes, I heard crickets, but, "May I check to see if these come in a wide size?" Not so much. So, disappointed, I left and hit the mall.

While making my way through the mall, the kiosk dwellers started pitching their products and services. "Hey lady, you like?" offered the creepy elder man with the creepier massage chair.

No. I no like. 

Moving on, a hipster with a fake cigarette steps in front of me: "You smoke? 'Cause these e-cigs are crazy."

"No, I don't smoke."

"Well, you should try these e-cigs. They are …"

"Wait - are you actually suggesting I take up smoking?"

Pauses for a moment and then leans in, "They ain't real."

As I continued, I also declined a pet hermit crab whose shell could be painted to my liking, and spied several expletive-embellished t-shirts hanging just inside another retailer.

And so finally, I made it to a shoe store and tried on these sexy girls. 

Yoga pants + try-on nylons + Mary Janes = hot.

It was time to pick my son up from taekwondo and so, feeling rushed, I went ahead and bought these shoes. I have to admit, I was immediately disappointed in my purchase, feeling like there might be something better out there. 

That was Monday night. Early the next morning, the federal government shut down. That's disappointing on many levels. I'll spare you a rant about the situation.

But that family vacation we planned over fall break? Yep, it was to Washington DC. 

Those sights we planned to see in practical footwear? All closed.

While it's true we are disappointed, we are also working on a plan B. Because the thing is, no matter what plans we make (or break) or where we decide to go (or not go), we will spend time together as a family. 

And that is not disappointing at all.

Though I still think my shoe selection is a bummer.

Little mercies

Oh Thursday, please deliver me from this week!

It's been a real bear. Exhausting and deliberately challenging. I just want it to go away.

After a series of four days of bad health, bad timing and bad juju, the final indignation occurred this afternoon at the grocery store, crowded with the after-work set grabbing necessities on the way home. I stopped in to grab something quick for dinner, as I'm just too tired to go home and cook. I was standing in line at the deli, when suddenly ...

POP!

My right bra strap sprung like a slingshot pulled taut and let go. One second, it was on my shoulder and then the next, it ... wasn't.

Such was the force of the pop, I'm pretty sure that had I not been wearing a cardigan, the strap would have slapped me in the ear and sent my earring flying. Startled, I jumped a little in my high heels and audibly gasped, garnering some odd looks from the other deli patrons and the young lady behind the counter weighing my coleslaw. I tried to be cool, casually reaching for my shoulder just to be sure that ... yep, it was gone. I could feel the strap hanging loose on my back, dangling toward my hip.

Then came the worst feeling: the front - the cup - started to unfurl like a banana peel.

Things were about to get very real, folks.

I discreetly buttoned my cardi - because, of course, I was wearing a cardigan sweater! - and silently prayed for the deli worker to put my chicken meal together a little faster.

One potato wedge.

Two potato wedge.

Three potato wedge.

When she finally hit the half-pound mark, I called it good enough and hit the checkout line. I was in such a tizzy, I tried to pay for the order by swiping my health insurance card. 

No, it didn't take.

When I got to the car, I realized I still had one more stop to make before I could get home: my son's school.  So no one would blame me for doing the wiggle - you know, how we girls can tuck both arms in our shirts and wrestle our bras off without exposing ourselves - so I could re-appoint the offending strap and discreetly secure it back on the shoulder in the privacy of my car.

... No one ... except the elderly lady in the passenger seat of the car next to me.

She? Not amused. And neither was her lap dog. Stupid, judgmental Yorkie.

Note to self: next time you partially disrobe in your car in a public place in the daytime, check for an audience.

Some days are like that: it's one thing after another. And some days like that come at you a week at a time. I try to roll with it as best I can and look for the little mercies: kind gestures from friends, a well-timed compliment, the guy who lets you turn left in front of him in the carpool line, a sturdy underwire, old ladies who have probably been blinded by flashes of your pasty middle-aged flesh and thus can't ID you ...

... and mediocre fashion sensibilities that leave you covered in every situation.

God bless the cardigan sweater.

Smile, dammit

Family pictures ... hate 'em.

Really, I do.

In case you are wondering why, let me offer evidence:

Exhibit A, where I'm not sure if the camera is on. It was.

Exhibit B, emerging sneeze/itchy nose.

Exhibit C, with puppy photo bomb.

Exhibit D, where we just stopped trying and gave up with half my face and the top of Hubs head cut off.

Granted, these are selfies on the couch with poor lighting and dumb t-shirts. Yet, I thought it would be fun to bring it in for an impromptu family pic of the Three Amigos ... the Three Musketeers ... heck, even the Three Stooges.

And that's where it all goes wrong: we just can't always naturally pull it together very well for pics of us all together, at the same time.

It's not that we're unhappy or hideous people. We're a pretty cute trio with a dash of whimsy about us. But something - or someone - always goes wrong.

• Hubs closes his eyes. Because, apparently he is afraid the flash will steal his soul through his eyes if he leaves them open for a picture. He denies it, but photographic evidence would suggest otherwise.
• Kiddo smiles, but if it takes too long, he begins to clench his teeth, ala, "I can't wait to lock these two old farts away in a home." 
• I'm pretty adorable most of the time. (I mean, come on - these dimples - amiright?) Unless I laugh or the photographer is at eye level with me, and then about seven chins unfold and I look like Jabba the Hut.

Bears a striking resemblance.

But the thing is, we need family pictures. It's important to capture these stages in our lives together, even if they are awkward. Terribly, terribly awkward. These are memories, people, and we need to capture them ... even if it's in a trap and we are trying to chew our leg off to get away.

So last weekend, we had the mother of all family portraits: the church directory. It's like the yearbook of your adult life and you gotta bring it; you gotta look good: smiling, happy, peaceful, content and a little holy wouldn't hurt. If people wonder, "Hey, who's that awesome family in the fifth pew?" - they look it up in the church directory and right there we are, being awesome.

And so I went about coordinating outfits. I would wear a white tank and light teal cardi (of course!); Hubs, a golf shirt in a darker shade of teal; and Kiddo, a white golf shirt. Adorbs! And appropriately awesome.

Long story short, here's how it went down Saturday morning: Hubs' shirt had a snag mid-belly. Kiddo had a black smudged stain of unknown origin on his white shirt. My outfit was cute, but I had an unrelated emotional meltdown and cried. That's not a good look for me. Think toddler art with red finger paints - that's what my splotchy complexion looked like.

Hubs and I argued in the car on the way there. Kiddo sulked. This was not the making of a good picture for the church directory. We risk being known as the Grumpy McGrumpersons in Tattered Clothing.

I tried to think of something to say that could perk everyone up. As we pulled into the church parking lot, all I had was:

"Just smile, dammit."

And we did.

We faked it. Because some days you are not awesome or adorbs, but you put on a smile and get through it. And we did. Together. The three of us. And somehow, that makes it better.

It's not the best picture of the Malones. But if someone wonders who that family in the fifth pew is, they can look us up and see three smiling faces.

Because, if nothing else, we smiled ... dammit.

The under-achieving makeover

Oompa Loompa.

The Gene Wilder version, not Johnny Depp.

That's the best way to describe it. My face looked like that of an old-school Oompa Loompa. Actually, my face was the color of an Oompa Loompa.

Let me explain.

I've been in the mood to punch up my personal style a bit because I've been in a rut. My hair has been as stylish as a bird's nest and my make-up - or lack of it - reflects an un-me meh attitude.

So I got a haircut early yesterday morning with a new stylist at a salon I'd never been to before. Yes, I cheated on my regular stylist. It's not her, it's me. I haven't been communicating well with her. I haven't been trying to keep the magic alive. I put my personal needs above our shared needs. And I hate to admit it, but I liked the allure of someone new. I wanted to see what it was like.

... ahem ... Anyway ...

I brought in a picture of what I had in mind: I wanted to go short. My hair was a drab medium-length I-don't-know-what-I-want-so-let's-do-this boring middle-aged mom cut. And I was ready to be bold; to pull back the curtain that my hair was allowing me to hide behind and put this face front and center.

I kind of look like a boy now.

Okay, not really, but it was shorter than I had expected. But I like it. As does my husband, judging by the way he keeps kissing my neck.

Too much? Sorry.

Anyway, part 2 of sprucing up my look was to involve some make-up upgrades. So yesterday afternoon, I approached the make-up counter at a retailer and asked the saleslady if she could recommend a neutral-ish eye shadow for me, explaining that I don't wear much make-up, but would like an everyday shadow.

An hour and a half later, I looked like a native of Loompaland.

And I had spent $113.

Ouch.

Though I never mentioned being in the market for foundation, she immediately asked, "Is your face always so red?"

Um, no.

I suddenly felt self-conscious and I let her cake a thick coat of dark spackling paste all over my face. And the thing is, it looked good in the mirror ... in that lighting. So I let her work her magic.

But as soon as I joined my husband in the car - in normal daylight - and saw the what-the-heck-happened-to-you look on his face, I snapped down the passenger-side mirror and was horrified. Orange. I was orange.

Oompa Loompa. Except they actually have longer hair than I do now.

I should have known something was terribly wrong when I tried to smile and felt my face crack.

So, I am taking back the unused make-up I bought and getting a big chunk of money refunded. But I am keeping the eye shadow and the blush because they work at about one-quarter the amount she had painted on me. Considering how very little I actually need to use and the quality of the product, I will come out ahead financially in the long run.

The third leg of my spruce-me-up/treat-myself weekend was to involve the purchase of a new outfit. But I thought I would just quit while I was ahead, for fear of what my good intentions might end up costing me, both in cash and in appearance.

Because, while there is nothing wrong with wanting to improve oneself, sometimes we have to know when to leave well enough alone and just be happy. Just as we are.

"A woman whose smile is open and whose expression is glad has a kind of beauty no matter what she wears," - Anne Roiphe.