The People of Walmart

I saw the parody of Jim Carey dancing to the song Chandeliers on SNL.

It was hilarious.

And when the song played on the radio on Monday morning I burst out laughing—I could not help but visualize the flailing and indelicacy of Carey’s motions.

Yesterday on The View each co-host expressed that they have difficulty conversing with actors and actresses (and sometime politicians) after having seen them (the actors and politicians) naked on the screen.

The cohosts find it difficult to delete the image of the revealed private body parts from their brain.

 Pictures often polute the mind.

Which is why my brain veered into an unintended direction when I heard that there was a backlash to Walmart selling fat girl costumes. Because several times a year for as many years as I have had an email account someone sends me a pictorial of The People of Walmart.

No one in the photos is thin.

Not even close.

I thought I do not think there is a single shopper at Walmart who needs a padded costume to look fat—the padding is already built in. Why would people spend money on a costume to look like themselves?

And then I was made aware of what the contoversy was really about—costumes for fat girls—in other words: plus size.

Oh.

Well that makes sense.

But I still cannot get the visual out of my mind.

Cash Crop

I pretend that I just happen to be in the kitchen when the program comes on.

I putter around to justify my presence.

But the reality is that I am not just listening; I am engaged.

   

I find his message affirming.

I find his message to often be enlightening.

His words are more in line with my philosophy than those with whom I am affiliated.

Because truth be told, I am a secret fan of Joel Osteen.

Fairly recently Osteen spoke of the parable of a farmer who had planted wheat only to discover that an enemy had sown weeds among his crop. But instead of destroying the weeds, the farmer allowed them to grow undisturbed. It was at harvest time, that the weeds were most easily identified and discarded. The crop then went to market as planned where it yielded profit.

The point of the parable was to demonstrate that weeds are ubiquitous—that there are those who will always try to ease in on your growth. There are those whose purpose is to lessen you. But the best recourse is to ignore and keep your focus. Because in the end, all is revealed—and only the worthy show their worth.

And that is what popped into my mind recently when someone looked straight at me and then turned a cold shoulder to ease me out. I thought Oh no you di-n’t with a finger waving in a Hispanic accent.

I thought Oh no--You cannot make me small. You cannot distract me from my purpose. I thought I You are nothing more than a weed.

 So I marched into the circle of conversation--- and stood my ground undaunted--with zero sign of affect.

Because I believe the parable to be true: At some point all weeds reveal their unworth and objective. One cannot allow others to dictate your path. And when the sickle inevitably falls, true crops yield reward and weeds decay as mulch.

Who says one cannot learn much from Sunday morning TV?

Women Are Crazy

I am not opposed to purple—if it is the paint color of a Victorian or a house somewhere tropical .

But I am opposed to purple—even as an accent color—if it is on an English Tudor.

Which is why I became crazed just a little tiny bit when I opened the tester for my soon to be restored/painted front door and noticed that it was not slate blue as the chip depicted, but mimeograph purple.

And so I drove up to the Sherwin William store to suggest to the salesman that an error had been made and request  that the correct color tester might be remade.

What I was met with was The computer does not make mistakes and then The paint always looks different in the container than when it is dry.

And so he dipped some paper into the sample and used the dryer to prove me wrong only to find that the paint when dry was an even  deeper shade of purple—not slate blue.

Yet the salesman still would not accept that there was an error and  quipped “well the color is off because it is such a small sample—if we make it up  in a quart it will be fine.”

I responded I have a hard time believing what you are saying is true since the color of all my other paint samples were true to the chip. But, if you can guarantee me that if you make up a quart of paint with that same formula and that it will no longer be purple, I would be willing to buy it.

So he made up the quart---and it was still purple.

The man said What color are you painting your stucco and trim?

Graphite gray for the trim and windows and very pale gray for the stucco I said.

The saleman snapped then your door should be red—that’s what people do.

I said I am not people.—and I  am not a red person.

He said isn’t there brick on your house? Then the door should be red.

I said there is also blue stone on my house which is why I want a slate blue door. I know you can color match—just color match me a quart of paint the color of the slate blue chip.

Annoyed, he got the mixologist who took out the purple and added more black resulting in the perfect (while still a bit off from the chip) slate blue hue of exterior paint.

And as I walked out of the door satisfied yet miffed  I was reminded of something George Carlin once said Women are crazy. Men are stupid. And the reason women are crazy is that men are stupid.

George Carlin was one smart man.

Hazards to Your Health

As we sat in the cart waiting for our turn to tee off, she said to me: I have decided to focus all my (athletic) attention on golf. My profession relies much too heavily on my specialized (manual )skills and physical mobility—I simply cannot afford to get hurt---And golf, as opposed to tennis or platform tennis, is a very safe sport.

I was in total agreement with her until 4 holes hence when I witnessed this same woman so completely  wiff a golf ball imbedded in a sad trap that she rose about a  foot up into the air like a cartoon character and then landed squarely on her buttocks.

Part of the reason the doctor prescribed walking instead of hardcore physical therapy for me was that it was his belief that walking was/ is the best exercise a person can do. The joints, heart, and musculature all receive a balanced workout. And the added benefit is that walking is easy to do, low cost and safe.

And I believed him on all counts---that is until I actually began walking.

Because I routinely trip on raised (or not raised) sidewalks. I have nearly been hit by people racing out of their driveways in their cars. I have nearly been hit by people in their cars who wave me on to walk and then change their minds midway. And my own distraction has lead me to whack my head on tree branches as well as nearly fall flat by accidentally stepping in unmarked wet cement.

Walking can be hazardous to your health.

Walking is not safe.

And after overcoming my momentary paralysis at witnessing a 5’ 7 woman soar upward gripping a hard swung 9 iron and landing with splayed sand which eventually compacted itself into every crevice of her body,  I ran over to see if she was okay.

She was—just her ego was bruised.

And the first words out of her mouth after assessing the peculiarity of the aforementioned event  were Who knew golf could be so dangerous?

A Bold Move

My brother in law loves to tell this story: When his father was in his early 90’s he went out and bought an expensive piece of exercise equipment. Given his father’s age, it most definitely was a bold move. But the bold move got even bolder when the 90-something year old opted to buy the non-transferable lifetime warranty.

And that is what flashed into my mind as I stood in Home Depot deliberating over the purchase of light bulbs I was charged with buying for my 84 year old mother. The package of new-fangled bulbs priced at $19.99 each claimed that they (the bulbs)  had a life expectancy of 22 years with normal usage.

Justification of the expenditure of the bulb(s) would not only require my mother to live until she was 106 years old; it would require that she live to be 106 and still be dwelling in her 3^rd floor walk-up co-operative apartment.

I had to wonder how this scenario was likely going to play out.

  

Ultimately, I opted for the purchase.

Because light bulbs are transferable, and life expectancy is never guaranteed---either for a human or a $20 light bulb.

Exercise? Ugh.

The doctor handed me 2 prescriptions—the first was for an anti-inflammatory drug. But the second one, while medicinal, was not an oral medication at all. It was a physical mandate. It read: Walk 30 min 5-7 days/week.

Ugh.

The only saving grace was that the purpose of the doctor’s demand was about my staying in motion for 30 minutes not about me breaking  into a sweat. His demand was about the physics of inertia. It was about:  a body in motion stays in motion.

But it still was exercise—something I hate. I would rather scrub bathroom grout lines with a toothbrush for  half an hour than stand on a treadmill or an elliptical machine.

Exercise is not “playing sports”-- which is something I did joyfully for many years.

Exercise is ruefully boring.

I was going to have to make this lemon into some kind of lemonade or better yet Tom Collins.

Which is what I did—by officially becoming a nosy neighbor. I walk the neighborhood not to get exercise but to get ideas—to scope out renovations and lack thereof. I study plantings and light fixtures and color palates. I note architectural details and imagine how the amassed information applies or does not apply to my own house.

Exercise is the by-product of my research.

I perceive walking as data gathering in motion.

And yesterday morning my neighbor Andy yelled to me from the other side of the street Karen-- you are not walking fast enough!

  

Clearly he believed that I was engaged in an unenterprising workout.

But he was wrong.

I was working out my brain and not-so-much my heart.

I was working out my fall plantings in my imagination.

And so I yelled back That’s not why I walk—I only care how long I am out here and laughingly muttered to myself And by the way your masons did an amazing job laying that blue stone on your front walkway---it looks so much better and nicer than the slate you had before.

Aloha Ciao Shalom

What ciao, aloha, and shalom all have in common is that each word means both hello and good bye.

I never quite understood how that could be…

I can tell you for sure that Samantha and Briana were positively aghast, mortified, and incredulous.

I had not intended to do it.

It was not premeditated.

I did not wake up that morning and think Hmm today I am going to cross that line.

Words cannot adequately describe what had actually come over me. All I can say is an overwhelming wave of joy, love and respect befell me—and then opportunity knocked.

Because as Joan Rivers left the stage and walked towards me, I stepped out of the aisle, opened my arms, and full-on embraced her.

I needed to say hello.

I needed physical contact.

Joan graciously and tentatively hugged me in return.

Afterwards and until recently I regretted being a little bit creepy.

I regretted being that person.

But my perspective has changed.

Joan is gone—taken with no warning.

I am so very happy to have had the privilege of watching her perform and then (inappropriately) shedding proper decorum with an embrace.

What I did not know then and what I know now is my hello was a good bye.

Both words can be one in the same.

All beginnings are endings; all endings are beginnings.

And so aloha, ciao, and shalom Joan Rivers.

When I think of you I will always laugh—and remain thankful that no restraining order ever was issued.