Doo
Happens
Mickie
McGee
Did
you ever have one of those days that ends up being, as they say,
“a total waste of makeup?”
Mine was today.
To start it out, I washed a brand new dress shirt of hubby’s
with an equally new Bic ballpoint pen in its pocket. The once
pale blue oxford is now a tie-dyed mixture of blue, black, and
gray with a hint of violet encircling the top three buttons.
For my next trick, I somehow managed to cut up an entire cantelope,
then knock all eight slices into the garbage can, trying to right
myself after sliding on an errant ice cube. (I don’t make
this stuff up.)
Recovering my composure, I pondered whether or not to scoop the
discarded fruit out of the trash and give it a rinse (I opted
to let it lie), fixed myself a piece of toast, and proceeded to
tidy up the house. Finished inside, I took the broom and headed
out the door to sweep the carport.
At the foot of the steps a few scraps of material caught my eye
as did our new pup, Pudge, who looked guilty as sin for some reason.
The material in question turned out to be my new Vera Bradley
eyeglass case ... minus my new prescription glasses ... two pair,
in fact.
I threw down the broom, snatched up the tattered case, screamed
something I would have never said had we actually lived near civilization,
then headed for the dog who by then had taken refuge in the middle
of my petunia bed.
In a downpour of rain, clad in my plaid flannel robe, black socks,
and white tennis shoes, I ran up and down the drive in search
of my glasses, muttering and sobbing all along the way. Had anyone
seen me at that point I’m quite certain I would be writing
this particular column inside a room with barred windows, Nurse
Ratchet at my side trying to coax me into eating a plate full
of gruel.
I searched for a good twenty minutes, then gave up hope when I
spied, by the fence at the edge of the drive, my mangled sunglasses
glistening atop a fresh, though rain-soaked, mound of cow doo.
I did not retrieve them. Yes, dear hearts, there are some things
even I won’t do.
Drenched and dejected, I came inside and made myself a cup of
hot chocolate and tried to regain my composure. I remembered that
I had an old pair of glasses and decided to call Dr. McQuaig,
my eye doctor, to see if I could have the lens in those updated.
“Of course,” the girl at the office said, “bring
them on in as soon as you can and we’ll see if we can fix
them today.”
I took a hot bath, laid out my clothes, plugged in my curling
iron, and readied myself for the trip to Thomson. Towel dried,
I brushed through my tangled hair, picked up the curling iron,
portioned off sections at a time, and twisted each one until my
entire head was a mass of curls, with only my bangs to go.
Just then the phone rang and as I reached for it, the curling
iron slipped and for a second I thought I’d gone blind and
that my head was on fire. I looked in the mirror and I had branded
a two-inch square into the flesh of my forehead. My skin was still
steaming when I dropped the phone and went screaming to the kitchen
for some ice.
I sat for half an hour with an ice compress on my head, wondering
who had been on the phone and, more importantly, just at what
point had I gone wrong that morning. I finally concluded that
it was in waking up at all.
Toward noon I was feeling some better and decided to brave the
pain, fix my face, and head on to Thomson. Standing at the bathroom
mirror, I flipped on the light and was absolutely horrified. There
was this huge ugly red mark in the shape of Kentucky right smack
in the middle of my forehead!
I looked for all the world like Mikhail Gorbachev.
Trying as best I could to cover the offending mark with make-up,
I vowed to make the best of what was left of my day, took a pain
pill, and left the house. Things could be worse, I told myself
riding down the road. I could have been without glasses at all.
I could have tie-dyed hubby’s skivvies. I could have slipped
on the ice and broken an arm or a leg. I could have caught my
hair on fire. I could have been committed.
Looking back on my wild morning I’m thankful just to be alive.
The red mark on my forehead will heal. It’s not as if it
were permanent like Gorby’s. It’s not as if I had 666
tattooed there for goodness sake.
But then again, the day’s not over yet. And
with my luck….
***
Mickie
McGee is a Southern born and bred female, raised in a small
town forty miles north of Augusta, Georgia. She has been married
to a John Deere "veteran" for thirty-eight years and
has two grown sons. Her childhood was chocked full of exciting,
sometimes traumatic, events and thus, her penchant for writing
about them. She writes a personal column,"Dear Hearts,"
in her weekly hometown paper and, at last count, had written some
340 of them. As far as she's concerned, one can only write (that
is, with any passion) of what one has experienced, and she has
experienced quite a lot in her half a century of living, and she
gets a thrill each and every time a reader gushes, "I've
been there, done that!"
©
Mickie McGee